The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

see Mister, she sobbed. They tried to kill him.
    What the fuck, Oscar, I said on the phone. I leave you alone for a couple days and you almost get yourself slabbed?
    His voice sounded muffled. I kissed a girl, Yunior. I finally kissed a girl.
    But, O, you almost got yourself killed.
    It wasn’t completely egregious, he said. I still had a few hit points left.

    But then, two days later, I saw his face and was like: Holy shit, Oscar. Holy fucking shit.
    He shook his head. Bigger game afoot than my appearances.
    He wrote out the word for me: fukú .

SOME ADVICE
     
    T ravel light. She extended her arms to embrace her house, maybe the whole world.

PATERSON, AGAIN
     
    H e returned home. He lay in bed, he healed. His mother so infuriated she wouldn’t look at him.
    He was a complete and utter wreck. Knew he loved her like he’d never loved anyone. Knew what he should be doing—making like a Lola and flying back. Fuck the capitán. Fuck Grundy and Grod. Fuck everybody. Easy to say in the rational day but at night his balls turned to ice water and ran down his fucking legs like piss. Dreamed again and again of the cane, the terrible cane, except now it wasn’t him at the receiving end of the beating, but his sister, his mother, heard them shrieking, begging for them to stop, please God stop , but instead of racing toward the voices, he ran away ! Woke up screaming. Not me. Not me .

    He watched Virus for the thousandth time and for the thousandth time teared up when the Japanese scientist finally reached Tierra del Fuego and the love of his life. He read The Lord of the Rings for what I’m estimating the millionth time, one of his greatest loves and greatest comforts since he’d first discovered it, back when he was nine and lost and lonely and his favorite librarian had said, Here, try this, and with one suggestion changed his life. Got through almost the whole trilogy, but then the line “and out of Far Harad black men like half-trolls” and he had to stop, his head and heart hurting too much.
     
    Six weeks after the Colossal Beatdown he dreamed about the cane again. But instead of bolting when the cries began, when the bones started breaking, he summoned all the courage he ever had, would ever have, and forced himself to do the one thing he did not want to do, that he could not bear to do.
    He listened.

 
     

T his happened in January. Me and Lola were living up in the Heights, separate apartments—this was before the whitekids started their invasion, when you could walk the entire length of Upper Manhattan and see not a single yoga mat. Me and Lola weren’t doing that great. Plenty I could tell you, but that’s neither here nor there. All you need to know is that if we talked once a week we were lucky, even though we were nominally boyfriend and girlfriend. All my fault, of course. Couldn’t keep my rabo in my pants, even though she was the most beautiful fucking girl in the world.
    Anyway, I was home that week, no call from the temp agency, when Oscar buzzed me from the street. Hadn’t seen his ass in weeks, since the first days of his return. Jesus, Oscar, I said. Come up, come up. I waited for him in the hall and when he stepped out of the elevator I put the mitts on him. How are you, bro? I’m copacetic, he said. We sat down and I broke up a dutch while he filled me in. I’m going back to Don Bosco soon. Word? I said. Word, he said. His face was still fucked up, the left side a little droopy.
    You wanna smoke?
    I might partake. Just a little, though. I would not want to cloud my faculties.
    That last day on our couch he looked like a man at peace with himself. A little distracted but at peace. I would tell Lola that night that it was because he’d finally decided to live, but the truth would turn out to be a little more complicated. You should have seen him. He was so thin, had lost all the weight and was still, still.
    What had he been doing? Writing, of course, and reading. Also getting ready to move from Paterson. Wanting to put the past behind him, start a new life. Was trying to decide what he would take with him. Was allowing himself only ten of his books, the core of his canon (his words), was trying to pare it all down to what was necessary. Only what I can carry. It seemed like another odd Oscar thing, until later we would realize it wasn’t.
    And then after an inhale he said: Please forgive me, Yunior, but I’m here with an ulterior motive. I wish to know if you could do me a