And The Sweet Wine Turns Sour

AND THE SWEET WINE TURNS SOUR A Novel By KENECHUKWU OBI CHAPTER ONE I have a problem. And what is my problem? First of all, I am a writer. And I have come to realize I should not have written my eleventh fiction story whose success gave birth to the whole mess my life became. My decision to write the story was not an easy one. I was a man truly besieged. I was a man with war drumming in his head. Several voices in my head were slugging it out. There were those that urged me to focus on the reasons why I should not go ahead and write my eleventh story. These reasons kept exploding like fireworks, and in many directions, in my head, each day. There were also those that kept on telling me that it was a real man that pushes forward in spite of his numerous downfalls. They argued. They jostled. They fought each other in a struggle to dominate my mind. Give up on writing! Don’t ever give it up! You don’t have what it takes! You do! How many times will you fail to learn from your experiences that show you have no future as a writer even if you decide not to give it up! You’re a writer and your future is bright! You’re only deluding yourself! You’re not! My head ached. It was burning up. I had to get off the seat I was sitting on and take a walk. I very much had to. I had to try to get a chance to think clearly, in spite of the rumble in my head. “You are a writer, Beck,” I said to myself. “Writers exist to write,” I went on to say. “Not writing this story will amount to a denial of the love I have for writing.” And there was no stopping me from then on. I began writing my eleventh fiction story when I returned home from taking a walk. I had no strand of doubt in me that I could write excellent stories which would become foundations for blockbuster movies, though I felt it was a big shame that none of my first ten stories impressed any of the movie studios’ executives I previously approached. They all said my stories were not right for them. But I was determined to try again, to press on, until I pressed through to breakthrough. I could not be more fired up by rejections. “Come on,” I said to myself, ‘you’re not going to take no for an answer. Those studios need my talent! I can do it!” “Beck! Are you still doing that?” Her voice came. “I am,” I replied. That was Julie, my wife. Her impatience could not be caged now for me to speak more words I wanted to. “Get realistic!” she quickly went ahead to scream. “Do you need a palm reader to let you know you’re not good enough? Do you need God to step down from heaven to tell you, or you need uncle D to step out of his very hot zone to tell you?” “Uncle D?” “I was talking about the devil! Do you need him to let you know you’re not good enough before you come to your senses?” “I think I’m good.” “But not good enough! Those men want nothing but the best.” “That I know.” “Which you can’t produce!” “I think I can.” “Really?” “That I know.” “Give it all up!” “Okay…., but that would be after I must have tried the big boss at Paramount Pictures with my new story.” “You are so crazy!” Julie had these temper tantrums that sometimes belched forth like molten lava from erupting volcano. Five feet six inches was her height, a blonde from Houston, Texas, with a round face. Her smiles were often attractive, and her anger could be a terror once in a while. Her laughter on a good day would give any man that finds it hard to control his groin area a huge erection. Not bad a personality to me, overall. A woman, so good in the kitchen, and well made by the almighty creator, to be a good asset. Julie and I had liked each other very much right from our seventh grade at high school. The chemistry was amazing. The attraction we felt was strong. So intense it was that it had this overwhelming domineering urge to possess. It got us to the thing lots of people in this world love to call relationship. I must say Julie and I had s*x occasionally, and that was because we were not a pair of promiscuous dogs that would think of nothing else. “Oh….. great... So nice….,” Julie responded, back in our high school days, when I first shared my dream to become a writer with her. “It would be nice to see you achieve it,” she said, being quite excited to hear of the ambition that raged like wild fire in my soul. This excitement surged into her with the tremendous force with which a very dry desert soil that has not known wetness for years can absorb water. A very wide smile stood on her face, exposing her fine set of white teeth not yet discolored by coffee drinking at all. I must confess that it felt quite nice to have someone so close appreciate my dream. “Do you really believe I can go all the way and achieve it?” I was quick to ask. “Yes, you can, Beck. It would be really nice to see movies based on your stories.” “Are you convinced?” “Sure! What are friends for? I will support you every step of the way. I believe in your dream, Beck.” “Give me a kiss, Julie. A gentle one, right at the tip of my nose.” “No.” “You are just joking. You will not deny me, will you?” “I will.” “You must be joking. Tell me you’re.” “You’re blind, Beck. Can’t you see I am?” Julie and I listened to each other. We were so supportive of each other that we shared our burdens, hopes and dreams of a future flowing with milk and honey. What more could I have longed for? Our relationship was not perfect though, but I can say it was one of the best around, until I gathered the courage to let her realize that I would go on writing my eleventh fiction story. Everything became perfectly normal after that? No! My decision, very much like a stone thrown into a pond, created a lot of ripples. And the foundation for the mess in my life was only about to be laid. CHAPTER TWO Julie had said I was crazy. I was in our living room, reading through my developing eleventh story, when she came to me with an early morning cup of coffee, the day being a day after I had begun writing my story—a Friday. She was absolutely furious to see what I was doing. She had had enough, nearly poured the hot coffee in my face, but managed to stop anger from making her do so. I was lucky there. Julie angrily kept the cup of coffee on the wooden table I sat on, spilling some on it. I was to her, the most disgusting thing around. I was a thousand flies that buzzed around her eyes. I had filled her with irritation that itched every inch of her body. She did storm away from my presence, and into the only bedroom we had and shared, in our small rural Nebraska bungalow. It was a bungalow that had one kitchen, one lavatory, and a living room which lacked a rug on its floor, and any sort of interior decoration. All we had in our living room was a wooden dining table, two wooden seats beside it, and a green couch. Julie would not just stop there, that I knew very well about the woman I married. But what I did not know was what she was actually up to. I had known her to be always something else whenever she got furious. I remembered the day we had an argument. She lost her temper and threw a glass of water at me. We were taking a walk together, when a girl I did not know waved at me. I raised my right hand, and waved at her too. Julie made no comment. There was no way I could see she had read any meaning into what I had done. She succeeded in making me feel there were no qualms. It was when we got back home that she opened up. “Who was that?” She queried. I did not understand what she meant at that time. I was hungry, and had my mind on grabbing an apple from the fridge. “Who?” I said, almost absent mindedly. “Beck, don’t get all slippery now!” Julie’s tone had changed now. She had growled in fact. Anger had stepped into her. “The girl you waved at! Who’s she?” It was now that I understood what she wanted to know. “I don’t know her,” I began. “She waved at me and I waved back. Just that. I’ve never seen her before. You’re not thinking I’ve been hitting on her.” “Don’t lie to me!” “I’m not lying.” “You f*****g liar!” “I’m not lying! I’ve never seen her before. I swear!” “b****y liar!” “Wait a minute! You think I’ve been seeing her?” “Chronic liar!” “Stop calling me names, Julie! Believe me! I’ve never seen her before!” “What’s her name and size of her G-string panties?” “What the hell’s this? I don’t know! I’ve got only your own G-string size in my long-term memory!” “b****y liar!” That was it. The glass of water had left her right hand and was flying to my face now. I was so lucky to have got out of the glass’s path fast. It nearly hit my face. I took it that God still wanted me to keep on having the face he gave me, otherwise the story of my face would have been different today. It was when the glass had shattered on the floor that Julie realized the stupid thing she had allowed anger to put her through. Tears began to drip out of her eyes. It was as if a tap was turned on at once, in them. She covered her face as quickly as she could, with her hands, in shame. Her mouth opened and she cried. I even found her more attractive as she did. This ensured that I could not find a way to build up anger against her insane act. Believe me, I tried hard, but those tears coming from her eyes arrested me. Getting angry with her proved to be like smashing a mountain with bare hands. Those tears just disarmed me. It was as if their cold long hands had extended to caress my whole body, putting me at ease. “Beck, I’m sorry,” Julie had said to me, her tone, so soft, so seductive. “I don’t know what got over me,” she went on. “Please I’m sorry.” I had no choice than to take her in my arms like a loving mother. I am no woman, this I knew so well, but she felt so tender and calm in the comfort my arms gave, looking up at my face like a child that needed to suck her mother’s breasts. I must confess that I would have offered her if mine had not been created to always be tiny, dry, and without the ability to yield even the smallest trickle of milk. One is to love and forgive his wife always, isn’t it? “That’s okay,” I said to her. “I love you.” Then I began to wipe off tears on her face that were beginning to drop on the green satin dress she wore. “I love you too,” she said. I forgave her, but I knew she was still a long way from knowing how to keep her emotion of anger in check. Julie had stormed away! What was she really up to? CHAPTER THREE My whole body tickled with so much fear when Julie stormed into our small-sized bedroom that had a rough floor, two windows and one bed that was not the large type, but was okay for us. This left my mind very active as it tried to capture the scenario I would likely face. Instinct told me lots of things, which I decided to ignore. They were things like, Julie will come back to hit your face hard with the long heel of one of her shoes! She will return with most of your clothes and burn them right in front of you! All these did not bother me. I managed to stay calm. But when my gut feeling suggested Julie could come at me with a knife or a g*n, I knew it was no longer time to sit and watch. There was actually a hand-g*n somewhere in our bedroom, which I bought. Fright dragged me and got me up on my feet as fast as it could. This took no more than three seconds. I dashed off to the small space that was the kitchen in our home. On my mind was the quest to pick up something that I could use to defend myself. Anything! My heart was pumping so fast now. It did not want to take it easy. It just thumped and thumped so much that I thought its aim was to tear up my chest and fall off. I could not find anything that made sense to me, as far as getting a good object to defend myself was concerned. I finally picked up a fork and a knife. My mind was totally made up. I would have to defend myself as necessary if Julie attacked me, love or no love. I then tiptoed out of the kitchen with my weapons. I peeped at the door that led to our bedroom when I reached the kitchen door. I wanted to see if I would see Julie step out of our bedroom. I saw nobody. I decided it was best I waited. I waited for ten minutes, and Julie did not step out of our bedroom. Then I began to wonder what was really going on. The house was quiet. I listened up for any railing tone that would be hers, but none came.