A salesman called at my door the other day, selling me something called “Self-Esteem.”
He told me that everybody needed Self-Esteem and that I should try it. He claimed he knew many people who had it and that they were all happy, successful people. I wasn’t sure. I had never known I needed it, nor that I lacked it.
“Do you have any Self-Esteem already?” he asked before leaving.
I considered this seriously. I pictured my kitchen cupboards, the jars and tins neatly arranged. None of them, I realised, were labelled “Self-Esteem.”
“No,” I said.
He handed me a small jar.
“Take this free sample. Try it today. If you like it, I’ll return tomorrow.”
Later that day, I opened the jar and tasted the Self-Esteem.
It was remarkable.
I felt lighter. More certain. The world seemed to rearrange itself into something more manageable. I liked it immediately. By the evening, the jar was empty.
The next morning, I found myself waiting for the salesman.
He returned late in the afternoon.
“I tried it,” I said. “I’d like more.”
He smiled and offered me a full jar at a discounted price.
I paid without much hesitation.
At home, I sampled it again. The effect was just as strong—perhaps stronger. I felt capable of anything, though I did nothing in particular.
The following week he returned.
I had been careful, rationing it slightly, though not enough to prevent the jar from nearing empty. He suggested I take two jars this time. I agreed.
After that, the pattern became familiar.
Each week he returned. Each week I bought a little more. Sometimes two jars, sometimes three. The more I had, the less carefully I used it. I began taking it daily, sometimes several times a day.
It always worked.
One week, I ran out entirely before he returned.
The absence was noticeable.
Without it, things seemed less certain again. Smaller, perhaps. Or maybe I was.
When he finally came, he explained that this was normal.
“Self-Esteem is powerful,” he said. “It must be used carefully.”
I accepted this and bought more.
For some time, the arrangement continued.
Then one day, a different salesman appeared.
“My name is Tim,” he said. “I’ll be looking after you now.”
The transition was smooth. Tim was friendly. Reliable. He knew my preferences. He offered similar deals. I continued buying without much thought.
Later still, another arrived—Hal, who preferred to call early in the morning.
“Best to start the day with it,” he explained.
This seemed reasonable.
Over time, I came to rely on these visits.
The jars accumulated and emptied in steady rhythm. I rarely let myself run out, though it happened occasionally. Those moments were always unpleasant enough to correct the habit.
Then one morning, there was a knock at the door on a day when no salesman was expected.
It was an old friend.
We had not seen each other in years, but recognised one another immediately. He came in, and we spoke as though no time had passed.
At one point, he paused and looked at me carefully.
“You haven’t changed,” he said.
I laughed, though not entirely comfortably.
“Not at all?” I asked.
“Not really,” he said. “A bit older, of course. But otherwise the same.”
That stayed with me.
After he left, I looked around my home. It was as it had always been. My routines, my habits—unchanged. I thought about the weeks and months that had passed. The jars I had used. The visits I had waited for.
I tried to recall what, exactly, had altered.
I felt better, certainly. Often very much so.
But beyond that—
Very little seemed different.
I considered, then, how much I had spent.
On Tony. On Tim. On Hal. On the steady supply of something that made me feel improved, though it had altered almost nothing.
There was still some left in the current jar.
I looked at it for a long time.
Then I placed it back on the shelf.
Unopened.
My Storytelling 