My Husband's A Pusher
TRUE CONFESSIONS
My Husband Is A Pusher...
by Mrs. Johnson
He doesn't drive a Caddy with tinted windows -- he limps through town in an ancient Subaru -- when it runs.
He doesn't don designer duds -- some of his jeans are still flared at the bottom.
There are no diamond pinky rings on his fingers-his idea of extravagant jewelry is his calculator watch.
You'd never know it to look at him, but my husband is a pusher!
He feeds the addiction of those poor beings commonly known as "users." He sells computers!
In the dingy dark of the basement, or even in broad daylight, he peddles his wares. At times when these poor souls gather together in "user groups," he helps them consume massive quantities of insidious items like modems, monitors and I/O boards. Nothing can stop a user's appetite.
Starting small, my husband sells copies of Windows at ridiculously low prices to these unsuspecting people. But soon he has them hooked. A user needs more and more "stuff" as time goes on. The kick once gotten from a 40 meg hard drive soon can only come from 80 megs, then 100, then 200.
Somehow, almost all the buyers quickly become repeat customers. My husband's blatant disregard for what this addiction does to families is incomprehensible to me. After spending years in college learning to save marriages as a counselor, I never cease to be shocked how quickly his pushing can destroy even the strongest relationship.
Take his last customer, a kind-looking gentleman, nicely dressed. After telling his wife and son he'd be back in half an hour he headed for our dark basement for his fix. He felt strong and in control this time: he would only buy what he needed... the least expensive computer my husband deals. He'd feed his compulsion and still be able to take the family camping for vacation this summer. It would all work out just fine.
Nobody was around when he arrived. He decided to wait. The pusher had to come back eventually, and he really needed that computer. He couldn't go home empty-handed. Forty-five minutes passed. His blood pressure rose a little as he thought of his fingers clicking along his new keyboard and the lights that would dance on his monitor.
And what if those lights were in color? On a bigger screen? He broke out in a cold sweat. Was he losing control? No, he could handle it. But maybe the family could go camping in Bend instead of Yellowstone.
An hour and a half later, he felt antsy. Funny how his mind could run wild just being close to the source.
His resolve ebbed when he saw he was missing the Blazer's playoff game and realized he didn't even care. And he really should call home.
By the time my husband arrived two hours later, this poor user was like silicone gel. As soon as he entered the dark basement lined with "stuff" he knew it was all over. For the next 3 hours, he added everything he could think of to his now '486 machine. His heart was pounding and he could scarcely breathe.
Suddenly, reality hit him: 5 hours had passed and his wife had no idea what had happened to him. He sheepishly asked if he could use our phone. I saw him cringe as his wife's words came through the line. "I know, dear" he whispered back. "I'm leaving right now."
Receiving the bill for his high, he saw he could still take the family camping -- permanently, since he couldn't make the next 6 house payments. I suggested he might want to bring home some candy and flowers, but I knew my husband had done it again. This man would spend eternity sleeping on the couch -- if he still had one.
I'd like to say that we are rich from all this, but I can't. Unlike the savvy business- men of the drug cartel, my husband disobeys the first rule of dealing: Never become a user yourself. This addiction seems to pull everyone in. But that's not why I have to end this.
In the last few weeks, I've noticed my 13 year old son's friends dropping by and leaving with plain paper sacks. They have that giddy, glazed look on their faces. I don't want to think the worst about my son, but concern finally got the best of me. I went into his room while he was away. There, sticking out of drawers and falling from his closets were multiple copies of such habit-forming games as Wing Commander and Monkey Island.
Reprinted with permission from the Portland Computer Bites.
(C)opyright 1992 by Portland Computer Bits
