The Arsenal Files 8/The Arsenal Files Collection #8 (Arsenal Computer) (1996).ISO/doorware/rubyv62.zip/RUBY62-3

Text File | 1996-10-27 | 7KB | 122 lines

Copyright 1996(c)

                          BREAKING THE ADDICTION
                              By B. J. Higgs

     She didn't know much about cults, but when Harold began acting
crazy, she checked the definition in Webster's, just to be sure she
wasn't over-reacting.
     She wasn't. There it was, by God:

     Cult: 1. A system of religious worship; 2. devoted attachment
              to a person, principle, etc. 3. a sect.

     If you thought of narcotics as anything that could be
addictive, he fit the definition of junkie, too. Slowly, Harold had
become first interested in and then obsessed by his bible. He
discovered the book, which he began devoutly to call 'the word'
almost seven years into their marriage. He began to carry it around
with him, reading it at lunch and other free moments.
     The next thing she knew, he developed a nervous tic and
sometimes it seemed he couldn't just shut up. She'd heard that
people who became addicted often ranted uncontrollably, but this
was way beyond anything she'd imagined.
     She watched him alienate their friends, the children, his boss
and co-workers, even her, with his rigid fixation. Why couldn't he
see that every dinner party did not have to include a lecture from
him on 'the correct way'. Why couldn't he just accept 'the way',
if he must, for himself, and let others find their own path.
     He all but came to blows with Bobby Brant, a division head,
at the Christmas party, and the office manager and he had not
spoken in weeks. Next, he'd lose his job over his stupid habit, if
he wasn't careful.
     She should not, of course, call it that, but it did remind her
of a drug addict's dependency, the way he couldn't seem to just say
no. He was way out of control, and had been for months. A crack
addict without the crack. It wouldn't be that bad if he could keep
it to himself. But no, not him. He saw the light in a blinding
flash and he had to tell everyone, everywhere, all the time. Most
people just plain old didn't want to hear it. It was like he never
heard of the old axiom about not talking religion and politics.
Struck with the conviction that he had the answer, he had to share
it. It made him mighty unpoppular.
     Of course, he found a niche--fanatics always did. Mostly, he
found it over the Internet. Contact was strictly in writing, and
everybody knew writers were nuts, so it figured. He began to meet
in the evenings electronically with a small group of believers and
then he expanded it--moved it into his daily life. He began to shut
his office door and use his computer at work to talk with this few
other confused, but totally dedicated souls.
     And it was ruining their lives. She could not make him see
that such a revelation was of no use if it destroyed the very
foundation of one's life. He argued that this was a new foundation.
That he'd rather be right than president.
     "Yes, but would you rather be right than employed?" she
countered.
     "I'm right, honey. You'll see," he said, eyes shining. "I can
prove it," he said, motioning toward the book, which never lay far
from his hand. He refused to take her concerns serious. He lectured
the children at dinner until they didn't want to come to the dinner
table.
     And despite her warnings, he was devastated when the axe fell.
     "They fired me," he told her, with complete disbelief.
     "Now will you get some help?" she countered, not at all
surprised.
     "They actually fired me," he repeated, as though it were
incomprehensible. "They said I was out of control--said I expected
everybody to find and follow my way. They called me demanding and
said I had no 'spirit of compromise'," [he made it sound like
something dirty] "and they showed me numbers purporting to
represent loss to the company over the past year due to
resignations and firings. They were all from my department. I guess
I didn't realize how many there were until they showed me, but to
blame all that loss on me?"
     "Who else?" she asked mildly.
     "Men have been persecuted since the dawn of time for bringing
the word," he recalled aloud. "But I'm right. Don't they see that?
I have it in black and white, right here," he said, holding up the
book that was his constant companion; the holy word by which he
lived.
     "Nobody cares, Harold. They haven't cared about such things
in ages.
     "I have been chosen," he breathed, ignoring her comments; a
glazed look in his eye, a beatific smile on his lips.
     It was too much. She went to the bedroom and made a phone
call, and soon they came and took him away.
     She went to see Bobby Brant and persuaded him it would be best
to give Harold a rave review unless the company wanted a lot of
adverse publicity, and they saw it her way. When Harold was
released, they moved to New Jersey and he got a job in the same
line of work, making more money. His intensity seemed to have
dissolved, like hot mist in the snow, and life was good. He no
longer carried 'the book' around with him, referring to it
constantly either for his own further edification or to prove a
point.
     At a dinner party with colleagues from his new job, someone
made mention of keeping up with the Joneses.
     "We don't," Harold said, quite calmly. "We don't even look
back to see if they're gaining on us."
     He didn't say one word about the correct phraseology being
Jones'. That was when she knew he was completely cured and there
would be no more cult-like obsession with leaving the 's' off
toward, 'since there bloody-well was no such word', which was what
he'd told Bobby Brant at the Christmas party.
     At a neighborhood barbecue, he'd told former neighbor Kyle
Bennett that if he insisted on using the phrase 'a myriad of
things' once more, he, Harold, would bash him in the nose. And he'd
even told her, once, that while there was a Jones family, there
were no Joneses. She'd said she didn't care what he called them,
she didn't require a direct television dish just because they had
one.
     "If I did, I'd make something out of tin and stick it in the
yard," she'd said. "Act as if, don't they say? Maybe I'd get
reception, who the hell knows?"
     It had been one of their loudest arguments, but those were all
in the past now. Harold had gone a little berserk in his menopausal
years, but at least he hadn't bought a Corvette and life seemed to
be back to normal. The drug, if it be one, was no longer in her
husband's system.
     Harold was no longer hooked on Strunk & White.
     If you'll excuse the exclamation mark, Hallelujah!

                                    END