Self-Esteem (40 page)

“You know, I agree with that,” Scott said.

I am an interesting person. People are interested in what I have to say.

My inner-voice speaks fondly of myself.

I love my inner-child and my inner-child loves me.

I approve of my inner-adult, and my inner-adult approves of me.

I like being mischievous and playful.

That’s what I’m doing right now, being playful.

“I like being mischievous and playful. Oh yes, I do.”

“What?” Berry asked.

I have a lot to give the world.

Miracles occur in my life on a daily basis.

I deserve the best.

“I deserve the best.”

“What the hell are you mumbling about, Crawford?”

CHAPTER 20

Crawford and his hostages were now close to the 405. The kidnapper gripped the steering wheel determined not to let anything keep him from getting to his destination. Then his mobile phone rang. He put the Ruger between his legs and pulled the phone out of his pants pocket and looked at the number. It was Lee. So this is it, he thought. Good. The kiss-off. Goodbye.
Finally
.

“Yeah?”

“I just want to say one word,” Lee said.

It couldn’t be fuck off. That’s two words.

“What?”

“Cookbook. That is one word, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Crawford was now zigzagging through traffic on West Sunset. His two passengers watched the road wide-eyed and silent.

“Cookbook. You know, a recipe book.
Recipe book
? Is that the term they use nowadays, recipe book? I know that’s two words. Anyway…”

“What the hell are you talking about, Lee?”

“You just vomited on national television, right?”

“I need to ask you something, Lee.”

“Just listen. Jan did this, and it worked. She got fat. She got thin. She started giving dietary advice after she stopped… what do they call it? Yo-yo dieting?”

“I want you to do something, Lee.”

“You’re not listening to me, Jim. Listen. You vomited on TV because of a poor diet. That’s our out and that’s our in. Get it? Only the guy who mopped up the vomit knew it was booze and he won’t say anything. And if he does we can sue the pants off him, whatever it takes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“
The Self Series Cookbook
. I just thought of it. We develop it in the next few months. We get it out in the Fall. Kim’s already working on a press release to tell people why you were sick. Look, it’s another easy way to get sympathy points, translating into cash. All you have to do…”

“I want you to meet me somewhere right away, understand?”

“But…”

“Shut the fuck up about the goddam cookbook! Listen. You’re going to meet me…”

“Meet you? I can’t, I’m…”

“If you don’t I’m going to kill you, understand?” Crawford could only hear the sound of his own breath.

“I have a meeting,” Lee began.

“What? With Kim? Is your secretary taking longhand?”

“Hey now…”

“Get a pen and paper and write down this address. If you aren’t there in half an hour, I’m going to tell your wife about Kim’s extra duties
then
I’m going to kill you.”

“Kill someone?” Scott whimpered from the backseat. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t I look serious?” Crawford said, peering into the rearview mirror as he straightened the rubber nose.

“You’re threatening me?” Lee groaned. “I’ve been bullshitting you about Kim. She only gives foot massages.”

“Is that right?” Crawford said.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing, Jim?”

“I’ve got two hostages and I’m on my way to South Central. You’re going to be there too. You got a pen? You ready?”

“I…”

“Write down this address. Ready?” he yelled.

“But…”

“I’m serious. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“West Rosecrans and Paxton Avenue in Gardena. It’s an old cookie factory. Was an old cookie factory. Take the 405 south. No wait, take the Hollywood to the… shit… I don’t know. Figure it out! You better be there, Lee.”

“Is that where you’re taking us?” Berry chimed in. “To a cookie factory?”

“Shut up.”

“Who was that?” Lee said.

“I just told you. Be there or pre-pare. Got it?”

“I’ll come, okay? I got it,” he said. “Just consider the cookbook on your drive so you can give me an answer within…”

Crawford hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. He picked up the gun and gripped the handle.

You’ll get an answer all right. We’ll all get an answer.

“Sit down and shut up.”

There is this old man standing in front of me. He has old-man clothes on and old-man shoes, and they are neat — the way old men wear their old-man clothes. He must have known that he would have to wear these clothes someday, if he were lucky enough to be old someday. “Lord willing,” was always his postscript to everything, just like his father. “Lord willing,” they both said.

I can’t sit up straight or lie down. I feel uncomfortable.

“You think you’re unique?” he asks me. “You think you’re special?”

“What do you mean,” I say. “Of course I’m unique. Aren’t we all?”

“I’m dying,” he says with a sigh. “I’m dying of cirrhosis,” and raises a determined thumbs-up to convey his disgust.

He seems to be ignoring me now. He sits in a swing — like one of those old porch swings Victorian homes in the South have. Surprisingly, his old-man clothes don’t look as tidy as they did a moment ago. His face starts to turn from white to gray.

“Many men have killed themselves with drink. That’s not unique. You killed me. That’s unique.”

“I killed you?” I say. “What are you talking about?” I try to sound respectful.

“You killed me with your selfishness.”

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

He leans toward me. “You thought your insecurities and fears were like a disease that must be eliminated. You thought they must be removed as if by surgery. That’s how you killed me. Your surgery killed me.”

His face looks more and more familiar now. He looks like a lot of men in my family — Dad, Grandpa. And a lot of women too, really. The large forehead. The square jaw. Grandma Crawford had a square jaw.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t struggle against fear?” I say.

“Of course I’m not saying that. That’s one of the things that makes us human. We must have fear as creatures of survival. Fear is necessary. It’s a friend to the human race, especially our kind of fear. It’s what makes us human. Personal fear in particular.” He coughs. “You told yourself it wasn’t.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You did. You also told yourself to feel good no matter what you did. You told yourself not to be afraid of what others think. You drank to feel comfortable with yourself. What hogwash. You told yourself to be inconsiderate of others. That’s what you said to yourself. What a doctrine of selfishness you’ve been spreading.”

His skin is turning grayer and grayer as his face becomes more familiar, more like my own.

“You don’t love life!” he snaps at me before coughing a solid stream of blood that runs down his chin onto his old-man shirt.

I get upset. I start to shake. “Why would I not love life?” I ask sincerely.

“Because you don’t love the struggles that are such an important part of life. You don’t love the beautiful struggle of life. Therefore you don’t love life itself,” he says.

The blood on his chin dries and falls in a solid chunk to the floor; a blood bubble separates from his nose and flies away. I’m watching the bubble drift into the air as I look at him. Now he looks likes me. More like I think I look,
I guess.
It’s me, as an old man, as I imagine him to be.

“Didn’t you wonder what I would think?” he says.

“I didn’t,” I say.

“I’m the only person you have to answer to.”

“How can I do that?”

You already have.

That was inside me for a long time. I had that dream many times. For years I had that dream.

“You were going to write your first novel on dreams, weren’t you?” Scott says.

“Please pull over,” Berry whimpers. “At least take off that rubber nose!”

Crawford, with his eyes securely on the congestion of the 405, turns the gun back on Berry.

“You read a shitload of Freud, right?”

Berry lowers his eyes then rubs his temples with both hands and shakes his head.

“Answer him,” Scott, like a good cop, chimes in.

“Shut up, Albert.” Berry’s nose curls again. “I was going to write my first novel on dreams, yes.”

Crawford puts the gun back in his lap. “And?”

“And I
didn’t
reference Freud so much, no.”

“You’re lying. You did read Frued. I remember that you did. You quoted the fucker every five seconds in college. Remember?”

“Yes, in my undergrad days.”

“No, in your grad school days, yes? Answer me, you soulless bitch!”

“That’s right,” Scott says almost enthusiastically. “Remember? You always talked about Freud.”

“Shut up, Albert,” Berry says.

“What would Freud say about my dream, Jay?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“You told me once, remember?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Try!” Crawford said, swerving past a long line of cars.

“Holy shit,” Berry bellows. “Could you slow down?”

“We have to get to the cookie factory, now. You know that! Answer my question!”

“The old man — is he sitting down?”

“Yes, he is. You know that.”

“On what? A porch swing?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And you?”

“I’m sitting in a chair.”

“So,” Berry says, sitting back, “you’re being lifted off the floor. He’s being hung from the ceiling. You’re on the ground; he’s hanging from the sky. You’re on a pedestal; he’s not.”

“So what are you saying, Jay?” Crawford caressed the barrel of the Ruger. “Are you saying you don’t know what Freud would say?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know! Some Freudian shit, I guess.”

“How would you like this gun in your mouth? How’s that for some Freudian shit?”

“Fuck!” Crawford slammed on the brakes, stopping just short of a collision with a stalled truck. He swerved into the next lane and realized he’d been drifting away — one dream state to the next.

My dreams have to die. My dreams have to be dead.

“What was I saying?”

“You haven’t said a goddam thing!” Berry growled.

“Please drive carefully, Jim,” Scott added.

Crawford could now see they were near the airport — the three right lanes oozing traffic like ants marching toward a sticky plate. He got on the left side and hit the gas. The traffic was easing up.

“We’re going to Gardena, boys. You know that?”

“How the hell would we know that?” Berry said.

“You know where?”

“Of course not,” he said.

“You two know all about what has been happening to me, don’t you?”

“You’re making a big mistake, Jim,” Scott said.

“Let’s see.” Crawford opened his briefcase. There was the Old Arkansan, lying sideways like a satisfied lover. He let the pistol rest against his thigh so he could grab the bottle. “I’ve got an idea, guys. Why don’t we have a little drink?”

“I’m fine thanks,” Scott said quickly.

“I think you’ve had enough already,” Berry said.

“You’re right. But you haven’t.” Crawford picked up the bottle then held it up from the bottom with a cupped hand, like he was presenting fine wine in a French restaurant. “Ever had any Old Arkansan?” he asked with an eager announcer’s voice as he swerved to miss a slow car.

“Of course fucking not,” Berry said. “And be careful.”

“Well it’s about time,” Crawford said, tossing the bottle back to Berry.

“
Old Arkansan
?” Berry read. “I’m not drinking this shit.”

Crawford grabbed the gun from next to his thigh and held it up. “Oh yes you are. You think I’m the only one loaded here?”

Berry’s eyes widened with astonishment. “Jesus, get some help.”

“I’m offering you some help. Take off the cap and drink.” He paused a moment, then shaking the gun, “Now!”

Berry looked at the bottle again then took the cap off.

Crawford looked at his red nose in the mirror and turned on the radio. “Maybe this will help? Drink! Drink, you mother…”

A psychedelic Hammond B3.

“Oh, this is good. Like a church.”

Duh duh da duh de duh da da da
. It was
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
.

Who was that? In the Garden of Eden.

“Iron Butterfly,” Scott said, as if he heard Crawford’s thoughts.

“Oh my God, listen,” Crawford said, turning it up. “Drink, Berry!” he yelled.

Berry put the bottle to his lips and raised it slowly, taking a laborious sip. He brought the bottle down and some of the liquid slid down his chin.

Crawford laughed loudly. “Okay, Scott, your turn. Take a big one. Don’t be a pussy.”

Berry handed the bottle over to Scott, who was less reluctant. He tipped the bottle, taking a drink without a cough or grimace.

“That’s right, my boy. All right, Berry, again. And really drink this time. One step at a time!”

Duh duh da duh de duh da da da
.

Berry snatched the bottle acrimoniously. “Whatever you say, Doctor!” he mocked before tipping the bottle high this time.

“That’s right. That’s right.”

Berry brought the bottle down coughing, wiping his mouth.

“Nothing you ever drink will taste the same again,” Crawford said. “Oh that’s us,” he said, turning onto the 105.

“Great,” Berry said, passing the bottle to Scott. “Great.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Scott said, taking another drink before passing it back to Berry.

“I’ll have another,” Crawford said, reaching the end of the offramp.

“Really, Jim,” Berry said.

“Give it to me!”

Berry handed the bottle to Crawford and he took a giant swig.