Junot Díaz - The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

She was the one who took care of my sorry ass. Cooked, cleaned, picked up my class work, got me medicine, even made sure that I showered. In other words, sewed my balls back on, and not any woman can do that for a guy. Believe you me. I could barely stand, my head hurt so bad, but she would wash my back and that was what I remember most about that mess. Her hand on that sponge and that sponge on me. Even though I had a girlfriend, it was Lola who spent those nights with me. Combing her hair out—once, twice, thrice—before folding her long self into bed. No more night-walking, OK, Kung Fu?

At college you’re not supposed to care about anything—you’re just supposed to fuck around—but believe it or not, I cared about Lola. She was a girl it was easy to care about. Lola like the fucking opposite of the girls I usually macked on: bitch was almost six feet tall and no tetas at all and darker than your darkest grandma. Like two girls in one: the skinniest upperbody married to a pair of Cadillac hips and an ill donkey. One of those overachiever chicks who run all the organizations in college and wear suits to meetings. Was the president of her sorority, the head of S.A.L.S.A. and co-chair of Take Back the Night. Spoke perfect stuck-up Spanish.

Known each other since pre-fresh weekend, but it wasn’t until sophomore year when her mother got sick again that we had our fling. Drive me home, Yunior, was her opening line, and a week later it jumped of. I remember she was wearing a pair of Douglass sweats and a Tribe T–shirt. Took off the ring her boy had given her and then kissed me. Dark eyes never leaving mine.

You have great lips, she said.

How do you forget a girl like that?

Only three fucking nights before she got all guilty about the boyfriend and put an end to it. And when Lola puts an end to something, she puts an end to it hard . Even those nights after I got jumped she wouldn’t let me steal on her ass for nothing. So you can sleep in my bed but you can’t sleep with me?

Yo soy prieta, Yuni, she said, pero no soy bruta.

Knew exactly what kind of sucio I was. Two days after we broke up saw me hitting on one of her line-sisters and turned her long back to me.

Point is: when her brother lapsed into that killer depression at the end of sophomore year—drank two bottles of 151 because some girl dissed him—almost fucking killing himself and his sick mother in the process, who do you think stepped up?

Me.

Surprised the shit out of Lola when I said I’d live with him the next year. Keep an eye on the fucking dork for you. After the suicide drama nobody in Demarest wanted to room with homeboy, was going to have to spend junior year by himself; no Lola, either, because she was slotted to go abroad to Spain for that year, her big fucking dream finally come true and she was worried shitless about him. Knocked Lola for a loop when I said I’d do it, but it almost killed her dead when I actually did it. Move in with him. In fucking Demarest. Home of all the weirdo’s and losers and freaks and fem-bots. Me, a guy who could bench 340 pounds, who used to call Demarest Homo Hall like it was nothing. Who never met a little white artist freak he didn’t want to smack around. Put in my application for the writing section and by the beginning of September, there we were, me and Oscar. Together.

I liked to play it up as complete philanthropy, but that’s not exactly true. Sure I wanted to help Lola out, watch out for her crazy-ass brother (knew he was the only thing she really loved in this world), but I was also taking care of my own damn self. That year I’d pulled what was probably the lowest number in the history of the housing lottery. Was officially the last name on the waiting list, which meant my chances for university housing were zilch to none, which meant that my brokeness was either going to have to live at home or on the street, which meant that Demarest, for all its freakery, and Oscar, for all his unhappiness, didn’t seem like so bad an option.

It’s not like he was a complete stranger—I mean, he was the brother of the girl I’d shadow—fucked. Saw him on campus with her those first couple of years, hard to believe he and Lola were related. (Me Apokalips, he cracked, she New Genesis.) Unlike me who would have hidden from a Caliban like that, she loved the dork. Invited him to parties and to her rallies. Holding up signs, handing out flyers. Her fat-ass assistant. To say I’d never in my life met a Dominican like him would be to put it mildly.

Hail, Dog of God, was how he welcomed me my first day in Demarest.

Took a week before I figured out what the hell he meant.

God. Domini. Dog. Canis.

Hail, Dominicanis.

I guess I should have fucking known. Dude used to say he was cursed, used to say this a lot, and if I’d really been old-school Dominican I would have (a) listened to the idiot, and then (b) run the other way. My family are sureños, from Azua, and if we sureños from Azua know anything it’s about fucking curses. I mean, Jesus, have you ever seen Azua? My mom wouldn’t even have listened, would have just run. She didn’t fuck with fukú’s or guanguas, no way no how. But I wasn’t as old-school as I am now, just real fucking dumb, assumed keeping an eye on somebody like Oscar wouldn’t be no Herculean chore. I mean, shit, I was a weight lifter , picked up bigger fucking piles than him every damn day.

You can start the laugh track anytime you want.

He seemed like the same to me. Still massive—Biggie Smalls minus the smalls—and still lost. Still writing ten, fifteen, twenty pages a day. Still obsessed with his fanboy madness. Do you know what sign fool put up on our dorm door? Speak, friend, and enter . In fucking Elvish! (Please don’t ask me how I knew this. Please.) When I saw that I said: de León, you gotta be kidding. Elvish?

Actually, he coughed, it’s Sindarin .

Actually, Melvin said, it’s gay-hay-hay .

Despite my promises to Lola to watch out, those first couple weeks I didn’t have much to do with him. I mean, what can I say? I was busy. What state school player isn’t? I had my job and the gym and my boys and my novia and of course I had my slutties.

Out so much that first month that what I saw of O was mostly a big dormant hump crashed out under a sheet. Only thing that kept his nerd ass up late were his role-playing games and his Japanese animation, especially Akira , which I think he must have watched at least a thousand times that year. I can’t tell you how many nights I came home and caught him parked in front of that movie. I’d bark: You watching this shit again? And Oscar would say, almost as if apologizing for his existence: It’s almost over. It’s always almost over, I complained. I didn’t mind it, though. I liked shit like Akira , even if I couldn’t always stay awake for it. I’d lay back on my bed while Kaneda screamed Tetsuo and the next thing I knew Oscar was standing timidly over me, saying, Yunior, the movie is finis and I would sit up, say, Fuck!

Wasn’t half as bad as I made it out to be later. For all of his nerdiness, dude was a pretty considerate roommate. I never got stupid little notes from him like the last fucknuts I lived with, and he always paid for his half of shit and if I ever came in during one of his Dungeons & Dragons games he’d relocate to the lounge without even having to be asked. Akira I could handle, Queen of the Demonweb Pits I could not.

Made my little gestures, of course. A meal once a week. Picked up his writings, five books to date, and tried to read some. Wasn’t my cup of tea — Drop the phaser, Arthurus Prime — but even I could tell he had chops. Could write dialogue, crack snappy exposition, keep the narrative moving. Showed him some of my fiction too, all robberies and drug deals and Fuck you, Nando , and BLAU! BLAU! BLAU! He gave me four pages of comments for an eight-page story.