Addicted to Self-Righteousness

James Hairston is clean, and don’t you forget it. He gotta drive us all over everywhere, just to prove he can. Orders his coffee caffeine-free, ain’t never had a drink or a smoke in his life. His damn station wagon has so many bumper stickers on it. Proud to be smoke-free. See Dick drink, see Dick drive, see Dick die, don’t be a Dick. National Alliance Against Drug Use. Even D.A.R.E. He’s like a health teacher, back in junior high. “That marijuana’s bad for you, Bill. I care about your safety, and it’s going to kill you. I can help you quit.” Shut up, man! Why’s he even hang out with us? I heard his fiancé, Paula, is a smoker. What’s he doing marrying a smoker?

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Jimmy? Yeah, I know Jimmy Hairston. Met him in the hospital. How could I forget? He was having some kind of operation, and he was laying in the bed next to mine, waiting, sweating like a pig. And all the sweat he seemed to be working really hard to just push out of his pores, ‘cause I mean, he was gritting his teeth and his muscles were all tensed up. Looked exactly like someone’s wife in labor. And all because he wouldn’t just press his two fingers together for a little more morphine. It was painful to watch, I’ll tell you.

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Sigh. He’s a good man, all right. But the truth is, mama, I’m worried about him being too good. I mean, he’s so nice and caring and romantic, and he makes me feel so wonderful, but then he runs in all these charity races all the time, and I’m worried he’ll want me to run them with him, or he’ll resent me if I don’t run. And he makes all these donations, both time and money, and I’m worried that will take away from time with me. How are we even going to pay for our wedding or pay off student loans if he keeps giving thirty percent to taxes and ten percent to causes? It wouldn’t be so bad if he knew how to do his taxes right. He’s so terrible at it, he doesn’t see any loopholes. He gives the government exactly how much they want.

And then of course, there’s my smoking. I go outside at night to have a smoke, because I do respect him, and then when I come back in he tells me, “You know, you really should quit smoking. It’s bad for your lungs and your hair and your skin.” It feels like every minute I’m still a “smoker,” I don’t love him. It’s hard to quit when you feel so bad. I’ll be crying because I’m not good enough for him, and then I’ll want a cigarette to feel better. It makes me wonder all the time, why’d he pick me, and not someone more like him?

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James and Paula came by yesterday to watch the Steelers game. We were talking about normal things: Roethlisberger’s thumb, the fantasy pool at the office. I went to the kitchen to get us all some beer. When I came back into the living room with an ice-cold six-pack, James turned to Paula, and he said, “You’re not going to drink any, are you? Alcohol feeds addictive tendencies, and we’ve got to work you off smoking.”

Then Dave looked at James and said something extraordinary. He looked him right in the eyes, and said in this really low, bitter, no-nonsense voice, “You got no right to talk, James. You’re an addict. Worse than any of us. Because we still draw each other closer, but all your habit does is push people away. You know it, James. You can’t stop.”

There ain’t no rehab for James. He must have gone somewhere, though, ‘cause I haven’t seen him since. Probably hiding like a junkie, afraid to show his face.