The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

coughed. I have heard from a reliable source that no Dominican male has ever died a virgin. You who have experience in these matters—do you think this is true?
    I sat up. Dude was peering at me in the dark, dead serious.
    O, it’s against the laws of nature for a dominicano to die without fucking at least once.
    That, he sighed, is what worries me.
    ——
     

    So what happens at the beginning of October? What always happens to playboys like me.
    I got bopped.
    No surprise, given how balls-out I was living. Wasn’t just any bop either. My girl Suriyan found out I was messing with one of hermanas. Players: never never never fuck with a bitch named Awilda. Because when she awildas out on your ass you’ll know pain for real. The Awilda in question dimed me for fuck knows what reason, actually taped one of my calls to her and before you could say Oh shit everybody knew. Homegirl must have played that thing like five hundred times. Second time I’d been caught in two years, a record even for me. Suriyan went absolutely nuts . Attacked me on the E bus. The boys laughing and running, and me pretending like I hadn’t done anything. Suddenly I was in the dorm a lot. Taking a stab at a story or two. Watching some movies with Oscar. This Island Earth. Appleseed . Project A. Casting around for a lifeline.
    What I should have done was check myself into Bootie-Rehab. But if you thought I was going to do that, then you don’t know Dominican men. Instead of focusing on something hard and useful like, say, my own shit, I focused on something easy and redemptive.
    Out of nowhere, and not in the least influenced by my own shitty state—of course not!—I decided that I was going to fix Oscar’s life. One night while he was moaning on about his sorry existence I said: Do you really want to change it?
    Of course I do, he said, but nothing I’ve tried has been ameliorative.
    I’ll change your life.

    Really? The look he gave me—still breaks my heart, even after all these years.
    Really. You have to listen to me, though.
    Oscar scrambled to his feet. Placed his hand over his heart. I swear an oath of obedience, my lord. When do we start?
    You’ll see.
    The next morning, six a. m., I kicked Oscar’s bed.
    What is it? he cried out.
    Nothing much, I said, throwing his sneakers on his stomach. Just the first day of your life.
    I really must have been in a dangle over Suriyan—which is why I threw myself something serious into Project Oscar. Those first weeks, while I waited for Suriyan to forgive me, I had fatboy like Master Killer in Shaolin Temple. Was on his ass 24 /7. Got him to swear off the walking up to strange girls with his I-love-you craziness. (You’re only scaring the poor girls, O.) Got him to start watching his diet and to stop talking crazy negative— I am ill fated, I am going to perish a virgin, I’m lacking in pulchritude —at least while I was around, I did. (Positive thoughts, I stressed, positive thoughts, motherfucker!) Even brought him out with me and the boys. Not anything serious—just out for a drink when it was a crowd of us and his monstro-ness wouldn’t show so much. (The boys hating—What’s next? We start inviting out the homeless?)
    But my biggest coup of all? I got dude to exercise with me. To fucking run .
    Goes to show you: O really did look up to me. No one else could have gotten him to do that. The last time he’d tried running had been freshman year, when he’d been fifty pounds lighter. I can’t lie: first couple of times I almost laughed, seeing him huffing down George Street, those ashy black knees of his a-shaking. Keeping his head down so he wouldn’t have to hear or see all the reactions. Usually just some cackles and a stray Hey, fat-ass . The best one I heard? Look, Mom, that guy’s taking his planet out for a run.
    Don’t worry about them jokers, I told him.
    No worry, he heaved, dying .
    Dude was not into it at all . As soon as we were through he’d be back at his desk in no time flat. Almost clinging to it. Tried everything he could to weasel out of our runs. Started getting up at five so when I got up he’d already be at his computer, could claim he was in the middle of this amazingly important chapter. Write it later, bitch. After about our fourth run he actually got down on his knees. Please, Yunior, he said, I can’t. I snorted. Just go get your fucking shoes.
    I knew shit wasn’t easy for him. I was callous, but not that callous. I saw how it was. You