Girl guide dating geek excerpt
He broke up with Olga the next day on the playground, Maritza at his side, and how Olga cried! In later years, when he and Olga had both turned into overweight freaks, Oscar could not resist feeling the occasional flash of guilt when he saw Olga loping across a street or staring blankly out near the New York bus stop, wondering how much his cold-as-balls breakup had contributed to her present fuckedupness.(Breaking up with her, he would remember, hadn’t felt like anything; even when she started crying, he hadn’t been moved. The Monday after he’d shed Olga, he arrived at the bus stop only to discover beautiful Maritza holding hands with butt-ugly Nelson Pardo. We should get married, she was saying to Nelson, and Nelson grinned moronically, turning up the street to look for the bus. When he got on the bus, still crying, the driver, a famously reformed PCP addict, said, Christ, what a fucking .
He devoured every book he could find that dealt with the End Times, from John Christopher’s “Empty World” to Hal Lindsey’s “The Late Great Planet Earth.” He didn’t date no one. Inside, he was a passionate person who fell in love easily and deeply. Despite swearing to be different, he went back to his nerdy ways, eating, not exercising, using flash words, and after a couple consecutive Fridays alone he joined the university’s resident geek organization, R. We were roommates our sophomore year, cramped up in Demarest, the university’s official homo dorm, because Oscar wanted to be a writer and because I’d pulled the last number in the housing lottery. He was a dork, totally into Dungeons & Dragons and comic books; he had like a billion science-fiction paperbacks, all in his closet; and me, I was into girls, weight lifting, and Danocrine. Not even Fanon can explain it to me.) I had this beautiful Irish-Puerto Rican girlfriend, a Plainfield girl I couldn’t get enough of, a firefighter’s daughter who didn’t speak a word of Spanish, and I was into clubs like a motherfucker—Illusions, Foxes, Mercedes and Mink (on Springfield Ave.Al had met his at Menlo Park Mall, near the arcade; she’d come on to him, he bragged, and when she informed him, after she sucked his dick, that she had a girlfriend to meet somebody, Al had dragged Miggs away from his Atari and out to a movie, and the rest was, as they say, history. When, finally, he couldn’t take it no more, he asked pathetically, What, these girls don’t have any other friends? He looked straight out of a Daniel Clowes comic book. Spent a week looking at himself in the mirror, turned himself every which way, took stock, didn’t flinch, and then he went to Chucho’s and had the barber shave his Puerto Rican ’fro off, lost the mustache, then the glasses, bought contacts, was already trying to stop eating, starving himself dizzy, and the next time Al and Miggs saw him Miggs said, Dude, what’s the matter with you? He, Miggs, and Al were never quite the same friends again. Ana was a talker, had beautiful Caribbean-girl eyes, pure anthracite, and was the sort of heavy that almost every Island nigger dug (and wasn’t shy about her weight, either), and, like every other girl in the neighborhood, wore tight black stirrup pants and the sexiest underwear she could afford. class, Oscar and Ana in the parking lot afterward, Oscar and Ana at the Mc Donald’s, Oscar and Ana become friends. The longer they went without speaking, the more morose he became. Another time, Miggs was goofing on him, talking smack, and for the first time ever Oscar lost his temper and swung on the nigger, connected so hard that homeboy’s mouth spouted blood. I mean, they were the world to me, too, but with him it was on some next shit. It wasn’t like I couldn’t sympathize, but I didn’t think acting like a nut around the mamacitas was going to help his case.By the end of the week, Miggs had his, too, and only then did Oscar find out about any of it, while they were in his room setting up for another “hair-raising” Champions adventure against the Death-Dealing Destroyers. Al and Miggs traded glances over their character sheets. And right there he realized something he’d never known: his fucked-up, comic-book-reading, role-playing, game-loving, no-sports-playing friends were embarrassed by . He closed the game early—the Exterminators found the Destroyers’ hideout right away; that was bogus, Al groused as Oscar showed them the door. Like the fat, blackish kid in Beto Hernández’s Palomar. He hung out, saw movies, talked Los Brothers Hernández, Frank Miller, and Alan Moore with them but, over all, he kept his distance. She was a peculiar combination of badmash and little girl—even before he visited her house, he knew there’d be an avalanche of stuffed animals on the bed—and there was something in the ease with which she switched between these two Anas that convinced him that there existed a third Ana, who was otherwise obscure and impossible to know. (And later, at home, he asked his sister, back on winter break, Would you let your thirteen-year-old daughter date some twenty-four-year-old guy? But they better cut my fucking head off because, believe me, I’d come back from the dead and get them both.)and Ana in S. Each day, Oscar expected her to be adiós, each day she was still there. He got around a cute one and the nigger would almost start shaking. I tried to give him advice—first off, cristiano, you have to stop gunning on the superbabes—but he wouldn’t listen.Sophomore year Oscar’s weight stabilized at about two-ten (two-twenty when he was depressed, which was often), and it had become clear to everybody, especially his family, that he’d become the neighborhood pariguayo.He wore his semikink hair in a Puerto Rican Afro, had enormous Section-8 glasses (his anti-pussy devices, his boys Al and Miggs called them), sported an unappealing trace of mustache, and possessed a pair of close-set eyes that made him look somewhat retarded.She’d say anything to anybody and she cut her hair short (anathema to late-eighties Jersey Dominicans) partially, I think, because when she’d been little her family had let it grow down past her ass—a source of pride, something I’m sure her rapist noticed and admired. They’re disgusting, they bother Mami, and they’ll never get you a date. He was one of those niggers who didn’t have any kind of hope. Her girls were the sort of hot-as-balls Latinas who dated only weight-lifting morenos or Latino cats with guns in their cribs. and could out-salsa even the Goya dancers; Leticia, just off the boat, half Haitian, half Dominican, that special blend the Dominican government swears no existe_,_ who spoke with the deepest accent, a girl so good she refused to sleep with three consecutive boyfriends! Ana nodded; she smelled of a perfume, and when she pressed close the heat of her body was . When he returned to the house, his sister said, Well? On one of these little trips, she let slip, God, I’d forgotten how big Manny’s cock is. So you’re Ana’s little friend, Manny said derisively. Manny smacked her, Manny kicked her, Manny called her a fat twat, Manny cheated on her, she was sure, with this Cuban chickie from the middle school. Her face was so swollen from recent crying it looked like she was on cortisone. Wasn’t it Turgenev who said, Whom you laugh at you forgive and come near to loving?
Oscar, Lola warned repeatedly, you’re going to die a virgin. Another five years of this and I’ll bet you somebody tries to name a church after me. It wouldn’t have been half bad if Paterson and its surrounding precincts had been, like Don Bosco, all male. (His sister was the anomaly—she dated the same dude all four years of high school, a failed Golden Gloves welterweight who was excruciatingly courteous and fucked her like he was playing connect the dots, a pretty boy she’d eventually dump after he dirty-dicked her with some Pompton Lakes Irish bitch.) His sister’s friends were the Bergen County All-Stars, New Jersey’s very own Ciguapas: primera was Gladys, who complained constantly about her chest being too big; Marisol, who’d end up in M. It wouldn’t have been so bad if these girls hadn’t treated Oscar like some deaf-mute harem guard; they blithely went on about the particulars of their sex lives while he sat in the kitchen clutching the latest issue of Senior year found him bloated, dyspeptic, and, most cruelly, alone in his lack of a girlfriend. On the ride home, Ana complained about having a headache and they didn’t speak for a long time. They reached the Elizabeth exit, which is what New Jersey is really known for, industrial wastes on both sides of the turnpike, when Ana let loose a scream that threw him against the door. That’s me, Oscar said in a voice so full of cheerful innocuousness that he could have shot himself for it. They couldn’t talk ten minutes without Manny beeping her and her having to call him back and assure him she wasn’t with anybody else. she asked over and over, and Oscar always found himself holding her awkwardly and telling her, Well, I think if he’s this bad you should break up with him, but she shook her head and said, I know I should, but I can’t. Oscar liked to kid himself that it was only cold, anthropological interest that kept him around to see how it would all end, but the truth was he couldn’t extricate himself. What he used to feel for those girls he’d never really known was nothing compared with the amor he was carrying in his heart for Ana. I didn’t invite him out to no clubs, but we did start going to Brower Commons to eat, even checked out an occasional movie.
As though everything he had in the girl department had burned up that one fucking week. She got huge and scary—a troll gene in her somewhere—and started drinking 151 straight out of the bottle and was taken out of school because she had a habit of screaming have it, Maritza blew up into the flyest girl in Paterson, New Jersey, one of the queens of New Peru, and, since she and Oscar were neighbors, he saw her plenty, hair as black and lush as a thunderhead, probably the only Peruvian girl on the planet with curly hair (he hadn’t heard of Afro Peruvians yet or of a town called Chincha), body fine enough to make old men forget their infirmities, and from age thirteen steady getting in or out of some roughneck’s ride.
(Maritza might not have been good at much—not sports, not school, not work—but she was good at boys.) Oscar would watch Maritza’s getting in and out all through his cheerless, sexless adolescence.
His tío Rodolfo (only recently released from Rahway State) was especially generous in his tutelage. She was one of those tough Jersey Latinas, a girl soccer star who drove her own car, had her own checkbook, called men bitches, and would eat a fat cat in front of you without a speck of vergüenza. And if that wasn’t guapas enough for you, well, then, head south, and there’d be Newark, Elizabeth, Jersey City, the Oranges, Union City, West New York, Weehawken—an urban swath known to niggers everywhere as Negrapolis One. The whole time the movie was on, Oscar kept expecting niggers to jump out with cameras and scream, Surprise! In April, Oscar learned he was heading to Rutgers-New Brunswick. Manny’s sudden reappearance and Ana’s joy over it shattered the hopes Oscar had cultivated. She picked him up, and they drove out to Boulevard East and parked the car, and together they stared out at the Manhattan skyline. Well, it actually wouldn’t be bad if you kept Manny’s anatomical enormity to yourself. When they shook hands, Oscar was sure the nigger was going to smack him; he acted so surly. With Manny around, Oscar was exposed to an entirely new side of Ana. He didn’t care that he would more than likely be put away forever and that niggers like him got ass- and mouth-raped in jail, or that if the cops picked him up and found the gun they’d send his tío’s ass up the river for parole violation. His head contained nothing, it felt like it had been excavated, a perfect vacuum. His mother, his tío, even Al and Miggs, not known for their solicitude, were like, Dude, what the fuck’s the matter with you? He could tell by Ana’s clothes that she had other plans that night. —and right before Halloween I told him he looked like that fat homo Oscar Wilde, which was bad news for him, because then all of us started calling him Oscar Wao. Made a brother feel kinda bad, and after the others left I would say, You know I was just kidding, right?
We wouldn’t want you to turn into one of those Greenwich Village maricones, Tío Rodolfo muttered ominously. When she was in sixth grade, she was raped by an older acquaintance, and surviving that urikán of pain, judgment, and bochinche had stripped her of cowardice. He wasn’t even safe in his own house; his sister’s girlfriends were always hanging out, and when they were around he didn’t need no . When he went upstairs to change, his sister was jumping up and down on his bed, low screaming, It’s a date, it’s a date, and she jumped onto his back and nearly toppled him clean through the bedroom window. Boy, he said, trying to remain on her map, this is some movie. Then she looked over at him, threw back her head, and laughed. It wasn’t an ocean, or a mountain range; it was, at least to Oscar, better. With Manny and his around, Oscar began dreaming about nuclear annihilation, how through some miracle he was first to hear about a planned attack, and without pausing to think he stole his tío’s car, drove it to the store, stocked it full of supplies (shooting a couple of looters on the way), and then fetched Ana. Manny was muy bald and completely shaved his head to hide it, had a hoop in each ear, and this leathery out-in-the-sun look of an old cat straining for youth. All they talked about now, the few times they saw each other, was Manny and the terrible things he did to her. Oscar got so bad that one desperate night, after listening to Ana sobbing to him on the phone about Manny’s latest bullshit, he said, I have to go to church now, and put down the phone, went to his tío’s room and stole his antique Dragoon pistol, that oh-so-famous First Nation exterminating Colt .44, stuck its impressive snout down the front of his pants, and proceeded to stand in front of Manny’s apartment. After he went on his third Manny hunt, he broke down and confessed to his sister, and she got them both on their knees in front of the altar she’d built to their dead abuela and had him swear on their mother’s soul that he’d never pull anything like that again as long as he lived. She was in a pair of black leather pants and had on one of those fuzzy light-pink sweaters that girls with nice chests can rock forever. By second semester, I even started to like the kid a little.
At first Oscar thought it a mistake; the sun was in his eyes, he’d not slept enough the night before. Oscar was too hurt to speak; he sat down on the curb and felt something overwhelming surge up from his chest, and before he knew it he was crying, and when his sister Lola walked over and asked him what was the matter he shook his head. Maybe coincidence, maybe selfserving Dominican hyperbole, but it seemed to Oscar that from the moment Maritza dumped him his life shot straight down the tubes.