Consequences of Poverty Ch. 01

Short Notes:

1- It's a true story.

2- Names changed to be easy for readers instead of Arabic names that aren't common.

3- The story contains customs and traditions that may not be similar to your society.

In 2013, in a small city in the Arabian country where I grew up.

I was 23 years old when I got married--a traditional marriage based on matching a faithful wife and wearing decent clothes.

I don't mean bedouin clothing or all black, but to hide her physical beauty, and love comes with time.

I want to create a decent family with a faithful wife, and I have it.

My name is Sami. I work as a pastry baker in a traditional restaurant with an average monthly salary.

My wife, Becky, was 22 years old when we got married.

However, I graduated from a university of education, and I had no opportunities to work in my specialty because of social factors and favoritism.

Anyway, after one year of marriage, we didn't have children until we found out my wife was childless.

I was pressured by my father to marry another woman.

As you know, a man is allowed to marry four wives, but I refused. I know that would hurt my wife, Becky, but that isn't her guilt; I believe in destiny.

After one and a half years of marriage, the economic conditions worsened due to increasing prices, and I looked for an additional job to fill the deficit.

So, my friend Andrew helped me get a job as a tracker for a construction plant; it's an underpaid job. Andrew told me the boss is stingy, but I have no choice.

Andrew is a year younger than me; he is an engineer and gets a big salary. Working with a friend I had known for four years was embarrassing to me because of the significant difference in positions, but that's life.

The two jobs take 17 hours a day; I sit with my wife for one or two hours; sometimes, I return from work to find her asleep. My life was getting worse and more boring, which affected Becky's life, too; she felt lonely, but I had nothing to do.

I noticed that she was spending her time texting a lot; that doesn't bother me, but the texting time increased more and more, which prompted my curiosity to know who she was texting. Along the way, I checked her phone when she was sleeping, busy with housework, or doing anything else.

I waited till she went to sleep, and lightly, I picked up her phone. I walked out on my toes for not waking her up and went to the bedroom.

Becky made a draw lock. It's not new, but I waited for any background message. I saw a background message saying, "Baby, You Are So Hot."

I glanced at the name, but she saved him with a fake name. 'The Gecko.'

I didn't know what to do then; should I wake her up and strike her?

No, I believe in rational solutions; violence doesn't do good.

In our society, a woman doesn't discourse or text permanently with any of the men except for the utmost necessity, such as work; she must be firm and avoid noticeable teasing in public.

Not to mention modesty, loose dress, and conservative handling.

These are not laws, but community habits. So, it differs in relative terms from one governorate to another or from one city to another.

Therefore, alcohol is allowed everywhere, and prostitution exists in some places.

I mean, you can do anything, but society's perception is different.

Men are also socially restricted, not just women, but marital infidelity brings more shame to men and touches their honor.

Without further ado, the woman here is treated like a precious jewel, is untouchable, and has greater privacy.

Let's get back to the story. After deep thinking, I acted as usual and told her that these things bothered me and she must give them up.

That's what happened the next day; her reaction was to keep quiet and feel guilty.

The days passed, and I dealt with her as if nothing had happened, but with some control.

One day, I came home from work and went to the master bedroom and found her sleeping, the phone in her numbed hand; she seemed to have fallen asleep. I took the phone and walked out to find two messages. "Are you there, honey?

"Ummm, OK, happy dreams, my lovely girl, 'kiss emoji.

I had a meltdown and laid on the bed, but I couldn't sleep.

My brain kept overthinking, surrounded by problems, my stressful jobs, and my wife's immoral behaviors.

I felt overwhelmed and didn't know where to solve my problems.

I kept awake until the morning; as she woke up, walking her way to the bathroom, she looked me in the eyes and noticed my angry feelings.

"Look, if you keep doing this crap again, you will suffer unpleasant consequences," I shouted, then reached out to the master bedroom to get dressed for work.

Becky tried to talk, but I didn't listen and left the house.

It was clear to co-workers and the boss in the restaurant that there was something wrong with me, and it was apparent too in my second job in the factory; after finishing a sand transfer trip, I frustratingly sat against the wall with my head in my hands on the floor.

Andrew tried to find out: "Man, what's wrong with you?

"Nothing," I sighed. "It's just some fatigue."

"Ummm, I hope you get better. If you want any help, don't hesitate." Andrew walked away to continue the work with the craftsmen.

********************

As the days passed, I caught a lot of messages on Becky's phone from many men with fake names, but this time, the talks carried sexual connotations.

I was pissed off; I tried every possible means to stop this unblushing stuff. I tried the advice, guidance, and beating, but nothing new.

All I knew was that those scoundrels were communicating with her; she knew them through social media, but there were more hidden things I did not know.

They are from other provinces; this is the only thing that made me deal calmly; the fear of society and people's perceptions are significant.

It is a shame to walk down the street and find some people looking at you like idiots.

I thought about viable solutions: "What's wrong with me? Am I an unfit husband?"

But I am emotionally and sexually good; maybe the financial situation is a little awkward, but many families suffer from this condition.

Maybe the two jobs that take up all my time are essential factors.

I asked myself, "There are many decisive solutions, such as divorce, but can I live single in the 26?

For the record, a divorced man here couldn't marry again quickly, and doubts will be raised around him, especially when people know he has no children besides the new bride.

It's clear that any wife needs a husband to be around her, not a husband working day and night to make a living; that's noble work, but it doesn't work with women in general.

After several weeks of hard thinking, I decided to let things run their course and leave her alone. I acted like a stranger until I set my next plan.

***********************

I believe that every woman should live a happy life with a good man.

Becky has no children, and she lives substantially without a husband.

I'm out of the house all day, and then I go back to sleep with physical and mental fatigue, so I cannot blame her; she is human. On the other hand, texting strangers in this dirty way is rejected.

Therefore, I decided to give her what she wanted: someone who would be just a friend, chatting with him as she wanted under the principle of friendship, and, more importantly, someone I knew significantly and trusted indefinitely.

I consulted with Becky about this issue and decided that any wife has duties and rights. I also discussed my idea that he should be a trusted person, such as my friend Dylan.

Becky's reaction was very positive, and she explained that she agreed with me very much and that Dylan is a handsome, cultured, and sexy guy.

I had reservations about the word sexy,' but I took it in good faith.

****************************

Dylan is a childhood friend; a next-door neighbor accompanied me at most educational levels: elementary, middle, and high school. We only separated at the university level, so we are the same age.

Dylan never left my side; he is a good listener, and we share everything.

I notice very well that he treats me better than others.

I preferred Dylan to be the right person to do this job.

But it is very tough. In our society, men do not talk about their wives' problems or their individual sexual lives, good or bad, and the most shameful thing is to complain to people that their wife is cheating on them, even if the complaint is to their closest friends.

Let alone asking someone to be a friend for your wife, and the more difficult it is for this person to be your close friend like Dylan,

As a result, I approached him indirectly. So, I set a plan as follows: I will create a fake Facebook account pretending to be Becky's friend, Eve.

Eve doesn't exist; the fake Eva will tell him that Becky has a crush on him and wants to be friends.

And wait for his reaction so that Becky and I will be out of the picture. If his response is angry, we will claim that it is a fake account from a disinterested person, and I will handle it.

We created the account. I messaged Dylan, saying, "Hi, how are you?

I waited for a response for two weeks; during this time, I read a lot on the Internet about wives who cheat on their husbands and stories about cuckolding.

These thoughts came to mind gradually. I tried to take my mind off them, but it wasn't good until those thoughts became aphrodisiacs.

I asked myself, "Should I talk with Becky about this?

"Damn it, what's the matter with me?" I thought, wondering how my life got to this point.

I was jealous of her; I couldn't even stand seeing guys staring at her!

I thought about her abusive acts with those wantons. Something inside of me told me to know her opinion about this matter with a hint.

*************************

Days passed, and on Friday, the official holiday, I watched TV with Becky, who was peeling potatoes on the other sofa beside me.

She asked, "Is there any news about Dylan?"

"No," I muttered. "A month passed, and nothing new."

"What did you say in the message?"

"Hi, How are you doing?

"Hi," she laughed. "Get to the point."

"Ummm, maybe," I agreed. "I will send another one."

My phone was in my hands, and I thought carefully about the content of the message I would send.

"Hello, I am sorry for this weird way to start. I'm Eve, Becky's best friend; I need to talk to you about her, so can we? I sent the message while my hand was shaking.

There was silence for several minutes. I opened a dialogue again; I prepared myself to discuss my thoughts. I arranged my words carefully.

"I have accidentally read about husbands who like to watch their wives have sex with other men; how in hell do they think that way?" I pretended to be wondering.

Really? she snickered. "These things do not happen for sexual reasons only; they may be for psychological or curious reasons. She went to the kitchen to put the potatoes in the sauce and went back.

Before she sat down, she said sternly, "Don't involve yourself in things without knowledge. Then she walked to the kitchen again.

I didn't understand what she meant by these words, but her response was decisive and sufficient, which made me not know what to say.

Hours passed, and I suddenly heard a voice message from my phone. I picked it up quickly; it was from Dylan, as expected.

"What's the problem? Dylan texted.

I was anxious; I didn't know how the conversation would proceed, and this was reflected in my facial expressions.

So, I preferred to leave the house on any pretext.

"Becky, I'm going outside to buy a pack of cigarettes. I went out quickly.

I sat in a cafe to relax. I logged into Eve's account, which is fake.

"Becky suffers from a psychological state, and she wants to talk to you as Sami's closest friend," I replied.

"But I'm not a psychologist," Dylan mocked. "Who are you?"

"I'm Eve, her friend."

"What about Sami? He is her husband!"

I had to give a convincing answer, so my response was honest.

"As you know, he is out throughout the day because of his new job, and Becky doesn't want to increase trouble with him."

"I know, I know, but any help through me will be through Sami, although I don't know what my part is."

"Your part is that you are Sami's best friend, so why don't you let her meet you and explain everything by herself?

"Are you psycho? How do I meet my friend's wife without his knowledge or presence?

"OK. OK. What about calling her?"

"I don't have free time for this crap, so be straight with me, but let me know who you are and what you want exactly."

I thought it was time to talk more carelessly.

"OK, I wish you would take things quietly; Becky has a crush on you."

Dylan had seen the message but didn't answer for a few minutes. I was nervous about what he was thinking. Then Dylan typed; he took too much time, which raised my concern.

"I will be peaceful with you a little if we look at it from the point of view that it is a problem; let us meet and try to find a solution, but if you plan to facilitate things between her and me, I will find you wherever you are, and I will kick your ass."

"Oh, come down; I'm just a messenger."

"Ummm, who are you? Are you from our town?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Let's say, in case I call or meet her, although it is impossible, once, twice, or many times, what will she gain out of this?

"I have said that Becky has a crush on you; I think it's as clear as crystal."

"Call me dull, and I need your enlightenment," he mocked.

"She thinks you are an attractive, cultured, and sexy guy."

"Attractive and cultured are lovely words, but sexy has several purposes," Dylan stressed.

"That's a fact."

"Can you give me the intended purpose?"

Dylan encouraged me to go so far. I thought I drew him to the point I wanted. So, I should be confident. I kept pace--not to be impulsive.

"Sexy means the same thing you are thinking about right now: she needs someone as attractive, charming, and alluring as you are."

"Look, I can ask for evidence, but no, as long as you talk about my friend's wife like this, you are either a whore girl or a faggot boy," Dylan texted and then blocked me.

*******************************

I didn't know what to do; I involved myself in a risky case; what to say to Becky!

I was straight with her and showed her what happened between Dylan and me in the conversation.

But I wondered about Dylan's issue--how he would find Eve, a fake character. I was the one who had texted him.

While I was thinking deeply, my phone rang; it was Dylan calling. He will talk to me about that account, and I'm not ready; I have not made a plan for the upcoming events, and I did not answer.

I went home and informed Becky about what had happened. I showed her the conversation.

Her reaction was very calm. "Never mind; don't talk to him about this again, as if nothing happened," she reassured.

****************************

I went to shower, and I heard my phone ring.

"Who is that, Becky? I yelled.

She walked to the sofa to pick up the phone; she said with a laugh, "It's Dylan. Has he consulted with you about the matter?"

"No, wait till I finish."

After I finished, my wife sat on the couch, and I joined her.

"What do you have in mind? Dylan has no idea what's going on," Becky laughed.

"I don't know; I don't know, but I have no choice but to deny it," I admitted.

The phone rang again. Oh my lord, it's Dylan.

Becky chuckled sarcastically at my embarrassing situation.

"What a silly thing! " I said it facetiously.

I walked out of the house to talk more comfortably.

"Wassap, where are you? Dylan asked.

"Fine, Dylan, what about you?"

"I'm doing great; I want to see you right now."

"Playing PlayStation or dominoes?"

"No, we must meet in the cafe because of a significant problem."

"What's the problem? I claimed to be worried.

"C'mon, don't be a deadshit; I'll not be able to explain on the phone; I will be in Sahra Cafe just in 10 minutes," he urged.

************************

In Sahra Cafe, at 9 o'clock, we spent some time joking and talking about work.

Dylan doesn't look for a job in his specialty; he prefers to run a branch of his father's haberdashery company.

Many people here prefer working in the private sector and being entrepreneurs, particularly young people.

Dylan is the boss of the branch, so he has a lot of free time because sometimes he runs the business over the phone.

Despite his young age, he is a successful manager; as I said, he is 26 years old, like me.

Anyway, we sat in the cafe; he ordered hookah apple-flavored, which makes the smoke come out of his mouth like a fucking train chimney, and I ordered a cup of tea, then he started to bring it up.

"Look, bro." Dylan crossed his fingers and bowed his head in plain embarrassment. "I'm very embarrassed to talk to you about something silly like this, but it's my duty as a friend to be loyal to you," he mumbled.

"Don't raise my concerns; go ahead. I pretended to be worried.

"OK, read this conversation. He handed me his phone and looked away out of embarrassment.

I read the whole conversation briefly. You know, I didn't need to read it because I was the one who was chatting with her.

While reading, I pretended to be shocked by raising my eyebrows and putting the palm of my hand on my cheek.

Dylan was trying to avoid eye contact. Then I put his phone on the table and kept silent, looking right and left.

"We should find out who that motherfucker is and kick his or her butt. Dylan broke the silence.

I kept silent and was shocked, too.

"Sami, what's wrong with you, man? You have to do something; I want to help you; your silence is futile," he consoled.

"I don't..." I sighed. "I don't know what I can do; I'm out of my mind."

"OK, I understand how you feel. I won't press you to respond currently. I know you need enough time to think about it," Dylan bewailed. "What about texting this dickhead to comprehend what is going on?" he suggested.

"Ummm, OK, let's talk about this later; I need to go home now. I hesitated.

"OK, bro. Dylan stood up and got his wallet out to pay; as usual in our society, it is a kind of generosity, especially with guests or in those situations.

Before we separated, Dylan reassured me, "Don't worry; everything will be OK. I guarantee this. See you next week. He smiled and walked away.

*************************

I arrived home. Becky was sitting in the living room, listening to the music. She asked me what happened between Dylan and me.

"Before we talk about anything, get me a cup of lemon juice," I asked her; she quickly got two cups for us.

I told her what had happened; she was disturbed a little.

"What would you do next?" she questioned.

"I must stop this, but this will take much time because of Dylan, who is very responsive to helping me and seeks to find out who was communicating with him."

"You two will look for a person who doesn't exist; please look for yourself seriously. Becky burst into laughter. "Excuse me, but how would you text the nonexistent Eve? The account you created is a waste of time."

"I will text the nonexistent Eve; I will not respond to pretend that I did everything to find out."

"Then Dylan is going to look for another solution, and you must expect what he will do," she advised and predicted.

"I will text now, and I'll not respond to my messages, then I'll take a screenshot to send it to Dylan; how about that? I queried.

"That's right," she agreed. "But as I have told you, predict Dylan's next response."

"Yeah," I nodded. "I will work on making him despair."

I texted Eve, 'myself,' and marked my message as seen, then I took a screenshot and sent it to Dylan.