Self-Esteem (4 page)

“Careful, Dorothy,” he said gravely.

“You act like you don’t care!”

Crawford had no more patience. He didn’t need this distraction, not this morning. “I know you want what’s best for him. You tell me all the time what’s best for him. You talked me into buying him that fifty thousand dollar car. Now
that’s
embarrassing.” Crawford grabbed his keys and wallet. “Is there fresh coffee downstairs?” he asked.

Dorothy shook her head. “I guess you need it this morning, don’t you.”

Crawford walked out of the room then poked his head back in. “And by the way, I’m not a guru. I’m a writer.”

“Okay, Mr. Writer.”

Dorothy stood in the middle of the room shaking her head, unaware her cut was bleeding again.

CHAPTER 3

Crawford sat at the kitchen table sipping his third cup of black coffee. With his briefcase in the chair beside him and the morning newspaper on the table in front, Crawford felt like a lawyer about to argue for the acquittal of a defendant he knew was guilty. He wanted to think he was prepared for the day ahead of him, but he knew otherwise.

The small TV on the kitchen counter was turned up too loud, but he didn’t mind. Something needed to drown out the chatter in his head. When he told Dorothy that he needed to talk to Lee Burns while he still had the nerve, he wasn’t exaggerating. For months now he had been despondent about his relationship with Lee — something he chalked up to self-doubt, not a lack of self-esteem. Crawford’s association with Lee was atypical for a writer and the businessperson who handled his affairs. Lee was Crawford’s agent, his publisher, his attorney, his accountant and his career, guidance and marriage counselor. He was a self-help author’s one-stop shop, but more significantly he was a conglomerate that held a monopoly on the business of James Crawford’s life. Accordingly, Crawford felt he was in a marriage that could never be dissolved, with a spouse that was increasingly difficult to oppose.

With no time to give himself a pep talk, he simply practiced what he was going to say.

And Lee I just think it’s time that we
…

Dorothy passed through the hall just outside the kitchen then stopped. She looked surprised he was still there.

“I’m going out,” she said.

“Okay,” he said, still trying to look like he was reading the newspaper.

Dorothy hated having exchanges with her husband like that. As usual she tried to break the ice as soon as possible.

“You’ll be home in time for Phil’s banquet, won’t you?” she asked, feigning civility.

His eyes didn’t leave the paper. “That’s what I said.”

She approached him slowly with a mother’s resignation. “Why are you so grouchy?” she said, running her hand across his broad shoulder. “I think you need to eat more fiber.”

He let his guard down a bit. “I’m nervous about doing this damn Hershey show, I guess.”

Crawford was now hearing the TV. It was a news program with some kind of discussion.

“You sorry for being mean?”

“Yes, Dorothy, I’m sorry,” he said, distracted by the TV.

“No, you’re not. You’re never sorry.”

“Okay. So I’m never sorry,” he said, lifting the paper.

Crawford didn’t see her look before she walked out. He wouldn’t have cared anyway.

He heard his name on the TV.

“In your book where you discuss
Dr. Crawford…
”

It was like being called on Judgment Day.

“Your book doesn’t have too many kind words for the popular psychologist Dr. James Crawford, does it?”

“No, not many,” the voice said.

There were two talking heads, both men. The younger and better-looking man was the anchor of the program; the other, a gray-haired man in his fifties, was the guest. Below the guest’s name was written, “Dr. Thomas Watkins, Psychologist.” It was a program on new books, and this Dr. Watkins was commenting on Crawford’s.

Oh, shit, Crawford thought.

“And you’re steadfast about that?” the anchor said.

Oh, here it comes
.

The man leaned forward with a smile that was almost a sneer. “Of course. I just happen to think that a well-known psychologist like James Crawford, who should be thankful that he’s got any credibility from the mental health community at all, should not stoop to this, the lowest possible commercialism in our field.” Almost sarcastically, he emphasized specific words, making remarks even more wounding. “His
techniques
have not been proven to be
enormously
successful, as some other methods have. And by franchising a children’s TV show
…
”

The anchor interrupted. “But his books and CDs are, however, enormously popular.”

“Of course,” Watkins said smiling. “That’s the bottom line, isn’t it?” He paused a moment. “I just don’t think children need to be psychoanalyzing themselves at this age in this manner, with the help of some live, animated character. I mean, Dr. Crawford has a new book out. He’s got some other products
on the market. Isn’t that enough?”

“Well, some people would argue that he wants to help a broad range of people.”

“Yes,” the man laughed. “Or tap a broader market.”

Yeah, you got your market. I got mine, Crawford thought as he reached for the TV remote.

“Thank you for joining us, Doctor,” the anchor said.

“You’re welcome,” the man said with a nod.

Think you’re saving the world, do you?

The anchor gazed at the camera with the warmth of someone talking to a lover. “This debate may rage on for some time to come. Dr. Crawford has yet to comment on the criticism he has received in endorsing this new program.” Turning the ersatz page on his desk, the anchor added, “He is scheduled to appear on the
Jan Live
show this week.”

Crawford turned off the TV.

Bullshit, he thought. More bullshit. Bullshit on top of bullshit.

This Thomas Watkins, PhD or not, was right, of course. And Crawford’s critics had been growing lately, something that was unthinkable 10 years before.

Maybe I do need more fiber, Crawford thought.

The Coldwater Canyon pass was filled with the run of the mill Bimmers and Benzes of morning traffic — mostly people heading to the Valley to earn money to subsidize status symbols: the cars, the house, the spouse, the lover, the Scottish terrier, the rest of it. Many were in showbiz, either “legit” or pornographic, but Cal looked down on them all with the same contempt. His pot high was still hanging solid as he cranked his 8-speaker Alpine stereo system that could accommodate the brilliance of Rotten Tamales’
Caved in Head
, a motherfucker machinegun rock anthem that screams for the world to change and
change right fucking now!

The morgue of your morals a shitter, a pisser
Daddy came in the babysitter
And you’ve damned me to hell, hypocrite shell!
I’m fucking ringing your death bell!

“Fuck, yeah,” Cal said, anticipating the “Fuck, yeah” that Rotten cries during the interval.
Tamales got a way with fucking words.

The music got softer as Rotten whispered his wicked verse:

You think I’m slain
You think I won’t fight the battle
But you better fucking watch out, when
(what a scream!)
my caved in head starts to rattle!

The drummer shoots out a crushing beat as Maestro Tamales’ howl becomes the ear-splitting shriek of a slaughtered pig.

And you better watch out, fuckerrrrr!

“Yeah, fucker,” Cal yelled. God, he loved that line. He wondered who this “fucker” was and why he needed to “watch out.” Probably one of these assholes on the pass.

Cal didn’t go to Beverly Hills High School, which was the proper one for his residential district. He went to Valdosta Senior High, a crappy public school just on the other side of the Hills in the Valley. It was a decision that Cal was allowed to make himself — or his dad made it seem that way. By the time the Crawfords moved to Beverly Hills, Cal was nearly out of middle school, and his dad wanted him to continue going to a “normal” high school, as he put it, not a “country club high school” filled with spoiled brats.

Crawford had a fit during his first inspection of Beverly Hills High. He thought it was just too upscale, like their house. “Do we want to alienate our child even further?” he asked Dorothy. “He’s already being raised in a wealthy household. Do we want to make sure he can’t get along with people outside his socio-economic group?”

At first Dorothy was against the decision, but she finally gave in, admitting, “Yes, I guess Beverly Hills High is probably a little snooty-tooty.”

Cal got some angst-ridden observations from his dad about fitting in at such a place and so on. “They’ll look down on you, Cal. They all come from new money, but you come from really new money.”

Cal agreed: it would be Valdosta Senior High.

Crawford wasn’t that concerned about Cal thinking he was superior to the rest of the world. Truth was, Crawford just didn’t want Cal buying eight-dollar cappuccinos and shopping for clothes on Rodeo Drive. Even the sight of black Goth clothes and Rotten Tamales posters was preferable to that.

Coldwater Canyon Drive was a hissing gauntlet of wealth where Cal felt no more privileged than any other upper-class consumer teen. But after passing Ventura Boulevard then Moorpark then Riverside, the gulf between the haves and have-nots diminished quickly, making Cal feel more
snooty-tooty
than he would have around his would-be classmates in Beverly Hills.

He barreled toward Valdosta through a residential neighborhood at twice the 25-mile-an-hour speed limit and peeked over his dark sunglasses to look at himself in the rearview mirror. Yeah, he looked cool. He knew there would be someone watching. There were always people watching. And yeah, he knew they would say he looked cool in that car and those clothes. He felt them, those unseen spectators, like he could feel the car itself, all fifty Gs of it, surrounding his body, making his high higher, making him invincible.

He whipped down the hill next to the band building — trumpet, clarinet, and trombone players going inside. Then he went through the four-way stop, past the practice field, and into the high school parking lot where he politely slowed down and nodded to the assistant coach standing watch just inside the gate. Coach Lieberman, also a substitute teacher, gave Cal a smirk that spoke mounds of resentment. The way Cal saw it, for a kid to have wheels with a price tag that eclipsed the man’s yearly salary, how could he not be resentful? Cal understood Coach Lieberman’s pain. Yeah, his car felt good, but part of the bargain was that Cal saw hostility everywhere. It was Cal’s cross to bear. Most of Cal’s fellow classmates obviously resented his extravagant toy. There were many students from upper-class families at Valdosta High, but few had parents that would dish out that kind of money. A few students had inherited older sports cars from their families. Many drove relatively new Hondas and Toyotas. But none drove around in a brand new 911.

Cal parked and got out of his car, beeping the security system with one motion as he swung his backpack over his shoulder. Then his momentary confidence disappeared as Coach Lieberman came hastily toward him.

“Morning, Crawford,” he said in a coach’s soldierly clip.

“Morning, Coach.”

Coach Lieberman put his hands in the back pockets of his khakis and stuck out his aging abdomen. “Word has it you drive this thing pretty fast sometimes. And that you drive fast with loud music playing,” he said, sticking out his bottom lip.

“Is that right?” Cal said, clutching his backpack like a security blanket. “Word has it?”

“That’s right,” Lieberman said with a commanding nod.

Cal looked at the whistle around the Coach’s neck and thought it looked ridiculous.

“I’ve had people tell me you come down the hill by the band room in your fancy sports car here faster than a bobcat chasing a beaver.”

Coach Lieberman waited for a response, even though he hadn’t asked a question.

“Do bobcats chase beavers, Coach Lieberman?”

Lieberman stood still and then raised his finger like a cop wielding a gun. “Don’t get smart with me boy, you hear?” He put his finger on his hip. “They’ll chase anything with two eyes and an asshole, bobcats will. Cattle, pigs, chickens.”

“Really?”

“Never mind about that. Just take it easy on the street out there, son.”

“Okay, sir.”

“I don’t care if your old man is a famous guru,” he added.

That was below the belt, Cal thought. “He’s actually a writer and…”

“Have a good day at school, now,” the man said, doing an about face.

Cal walked toward school, his morning high now almost spent.

Son? He called me son? Stupid asshole.

Cal knew Coach Lieberman wasn’t so bad, not for a sports guy. After all, inside the school there were scary throngs of determined, hostile jocks everywhere, ready to harass anyone for having something they didn’t, especially a brain.

Like every morning, Cal headed toward the front steps of the school entrance filled with fear and loathing. The contrary laughter, the hostile snickering, and the genuine threats were part of walking past the morning jock huddle, where all the guys that proudly wore a letter stood side by side, ready for battle.

“There he is,” the first voice shouted. “It’s the son of Happy Pappy.”

“Did Sandy the puppy pick out your pretty pants for you?”

“I didn’t know she liked black so much,” another said in a mother’s whine.

Cal walked faster, his invisible blinders failing to make him disappear.

“You know, it’s okay to be a faggot,” one said effeminately.

“Yeah. Just be happy with your crappy fuckin’ self.”

More laughing. Then, of course, the singing.

“Be kind to yourself. Be fond of yourself. If you’re not a chum you’re a bum to yourself.”

Cal walked faster and faster as he approached the door. By the time he reached the stairs, he was almost running. But the jock flock amplified their voices to accommodate the distance.