Free Self-Esteem by Preston David Bailey Page A

you gave up smoking, Phil.”
    “I did. About a million times,” he said smiling. “I know. That’s an old joke.”
    Crawford sat next to Peters on a bench that was nothing more than a concrete slab. Even outside the staff entry, surrounded by crushed soda cans and cigarette butts, Peters still looked the venerable academic.
    “It’s probably not a good thing for a dean to have such a common addiction,” Crawford said. “You need a more unusual one.”
    “I think you’re quoting something I said to you about 10 or 11 years ago, pal,” he said, taking another puff off his pipe.
    “But alcoholism,” Crawford said looking at the ground, “it’s a little more exotic than nicotine addiction. Supposed to be, anyway.”
    As a rule, Peters was skillfully standoffish when it came to emotional matters, particularly outside the formal environment of his office. But speaking to Crawford was different. He had to ask him how things were, not just as a friend but also as a therapist. That’s how their relationship had been for years.
    “How are you, Jim? Everything all right?”
    Crawford answered that he was okay. He was afraid to look at Peters, like he was a child about to confess a transgression to his father. “I’m doing that stupid show next week — you know, to plug my new book.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “Yeah, I hate that shit.”
    “What? Jan Hershey Live? That’s one of the top shows on TV. You don’t want to do it?”
    “I look at what you’ve accomplished over the last decade and I just feel embarrassed. Four great, serious volumes of research, tons of articles. Now you’re head of the department. Me, I went off to become a snake oil salesman.”
    Crawford gave Peters a small grin as if to say he was kidding, if just a little.
    “You didn’t mention my teen counseling center,” Peters said, pretending to be serious. Then he laughed.
    “Oh, yeah. That too,” Crawford said, now looking at Peters directly.
    “Your books are great, Jim. People love them, and therefore you’re really helping them. Most people would say you’re a greater success than I am.”
    Crawford appreciated this compliment, but he could sense a slight indignation in Peters’ tone. But surely not , he thought. He’s too evolved for such small-mindedness . “I don’t know what people say. I’m getting out of this business, Phil,” Crawford said, now showing a modest confidence. “Soon, I’m getting out for good.”
    Peters blew smoke from his pipe. “I’m not going to try and talk you out of it, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
    “No. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
    “You could probably teach advanced psych here if you wanted,” Peters said, looking at his watch.
    Crawford took this as being an offer of consolation, but didn’t want it regardless. “No. I’m going to finally finish my first novel. I never say to people that I’m going to quit and write fiction because that’s what I’ve been writing for years.” He smiled. “I’m going to write a novel — then I’ll write another. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I just never had the courage or something.”
    Peters raised his eyebrows. “The self-esteem?”
    Crawford couldn’t help but give Peters a dirty look. “That’s the second time tonight.”
    Peters laughed. “Lighten up, would you? You’re wealthy. You have a beautiful family. You’re in good health.” Peters turned over his pipe, tapping out the ashes with his shoe. “Appreciate life a little. Quit grumbling about some talk show. We all have to do things we don’t want to. So what? You think I want to be here tonight?”
    Crawford relaxed a bit. “Oh yeah? Appreciate life, huh?”
    “Of course,” Peters said, standing. “It’s the only thing that makes people happy, to appreciate life. We’re just spoiled kids. We’ll complain about anything. You know that.” He paused a moment then grinned like an encouraging uncle. “Don’t you?”
    Crawford didn’t