by Lorrie Moore
1997
JUNOT DÍAZ
Fiesta, 1980
from Story
JUNOT DÍAZ was born in the Dominican Republic in 1968. At the age of six he immigrated to New Jersey. He earned his BA from Rutgers College in 1992, working his way through by washing dishes, pumping gas, and delivering pool tables.
After graduation, Díaz worked at Rutgers University Press as an editorial assistant and created the quasi-autobiographical character Yunior, who appeared in a story he included as part of his application to the MFA program at Cornell University. The character became central to much of his later work, including the stories in Drown, his first collection, and This Is How You Lose Her. Díaz earned his MFA in 1995.
Díaz has described his writing as “a disobedient child of New Jersey and the Dominican Republic if that can be possibly imagined with way too much education.”
He received the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for his novel The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao in 2008 and was a 2012 MacArthur Fellow. Currently Díaz teaches creative writing at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and is the fiction editor for The Boston Review.
★
MAMI’S YOUNGEST SISTER—my Tía Yrma—finally made it to the United States that year. She and Tío Miguel got themselves an apartment in the Bronx, off the Grand Concourse, and everybody decided that we should have a party. Actually, my dad decided, but everybody—meaning Mami, Tía Yrma, Tío Miguel, and their neighbors—thought it a dope idea. On the Friday of the party Papi got back from work around six. Right on time. We were all dressed by then, which was a smart move on our part. If Papi had walked in and caught us lounging around in our underwear, man, he would have kicked our asses something serious.
He didn’t say nothing to nobody, not even to my moms. He just pushed past her, held up his hand when she tried to talk to him, and jumped into the shower. Rafa gave me the look and I gave it back to him; we both knew Papi had been out with the Puerto Rican woman he was seeing and wanted to wash off the evidence quick.
Mami looked really nice that day. The United States had finally put some meat on her; she was no longer the same flaca who had arrived here three years before. She had cut her hair short and was wearing tons of cheap-ass jewelry, which on her was kinda attractive. She smelled like herself, which meant she smelled good, like the wind through a tree. She always waited until the last possible minute to put on her perfume because she said it was a waste to spray it on early and then have to spray it on again once you got to the party.
We—meaning me, my brother, my little sister, and Mami—waited for Papi to finish his shower. Mami seemed anxious, in her usual dispassionate way. Her hands adjusted the buckle of her belt over and over again. That morning, when she had gotten us up for school, Mami told us that she wanted to have a good time at the party. I want to dance, she said, but now, with the sun sliding out of the sky like spit off a wall, she seemed ready to just get this over with.
Rafa didn’t much want to go to no party either, and me, I never wanted to go anywhere with my family. There was a baseball game in the parking lot outside and we could hear our friends yelling, Hey, and, You suck, to one another. We heard the pop of a ball as it sailed over the cars, the clatter of an aluminum bat dropping to the concrete. Not that me or Rafa loved baseball; we just liked playing with the local kids, thrashing them at anything they were doing. By the sounds of the shouting, we both knew the game was close, either of us could have made a difference. Rafa frowned, and when I frowned back, he put up his fist. Don’t you mirror me, he said.
Don’t you mirror me, I said.
He punched me—I would have hit him back but right then Papi marched into the living room with his towel around his waist, looking a lot smaller than he did when he was dressed. He had a few strands of hair around his nipples and a surly closed-mouth expression, like maybe he had scalded his tongue or something.
Have they eaten? he asked Mami.
She nodded. I made you something.
You didn’t let him eat, did you?
Dios mio, she said, letting her arms fall to her side.
Dios mio is right, Papi said.
I was never supposed to eat before our car trips, but earlier, when she had put out our dinner of rice, beans, and sweet platanos, guess who had been the first one to gobble his meal down? You couldn’t blame Mami really, she had been busy—cooking, getting ready, dressing my sister Madai. I should have reminded her not to feed me but I hadn’t been thinking. Even if I had, I doubt I would have told her.
Papi turned to me. Why did you eat?
Rafa had already inched away from me. I’d once told him I considered him a low-down chickenshit for moving out of the way every time Papi was going to smack me.
Collateral damage, he said. Ever heard of it?
No.
Look it up.
Chickenshit or not, right then I didn’t dare glance at him. Papi was old-fashioned; he expected you to attend him, but not stare into his eyes, while you were getting your ass whupped. I studied Papi’s bellybutton, which was perfectly round and immaculate. Papi pulled me to my feet by my ear.
If you throw up—
I won’t, I said, tears in my eyes, more out of reflex than pain.
It’s not his fault, Mami said. I fed them before I reminded them about the party.
They’ve known about this party forever. How did they think we were going to get there? Fly?
He finally let go of my ear and I went back to my seat. Madai was too scared to open her eyes. Being around Papi all her life had turned her into a big-time wuss. Anytime Papi raised his voice her lip would start trembling, like it was some sort of specialized tuning fork. Rafa pretended that he had knuckles to crack, and when I shoved him, he gave me a Don’t start look. But even that little bit of recognition made me feel better.
I was the one who was always in trouble with my dad. It was like my God-given role to piss him off, to do everything the way he hated. It didn’t bother me too much, really. I still wanted him to love me, something that never seemed strange or contradictory until years later, when he was out of our lives.
Before I knew it Papi was dressed and Mami was crossing each one of us, solemnly, like we were heading off to war. We said, in turn, Bendición, Mami, and she poked us in our five cardinal spots while saying, Que Dios te bendiga.
This was how we began all our trips, the words that followed me every time I left the house.
None of us said anything else until we were in Papi’s Volkswagen van. Brand new, lime green, bought to impress. Oh, we were impressed, considering we couldn’t afford no VW van, used or new, but me, each time I got in that VW and Papi went above twenty miles an hour, I vomited. I’d never had trouble with cars before, and that van was like my curse. Mami suspected it was the upholstery. In her mind, American things—appliances, mouthwash, funny-looking upholstery—all seemed to have an intrinsic badness. Papi was careful about taking me anywhere in the VW, but when he did, like that night, I had to ride up front in Mami’s usual seat so I could throw up out a window.
You okay? Mami asked over my shoulder as Papi got us onto the turnpike. She had her hand on the small of my neck. One thing about Mami, even when she was nervous, her palms never sweated.
I’m okay, I said, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I definitely didn’t want to trade glances with Papi. He had this one look, furious and sharp, that always left me feeling bruised.
Toma. Mami handed me four mentas. She had thrown a few out her window at the beginning of our trip, an offering to Eshú; the rest were for me. Mami considered these candies a cure-all for any disorder.
I took one and sucked it slowly, my tongue knocking it up against my teeth. As always, it helped. We passed Newark Airport without any incident. If Madai had been awake she would have cried because the planes flew so close to the cars.
How’s he feeling? Papi asked.
Fine, I said. I glanced back at Rafa and he pretended like he didn’t see me.
That was the way he was, both at school and at home. When I was in trouble, he didn’t know me. Madai was solidly asleep, but even with her face all wrinkled up and drooling she looked cute.
I turned around and concentrated on the candy. Papi even started to joke that we might not have to scrub the van out tonight. He was beginning to loosen up, not checking his watch too much. Maybe he was thinking about that Puerto Rican woman or maybe he was just happy that we were all together. I could never tell. At the toll, he was feeling positive enough to actually get out of the van and search around under the basket for dropped coins. It was something he had once done to amuse Madai, but now it was habit. Cars behind us honked their horns and I slid down in my seat. Rafa didn’t care; he just grinned back at the other cars. His actual job was to make sure no cops were coming. Mami shook Madai awake, and as soon as she saw Papi stooping for a couple of quarters she let out this screech of delight that almost took the top of my head off.
That was the end of the good times. Just outside the Washington Bridge, I started feeling woozy. The smell of the upholstery got all up inside my head and I found myself with a mouthful of saliva. Mami’s hand tensed on my shoulder and when I caught Papi’s eye, he was like, No way. Don’t do it.
The first time I got sick in the van Papi was taking me to the library. Rafa was with us and he couldn’t believe I threw up. I was famous for my steel-lined stomach. A third-world childhood could give you that. Papi was worried enough that just as quick as Rafa could drop the books off we were on our way home. Mami fixed me one of her honey-and-onion concoctions and that made my stomach feel better. A week later we tried the library again, and on this go-around I couldn’t get the window open in time. When Papi got me home, he went and cleaned out the van himself, an expression of asco on his face. This was a big deal, since Papi almost never cleaned anything himself. He came back inside and found me sitting on the couch; I was feeling like hell.
It’s the car, he said to Mami. It’s making him sick.
This time the damage was pretty minimal, nothing Papi couldn’t wash off the door with a blast of the hose. He was pissed, though; he jammed his finger into my cheek, a nice solid thrust. That was the way he was with his punishments: imaginative. Earlier that year I’d written an essay in school called “My Father the Torturer,” but the teacher made me write a new one. She thought I was kidding.
We drove the rest of the way to the Bronx in silence. We only stopped once, so I could brush my teeth. Mami had brought along my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste and while every car known to man sped by us she stood outside with me so I wouldn’t feel alone.
Tío Miguel was about seven feet tall and had his hair combed up and out, into a demi-’fro. He gave me and Rafa big spleen-crushing hugs and then kissed Mami and finally ended up with Madai on his shoulder. The last time I’d seen Tío was at the airport, his first day in the United States. I remembered how he hadn’t seemed all that troubled to be in another country.
He looked down at me. Carajo, Yunior, you look horrible!
He threw up, my brother explained.
I pushed Rafa. Thanks a lot, ass-face.
Hey, he said. Tío asked.
Tío clapped a bricklayer’s hand on my shoulder. Everybody gets sick sometimes, he said. You should have seen me on the plane over here. Dios mio! He rolled his small Asian-looking eyes for emphasis. I thought we were all going to die.
Everybody could tell he was lying. I smiled like he was making me feel better.
Do you want me to get you a drink? Tío asked. We got beer and rum.
Miguel, Mami said. He’s young.
Young? Back in Santo Domingo, he’d be getting laid by now.
Mami thinned her lips, which took some doing.
Well, it’s true, Tío said.
So, Mami, I said, when do I get to go visit the D.R.?
That’s enough, Yunior.
It’s the only pussy you’ll ever get, Rafa said to me in English.
Not counting your girlfriend, of course.
Rafa smiled. He had to give me that one.
Papi came in from parking the van. He and Miguel gave each other the sort of handshakes that would have turned my fingers into Wonder bread.
Long time, compa’i, Tío said.
Compa’i, ¿como va todo?
Tía came out then, with an apron on and maybe the longest Lee Press-On Nails I’ve ever seen in my life. There was this one guru guy I’d seen in the Guinness Book of World Records who had longer nails, but I tell you, it was close. She gave everybody kisses, told me and Rafa how guapo we were—Rafa, of course, believed her—told Madai how bella she was, but when she got to Papi, she froze a little, like maybe she’d seen a wasp on the tip of his nose, but then she kissed him all the same. Just a peck really.
Look at that, Rafa whispered to me in English.
Mami told us to join the other kids in the living room. Tío said, Wait a minute, I want to show you the apartment. I was glad Tía said, Hold on, because from what I’d seen so far, the place had been furnished in Contemporary Dominican Tacky. The less I saw, the better. I mean, I liked plastic sofa covers but damn, Tío and Tía had taken it to another level. They had a disco ball hanging in the living room and the type of stucco ceilings that looked like stalactite heaven. The sofas all had golden tassels dangling from their edges. Tía came out of the kitchen with some people I didn’t know and by the time she got done introducing everybody, only Papi and Mami were given the guided tour of the four-room, third-floor apartment. Me and Rafa joined the kids in the living room. Their parents wouldn’t be over until late, but the kids had come over anyway. We were hungry, one of the girls explained, a pastelito in hand. The boy was about three years younger than me but the girl who’d spoken, Leti, was my age. She and another girl were on the sofa together and they were cute as hell.
Leti introduced them: the boy was her brother Wilquins and the other girl was her neighbor Mari. Leti had some serious tetas and I could tell that my brother was going to gun for her. His taste in girls was predictable. He sat down right between Leti and Mari, and by the way they were smiling at him I knew he’d do fine. Neither of the girls gave me more than a cursory one-two, which didn’t bother me. Sure, I liked girls, but I was always too terrified to speak to them unless we were arguing or I was calling them stupidos, which was one of my favorite words that year. I turned to Wilquins and asked him what there was to do around here. Mari, who had the lowest voice I’d ever heard, said, He can’t speak.
What does that mean?
He’s mute.
I looked at Wilquins incredulously. He smiled and nodded, as if he’d won a prize or something.
Does he understand? I asked.
Of course he understands, Rafa said. He’s not dumb.
I could tell Rafa had said that just to score points with the girls. Both of them nodded. Low-voice Mari said, He’s the best student in his grade.
I thought, Not bad for a mute. I sat next to Wilquins. After about two seconds of TV, Wilquins whipped out a bag of dominoes and motioned to me. Did I want to play? Sure. Me and him played Rafa and Leti and we whupped their collective asses twice, which put Rafa in a real bad mood. Leti kept whispering into Rafa’s ear, telling him it was okay.
In the kitchen I could hear my parents slipping into their usual modes. Papi’s voice was loud and argumentative; you didn’t have to be anywhere near him to catch his drift. And Mami, you had to strain your ears to hear her. I went into the kitchen a few times: once so the tíos could show off how much bullshit I’d been able to cram in my head the last few years, another time for a bucket-sized cup of soda. Mami and Tía were frying tostones and the last of the pastelitos. She appeared happier now, and the way her hands worked on our dinner you would think she had a life somewhere else making rare and precious things. She nudged Tía every now and then, shit they must have been doing all their lives. As soon as Mami saw me, though, she gave me the eye. Don’t stay long, that eye said. Don’t piss your old m
an off.
Papi was too busy arguing about Elvis to notice me. Then somebody mentioned Cubans and Papi had plenty to say about them, too.
Maybe I was used to him. His voice—louder than most adults’—didn’t bother me none, though the other kids shifted uneasily in their seats. Wilquins got up to raise the volume on the TV, but Rafa said, I wouldn’t do that. Muteboy had some balls. He did it anyway and then sat down. Wilquins’s pop came into the living room a second later, a bottle of Presidente in hand. That dude must have had Spider-senses or something. Did you raise that? he asked Wilquins, and Wilquins nodded.
Is this your house? Pa Wilquins asked. He looked ready to kick Wilquins’s ass but he lowered the volume instead.
See, Rafa said. You nearly got your ass kicked.
I met the Puerto Rican woman right after Papi had gotten the van. He was taking me on short trips, trying to cure me of my vomiting. It wasn’t really working but I looked forward to our trips, even though at the end of each one I’d be sick. These were the only times me and Papi did anything together. When we were alone he treated me much better, like maybe I was his son or something.
Before each drive Mami always crossed me.
Bendición, Mami, I would say.
She would kiss my forehead. Que Dios te bendiga. And then she would give me a handful of mentas because she wanted me to be okay. Mami didn’t think these excursions would cure me, but the one time she had brought it up to Papi, he had told her to shut up and what did she know about anything anyway?
Me and Papi didn’t talk much. We just drove around our neighborhood. Occasionally he would ask, How is it?
And I would nod, no matter how I felt.
One day I got sick outside of Perth Amboy. Instead of taking me home like he usually did, he went the other way on Industrial Avenue, stopping a few minutes later in front of a light blue house I didn’t recognize. It reminded me of the Easter eggs we colored at school, the ones we threw out the bus windows at other cars.
