Free Self-Esteem by Preston David Bailey

backbone of the family, keeping them together during the worst trouble, most of it from Crawford’s behavior. Then he pulled a rabbit out of a hat. He wrote Self-Confidence . But his pot of gold worsened his drinking, his womanizing, and everything else that gave Dorothy grief. After achieving some success, he told himself he had been acquitted of all charges. But he knew he would not have been able to pull it off without her. She suggested writing the book in the first place as a way of helping him through his recovery, and he lashed out at her. He was working on a novel. He was an artist. He couldn’t do something so unimaginative if he wanted to. He was wrong.
    Crawford watched his wife and thought about how beautiful she was. She looked more beautiful now, actually. Brief moments of their 18-year marriage were flashing before him. What a bastard he’d been, and how impossibly unreasonable. And how wonderfully she’d dealt with it, with caring and diligence. And how had he paid her back for her years of loyalty and sacrifice? By grabbing a bottle at the first moment of fear or guilt, and by having childish affairs to placate his ego-driven longings. Crawford felt stings of guilt all over his body. Then his inner dialogue was interrupted.
    “I think people need to be more aware of their own behavior, now more than ever,” she said with a slight southern drawl.
    “Excuse me?” Crawford asked.
    The woman — overweight and middle-aged with an ashen complexion — wore a lime-green dress that looked like it could glow in the dark, too ambitious for a woman her size.
    She continued to speak as if Crawford had said nothing. “I think you’ve helped people do that more than anyone in a long time.”
    “What’s that?” Crawford asked uncomfortably.
    She was speaking too loud already. “I said ,” she nodded, “people need to be more aware of their own behavior now more than ever. And I think you’ve helped people do that.”
    “Well, thanks very much,” he said, trying to turn away.
    The praise of an idiot is more insulting than opprobrium from a genius.

    “I was amazed in your first book how much you thought about your own behavior. That’s commendable. Not many people can look at how they’re destroying themselves and the lives of others and be completely honest about it. That’s something you can pat yourself on the back for,” she said with a wink.
    Thanks, bitch , Crawford thought.
    “But your subsequent books don’t mention any of these personal problems at all. You’ve changed.”
    What are you my mother? Go away, idiot.

    “And I have a problem I’d like to discuss with you, James.”
    She used his first name. Crawford wanted to tell this lard ass to go buy a mirror and get to know herself a little better, but he resisted. Boy he could use a drink. “Excuse me,” he said, stepping past her.
    “But, James. I want you to take a look at my Self Series workbook.
    Fuck your workbook , he thought walking away.
    “But my workbook, James” she said with the whimper of a neglected child.
    “That’s Dr. Crawford to you, not James,” Crawford said bluntly. “Where’s my wife?”
    Dorothy looked like she was enjoying the conversation with her old friend, and Crawford wasn’t going to rush her. He motioned her to the side. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said in her ear.
    “I’m ready when you are,” she said.
    “No. Take your time. I want you to,” Crawford said. “It’s turning into a counseling session here. I’ll wait for you at the side entrance. Take your time, dear.” He kissed her on the cheek. Crawford sneaked out the side door wishing he was drunk enough not to feel self-conscious about it.
    Peters was sitting alone, smoking his pipe and appearing to stare into the ceiling of the light pollution that blocked the night sky. Crawford had so much respect for his old friend that his inclination was to leave him undisturbed, but he desperately wanted to talk.
    “I thought