Self-Esteem (12 page)

Fuck it. Who cares?

Crawford threw the towel into the hamper then looked at the bottle he was cradling. What could he criticize Cal for? He was a teenager. He had an excuse. Should I talk to him like Dorothy says? And if so, what about?

Crawford went to the kitchen and got a glass and a small bucket of ice. He walked down to his study thinking about how dark and remote it was, and then sat down at his desk. He thought he could almost stop right there and just go to bed, just stay sober. It seemed that way — so close and so easy, but he just couldn’t do it — or wouldn’t. In times like this he wasn’t sure there was a difference.

He looked at the tape, then at the note.

I’m going to follow your program to the very end.

Love, Happy Pappy.

Crawford closed the door and poured his first drink.

CHAPTER 7

Mumbling voices.

You know, Jan, people are strange animals. I think… actually helped the book… it communicates to people… give up.

“Huh?”

Crawford remembered playing late Shostakovich string quartets (8, 9, and 10), but he couldn’t remember pushing in the videotape. The incoherent voices were a dream, but the sound of the TV snow woke him up.

He looked at the violent sparks of light bursting in front of him. He looked over at the bottle sitting next to the TV — half empty.

No, half full. The glass is always half full.

The bucket now held nothing but water and a few small pieces of ice. He put his hand on his temple. He couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. He was so saturated with alcohol that his mind was more than intoxicated. It was numb.

He stared ahead blankly, watching the tiny lights on the TV screen dance like crazed fireflies. It might have been a few seconds or an hour.

Then he saw Happy Pappy.

The
Happy Pappy Show
was coming on.

Did I see this?

It was the same unbearable song, but something was different.

Crawford leaned toward the screen, his forehead contracting slightly to lift his eyelids.

The image was blurry.
Or is it my eyes?

There were no dancing puppets and the set didn’t look right. It looked like something out of
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
. The lines ran in every direction except up and down, and just looking at it made Crawford feel faint.

What the hell is this? Crawford thought, squinting his eyes.

Then the face popped into the frame from the upper right corner, looking down sideways, but with a smile more intense.

“Hello, Dr. Crawford!”

Crawford sat up.

“You’ve come a long way in just a short while, haven’t you?” Happy Pappy says, nodding sarcastically. “Doggone it, that program works!”

Crawford laughed at his confusion. It was so ridiculous.

The set looked mocked up, but the host looked exactly like the one on the show — same plump body, same ridiculous costume, same insidious voice.

Happy Pappy stepped aside, revealing a man tied to a chair. He was wearing a dark suit and had a pillowcase or something draped over his head. Crawford’s laugh melted, and he could feel his body shaking.

What the hell? What is that?

He could barely make out the man’s mouth, the only part of his face that was exposed.

Whatever was tied around his midsection looked unlike the rest of his clothing. It was like a grotesque form of modern art professing to convey hidden beauty.

“Like you always say! One stage at a time is the best way!” Happy Pappy screeches.

He holds up a copy of
Self-Esteem
, filling the frame beautifully like a professional photograph in
Jan
magazine. He opens the book with the authority of a minister ready to read scripture. “Your introduction to the first stage is so wonderful and true,” Happy says, his grin climbing up the side of his face like a vine devouring a derelict house. He holds up a finger to emphasize the point. “Stage one. Silence those that unjustly criticize you.”

He moved to the side again and Crawford could see the bound man struggling.

Berry and Scott? Did you
…

Happy’s face jumps back in, filling the frame even more. “And that’s what this sourpuss has been doing! He’s been badmouthing you on TV and everything.” He moves closer like a monstrous marionette, his face half eclipsed by the shadow of the camera. He speaks softly. “He thinks your show is hooey! Can you believe that, Dr. Crawford? He thinks you’re full of
shit
.” He shouts, “What the
fuck
does he know?”

“What the fuck?” Crawford barked, his head bobbing toward the screen, his breathing heavy.

Happy Pappy holds up a large kitchen knife, the kind used to slice bread. It shines brightly, casting a hotspot on the lens.

Crawford felt a small vibration course through his body.
This isn’t real.

“He won’t be putting down our show any longer!”

Happy Pappy reaches inside the small hole that exposes the man’s mouth. Crawford thought he heard the faceless person moan.

“No,” he is trying to say.
No
.

“Shut up, sourpuss!”

Crawford saw the tongue.
Yeah, he’s definitely holding the guy’s tongue.

Happy Pappy’s body leans forward seductively as he lifts the knife slowly, enticingly. In his other hand he pinches the man’s tongue with his thumb and forefinger. He looks over his shoulder — to his one-man audience.

“Stage one complete,” he says, nodding serenely. “Stage one complete, Doctor!
Silence those that unfairly criticize you.
Thank you for your time.”

The screen went to snow.

Does this require a response?
Crawford was thinking. He let the tape run.

He picked up the bottle and filled his glass. Then he hit stop on the VCR.

Comedians
, he thought.
I get them all.

Then the text appeared.

The techniques set forth on the “Happy Pappy Show” are based on the principles of Dr. James Crawford, whose Self Series
™
has helped millions improve their lives.

These principles have been modified to accommodate the self-esteem needs of a younger audience.

Crawford lifted the glass and took a sip. He took a breath, taking in the bouquet, before downing the rest. It felt good and warm
for the moment
. Looking at the bottle, he knew he would be feeling pain very shortly.
God, that’s too much
, he thought.
What am I doing?

And why did those fuckers send me this tape? I’m not going to respond to this.

He hit the eject button and pulled it out. The small movement made him grab his abdomen. The liquor was turning on him, but it was still doing its job as far as confidence went. He threw the tape in the wastebasket next to his desk.

“Fuck you. Fuck you all.”

What if it’s a stalker or something?

No. Hell, no.

“People are going to try to get at you, take away your confidence and purpose. Jealous people. Find a way to avert them. Just find a way.”

God, my shitty books.

God, I better get some sleep
.

“God, I need help.”

“Jim.”

Yes
.

“Jim?”

Crawford’s eyes opened wide, allowing a current of light in, one that gave life to his vile hangover. He closed his eyes. He was face down on the living room couch, still in his clothes, with a large pillow just under his chin. He turned over on his back and instantly felt a horrific soreness in his neck. He looked at the empty bottle of Lowlander, lying broken on its side on the coffee table, its last lifeblood emptied into the basin of a large candle.

“Jim,” Dorothy said again.

Crawford opened his eyes to see his wife upside down, standing over him.

“Are you awake?”

“I think so.”

“So did you enjoy it?” she hissed.

“I think so.”

The tone of Dorothy’s voice made Crawford cower much more than the pain of withdrawal. It wasn’t the anger but the disappointment that made it so difficult to take.

Dorothy sat in a chair next to the sofa. “Why, Jim?”

Crawford turned on his side, away from her. “I don’t know.”

“How many times have we been through this, Jim?”

Crawford took a deep breath. “Please, no cliches.”

“Help me to understand. Why does this happen? Have you been upset about something? Is it something that I did? Was the banquet last night so terrible?”

Crawford rolled on his back again then sat up. “I can’t explain it to you. Okay? I just can’t. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by this feeling that I would rather die than not drink. Okay?” He leaned back wearily. “Difficult to understand?”

“Jim, if that’s what’s happening, it’s killing you. And it will succeed if you don’t fight it.”

“I am fighting it.”

She stood up. “No, you’re not! You call that fighting. You’ve gotten drunk three nights in a row now.”

Crawford saw she was trembling.

She was right, of course. She deserved more of an effort. But with the room spinning like it was, Crawford just couldn’t confront this now. He needed to do something else first.

Crawford struggled to his feet and headed upstairs without looking back at his wife. He had to go.
Now.
He approached the main bathroom upstairs and passed it hesitantly. “I’ll make it,” he told himself. Walking faster, he rushed into the master bedroom, barely making it inside before dropping to his knees and spraying the inside of the toilet with orange vomit. The first heave was violent and disgusting. Then a breath, then more.
Yes, the first heave is the hardest
, he thought, before the acetic brew came pouring out again.

“Hard things, once accomplished, are the most gratifying.”

Crawford realized he must have gobbled down some kind of snack before he passed out — either Cheesy Cheesos or Taco-Flavored Tortillios, maybe both — something with artificial orange coloring, something only a drunk or a stoned teenager would eat.

He reached over and closed the door and prepared for another surge. This one was a bit disappointing, ending with a small amount of bile sliding down the front of his tongue.

“Are you okay?” Dorothy asked through the door.

“I’m fine. Just give me a minute,” he gasped, before retching again.

Crawford was taken aback when Dorothy opened the door. In all their years of marriage, she had never opened the door while he was throwing up. He looked up at her, wiping a small bit of puke from his chin with his forearm.

“You have two choices, Jim. You can be a drunk or you can be a husband and father. But not both.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Jim said, almost in his talk show demeanor.

“I thought you said no cliches.”

“Never again,” he interrupted. “Never. This is it. I promise.”

A sudden contraction brought him over the toilet once more.

Dorothy had to raise her voice to accommodate the noise. “I mean it, Jim. I’ll leave you.”

She turned around and closed the door behind her.

“I believe you,” he yelled after her.

Crawford sat down with his back against the wall. The first round of the sickness was over.

“Stage one, complete!”

The evening was coming back.

“Stage one, complete!”

The tape.

“You’ve come a long way.”

He and Dorothy had watched the old Hershey program, but there was the other part.

“Silence those that unfairly criticize you.”

He paused a moment.

“He won’t be putting down our show any longer!”

Happy Pappy cut a man’s tongue out.

No. Hell, no.
Crawford thought he was losing his mind. It was like the DTs he’d experienced during his first detoxification years ago — strange nightmares about sex and death and childhood.

And now I’m having nightmares about Happy Pappy?

No. He saw that.

“Shut up, sourpuss
!”

Wait
, he thought.
The tape. Where is it?

Crawford thought of his study. He had to look at the tape again. The only way to find out if he wasn’t completely nuts: look at the tape.

Crawford washed his face as his heart began to pound. The image became clearer with each heartbeat. He needed to look. He had to. He walked slowly down the stairs to his study, breathing heavier with every step. He opened the door and smelled the alcohol he had spilled on the floor, which almost made him retch again. He picked up the wastebasket next to his desk where he thought he put the tape. The wastebasket was empty.
I imagined it all
, he thought.
Thank God.

But the basket had been full of trash.

He walked up the stairs and called to Dorothy.

“What do you want?” she called back.

Crawford walked into the kitchen where Dorothy was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper with a cup of coffee.

“Did you take the trash out?”

“Don’t I always?” she said, without looking up.

“What about the wastebasket in my study.”

“It had trash in it, didn’t it?”

“Did you see the tape in there?”

“The tape?”

Crawford looked out the window behind her and could see the garbage can by the side of the street was empty. “Son of a bitch,” he said.

“What?” Dorothy asked.

“Son of a bitch.”

Crawford turned around and saw that Cal was standing in the doorway.

“You want me?” Cal asked.

“No,” Crawford said exhaling, “not you.”

“Yeah, right,” Cal said.

Crawford went back upstairs and took a shower, got dressed, and made himself as presentable as possible despite the pain coursing through his body. This was a habit of Crawford’s: the day after a “bad one,” he spiffed himself up as if initiating drastic life changes. Occasionally, he would catch himself thinking,
Yeah, I’ve heard that before
. But then he would replace those thoughts with favorites like “A journey of a 1,000 miles begins with a single step.”