Self-Esteem by Preston David Bailey Page A

of the door. He looks tired. He might be drinking again. Jenny follows behind.

    “I told you I have to go,” Crawford yells at the young woman.
    “You always have to go,” she yells back.
    “I’m just supposed to walk out on everything, right? My son, my wife, everything?”
    Jenny looks very determined.

    “You’re so damn lucky I don’t tell everyone what a con man you are!”
    Click.

    They are facing each other, snarling, prizefighters outside the ring.
    “Go ahead and tell them,” he says. He looks around nervously. He lowers his voice. “Anyone with any sense already knows!”
    Click. What perfection.

    “Are you going to call me?” she asks.
    He gets in his car.
    “Probably not.”
    He drives away.
    “You better!” she screams. “You fucking better!”
    My, my. Poor girl. Such low self-esteem.

    It had been another shitty day at school and Cal was looking forward to seeing his new friend Darrin Davis. Or is it Jarvis? Cal wondered.
    Cal brought his Porsche to a screaming halt in front of Tom’s Pool Hall and instantly realized it was a bad idea. Not here. It attracted the wrong attention. With the car inches from the curb, Cal lowered his head into the passenger’s side to look for his comrade, who wasn’t there. Several young men, most of them out of high school — some graduates, but mostly dropouts — stood just outside the double-doors talking and smoking. Tom’s wasn’t Cal’s kind of place. Not that he didn’t like its peeling paint and smoky, old-fashioned charm. It was just too tough for a pampered kid who lived in Beverly Hills, especially one with a fifty thousand dollar car.
    “My God,” one black kid in his teens said, sucking on a cigarette. “This here boy just robbed the damn bank.”
    “Maybe we should apprehend him,” another said, laughing.
    Be cool. Look tough. Look ahead. Don’t care.
    Cal was giving a performance he knew no one was buying. He was a pussy, plain and simple, just like his old man.
    The door burst opened, and Cal flinched. It was his friend, appearing as he always did, out of thin air.
    “Damn, what you so uptight about, boy?” he said, sticking his head in the car. “You smokin’ better shit than me?”
    “Just get in,” Cal said.
    “Hey, why so nervous?”
    Darrin got in the car and shut the door without looking the least bit worried about the taunts from the guys on the street. Darrin’s slightly more radical Goth look — standard black attire with several earrings and a plain black nostril stud — highlighted Cal’s simpler suburban version of the same. His 220-pound body brought the right side of the car down slightly as he put the vinyl case that held his trusty pool cue to his side.
    “What up, bitch. Nice car.”
    “Goddam faggots,” someone yelled.
    Darrin leaned out the window. “Hey! Go shoot some pool. Go spend your last quarter on a videogame. Fuckin’ losers.”
    Cal stomped on the gas and the tires squealed beneath them. Darrin enjoyed the speed more than Cal did. “Yeah, that’s it!”
    Cal often thought about Darrin never paying any attention to thugs, or to any of the other people that scared him so much. It was the basis of Cal’s respect. Darrin might be a freak, but to Cal he was the coolest guy he’d ever met, period. No one ever bothered Darrin, and Cal knew that it had nothing to do with what he had, what he drove, or anything else. What was important was what Darrin didn’t have: fear. And for that he got respect.
    “Whew. This sure is a nice car, bitch,” Darrin said running his hand across the dash. “How does it make you feel to own a car like this?” It was an oddly sensible question from Darrin. “Has your ego gotten bigger?”
    Cal started to feel awkward.
    “Has your dick gotten bigger too?”
    Cal didn’t know what else to do but answer directly, “No.”
    “Sure? Maybe you should look.”
    “Maybe I should,” Cal said looking straight ahead.
    Darrin grinned, then began slowly humming the