Fuku.
He rolled the word experimentally in his mouth.
His mother raised her fist in a fury but La Inca intercepted it, their flesh slapping. Are you mad? La Inca said, and Oscar couldn’t tell if she was talking to his mother or to him.
As for Ybon, she didn’t answer her pager, and the few times he managed to limp to the window he saw that her Pathfinder wasn’t there. I love you, he shouted into the street. I love you! Once he made it to her door and buzzed before his tio realized that he was gone and dragged him back inside. At night all Oscar did was lie in bed and suffer, imagining all sorts of horrible
And on day three she came. While she sat on the edge of his bed his mother banged pots in the kitchen and said
Forgive me if I don’t get up, Oscar whispered. I’m having slight difficulties with my cranium.
She was dressed in white, and her hair was still wet from the shower, a tumult of brownish curls. Of course the capitan had beaten the shit out of her too, of course she had two black eyes (he’d also put his.44 Magnum in her vagina and asked her who she
He held out the pages he’d written. I have so much to talk to you about—
Me and—are getting married, she said curtly.
Ybon, he said, trying to form the words, but she was already gone.
Se acabo. His mother and his abuela and his tio delivered the ultimatum and that was that. Oscar didn’t look at the ocean or the scenery as they drove to the airport. He was trying to decipher something he’d written the night before, mouthing the words slowly. It’s beautiful today, Clives remarked. He looked up with tears in his eyes. Yes, it is.
On the flight over he sat between his tio and his moms. Jesus, Oscar, Rudolfo said nervously. You look like they put a shirt on a turd.
His sister met them at JFK and when she saw his face she cried and didn’t stop even when she got back to my apartment. You should see Mister, she sobbed. They tried to
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:
SOME ADVICE
Travel light. She extended her arms to embrace her house, maybe the whole world.
PATERSON, AGAIN
He 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 capitan. 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
He watched
Six weeks after the Colossal Beat down 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.
PART III
This 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