by Junot Díaz
You have no idea what that is. When can I run again?
He gives you a pamphlet. Sometimes it takes a month. Sometimes six months. Sometimes a year. He pauses. Sometimes longer.
That makes you so sad you go home and lie in bed in the dark. You’re afraid. I don’t want to go back down the hole, you tell Elvis. Then don’t, he says. Like a hardhead you keep trying to run but the pain sharpens. Finally, you give up. You put away the shoes. You sleep in. When you see other people hitting the paths, you turn away. You find yourself crying in front of sporting goods stores. Out of nowhere you call the ex, but of course she doesn’t pick up. The fact that she hasn’t changed her number gives you some strange hope, even though you’ve heard she’s dating somebody. Word on the street is that the dude is super good to her.
Elvis encourages you to try yoga, the half-Bikram kind they teach in Central Square. Mad fucking ho’s in there, he says. I’m talking ho’s by the ton. While you’re not exactly feeling the ho’s right now, you don’t want to lose all the conditioning you’ve built up, so you give it a shot. The namaste bullshit you could do without, but you fall into it and soon you’re pulling vinyasas with the best of them. Elvis was certainly right. There are mad ho’s, all with their asses in the air, but none of them catch your eye. One miniature blanquita does try to chat you up. She seems impressed that of all the guys in class you alone never take off your shirt, but you skitter away from her cornpoke grin. What the hell are you going to do with a blanquita?
Bone the shit out of her, Elvis offers.
Bust a nut in her mouth, your boy Darnell seconds.
Give her a chance, Arlenny proposes.
But you don’t do any of it. At the end of the sessions you move away quickly to wipe down your mat and she takes the hint. She doesn’t mess with you again, though sometimes during practice she watches you with longing.
You actually become pretty obsessed with yoga and soon you’re taking your mat with you wherever you go. You no longer have fantasies that the ex will be waiting for you in front of your apartment, though every now and then you still call her and let the phone ring to the in-box.
You finally start work on your eighties apocalypse novel—“finally starting” means you write one paragraph—and in a flush of confidence you start messing with this young morena from the Harvard Law School that you meet at the Enormous Room. She’s half your age, one of those super geniuses who finished undergrad when she was nineteen and is seriously lovely. Elvis and Darnell approve. Aces, they say. Arlenny demurs. She’s really young, no? Yes, she’s really young and you fuck a whole lot and during the act the two of you cling to each other for dear life but afterward you peel away like you’re ashamed of yourselves. Most of the time you suspect she feels sorry for you. She says she likes your mind, but considering that she’s smarter than you, that seems doubtful. What she does appear to like is your body, can’t keep her hands off it. I should get back to ballet, she says while undressing you. Then you’d lose your thick, you note, and she laughs. I know, that’s the dilemma.
It’s all going swell, going marvelous, and then in the middle of a sun salutation you feel a shift in your lower back and pau—it’s like a sudden power failure. You lose all strength, have to lie down. Yes, urges the instructor, rest if you have to. When the class is over you need help from the little whitegirl to rise to your feet. Do you want me to take you somewhere? she asks but you shake your head. The walk back to your apartment is some Bataan-type shit. At the Plough and Stars you fall against a stop sign and call Elvis on your cell.
He arrives in a flash with a hottie in tow. She’s a straight-up Cambridge Cape Verdean. The two of them look like they’ve just been fucking. Who’s that? you ask and he shakes his head. Drags you into emergency care. By the time the doctor appears you’re crabbed over like an old man.
It appears to be a ruptured disc, she announces.
Yay, you say.
You’re in bed for a solid two weeks. Elvis brings you food and sits with you while you eat. He talks about the Cape Verdean girl. She’s got like the perfect pussy, he says. It’s like putting your dick in a hot mango.
You listen for a bit and then you say: Just don’t end up like me.
Elvis grins. Shit, no one could ever end up like you, Yunior. You’re a DR original.
His daughter throws your books onto the floor. You don’t care. Maybe it will encourage her to read, you say.
So now it’s your feet, your back, and your heart. You can’t run, you can’t do yoga. You try riding a bike, thinking you’ll turn into an Armstrong, but it kills your back. So you stick to walking. You do it one hour each morning and one hour each night. There is no rush to the head, no tearing up your lungs, no massive shock to your system, but it’s better than nothing.
A month later the law student leaves you for one of her classmates, tells you that it was great but she has to start being realistic. Translation: I got to stop fucking with old dudes. Later you see her with said classmate on the Yard. He’s even lighter than you but he still looks unquestionably black. He’s also like nine feet tall and put together like an anatomy primer. They are walking hand in hand and she looks so very happy that you try to find the space in your heart not to begrudge her. Two seconds later, security approaches you and asks for ID. The next day a whitekid on a bike throws a can of Diet Coke at you.
Classes start and by then the squares on your abdomen have been reabsorbed, like tiny islands in a rising sea of lard. You scan the incoming junior faculty for a possible, but there’s nothing. You watch a lot of TV. Sometimes Elvis joins you since his wife doesn’t allow him to smoke weed in the house. He’s taken up yoga now, having seen what it did for you. Lots of ho’s, too, he says, grinning. You want not to hate him.
What happened to the Cape Verdean girl?
What Cape Verdean girl? he says dryly.
You make little advances. You start doing pushups and pull-ups and even some of your old yoga moves, but very carefully. You have dinner with a couple of girls. One of them is married and hot for days in the late-thirties Dominican middle-class woman sort of way. You can tell she’s contemplating sleeping with you and the whole time you’re eating your short ribs you feel like you’re on the dock. In Santo Domingo I’d never be able to meet you like this, she says with great generosity. Almost all her conversations start with In Santo Domingo. She’s doing a year at the business school and for how much she gushes about Boston you can tell she misses the DR, would never live anywhere else.
Boston is really racist, you offer by way of orientation.
She looks at you like you’re crazy. Boston isn’t racist, she says. She also scoffs at the idea of racism in Santo Domingo.
So Dominicans love Haitians now?
That’s not about race. She pronounces every syllable. That’s about nationality.
Of course you end up in bed and it ain’t bad except for the fact that she never never comes and she spends a lot of time complaining about her husband. She takes, if you get my meaning, and soon you are squiring her around the city and beyond: to Salem on Halloween and one weekend to the Cape. No one ever pulls you over when you are with her or asks you for ID. Everywhere you two go she shoots fotos but never any of you. She writes her kids postcards while you’re in bed.
At the end of the semester she returns home. My home, not your home, she says tetchily. She’s always trying to prove you’re not Dominican. If I’m not Dominican then no one is, you shoot back, but she laughs at that. Say that in Spanish, she challenges and of course you can’t. Last day you drive her to the airport and there is no crushing Casablanca kiss, just a smile and a little gay-ass hug and her fake breasts push against you like something irrevocable. Write, you tell her, and she says, Por supuesto, and of course neither of you do. You eventually erase her contact info from your phone but not the pictures you took of her in bed while she was naked and asleep, never those.
Year 4
Wedding invitations from the ex-sucias sta
rt to arrive in the mail. You have no idea how to explain this berserkería. What the fuck, you say. You reach out to Arlenny for insight. She turns over the cards. I guess it’s what Oates said: Revenge is living well, without you. Fuck Hall and Oates, Elvis says. These bitches think we’re bitches. They think we’re gonna give a shit about vaina like this. He peers at the invite. Is it me or does every Asian girl on the planet marry a white guy? Is it written on the genes or something?
That year your arms and legs begin to give you trouble, occasionally going numb, flickering in and out like a brownout back on the Island. It is a strange pins-and-needles feeling. What the fuck is this? you wonder. I hope I’m not dying. You’re probably working out too hard, Elvis says. But I’m not really working out at all, you protest. Probably just stress, the nurse at emergency care tells you. You hope so, flexing your hands, worrying. You really do hope so.
March you fly out to the Bay to deliver a lecture, which does not go well; almost no one shows up beyond those who were forced to by their professors. Afterward you head alone to K-town and gorge on kalbi until you’re ready to burst. You drive around for a couple of hours, just to get a feel of the city. You have a couple of friends in town but you don’t call them because you know they’ll only want to talk to you about old times, about the ex. You have a sucia in town too and in the end you call her but when she hears your name she hangs up on your ass.
When you return to Boston the law student is waiting for you in the lobby of your building. You are surprised and excited and a little wary. What’s up?
It’s like bad television. You notice that she has lined up three suitcases in the foyer. And on closer inspection her ridiculously Persian-looking eyes are red from crying, her mascara freshly applied.
I’m pregnant, she says.
At first you don’t register it. You joke: And?
You asshole. She starts crying. It’s probably your stupid fucking kid.
There are surprises and there are surprises and then there is this.
You don’t know what to say or how to act, so you bring her upstairs. You lug up the suitcases despite your back, despite your foot, despite your flickering arms. She says nothing, just hugs her pillow to her Howard sweater. She is a Southern girl with supremely straight posture and when she sits down you feel as if she’s preparing to interview you. After serving her tea you ask: Are you keeping it?
Of course I’m keeping it.
What about Kimathi?
She doesn’t get it. Who?
Your Kenyan. You can’t bring yourself to say boyfriend.
He threw me out. He knows it’s not his. She picks at something on her sweater. I’m going to unpack, OK? You nod and watch her. She is an exceptionally beautiful girl. You think of that old saying Show me a beautiful girl and I’ll show you someone who is tired of fucking her. You doubt you would have ever tired of her, though.
But it could be his, right?
It’s yours, OK? she cries. I know you don’t want it to be yours but it’s yours.
You are surprised at how hollowed out you feel. You don’t know if you should show enthusiasm or support. You run your hand over the thinning stubble on your head.
I need to stay here, she tells you later, after the two of you fumble through an awkward fuck. I have nowhere to go. I can’t go back to my family.
When you tell Elvis the whole story you expect him to flip out, to order you to kick her out. You fear his reaction because you know you don’t have the heart to kick her out.
But Elvis doesn’t flip. He slaps you on the back, beams delightedly. That’s great, cuz.
What do you mean, That’s great?
You’re going to be a father. You’re going to have a son.
A son? What are you talking about? There’s not even proof that it’s mine.
Elvis is not listening. He’s smiling at some inner thought. He checks to make sure the wife is not anywhere in earshot. Remember the last time we went to the DR?
Of course you do. Three years ago. Everybody had a blast except for you. You were in the middle of the great downturn, which meant you spent most of your time alone, floating on your back in the ocean or getting drunk at the bar or walking the beach in the early morning before anybody was up.
What about it?
Well, I got a girl pregnant while we were down there.
Are you fucking kidding me?
He nods.
Pregnant?
He nods again.
Did she have it?
He rummages through his cell phone. Shows you a picture of a perfect little boy with the most Dominican little face you ever done saw.
That’s my son, Elvis says proudly. Elvis Xavier Junior.
Dude, are you fucking serious with this? If your wife finds—
He bridles. She ain’t going to find out.
You sit on it for a bit. You’re posted up behind his house, near Central Square. In summer these blocks are ill with activity but today you can actually hear a jay chivvying some other birds.
Babies are fucking expensive. Elvis punches you in the arm. So just get ready, buster, to be broke as a joke.
Back at the apartment the law student has taken over two of your closets and almost your entire sink and most crucially she has laid claim to the bed. She has put a pillow and a sheet on the couch. For you.
What, am I not allowed to share the bed with you?
I don’t think it’s good for me, she says. It would be too stressful. I don’t want to miscarry.
Hard to argue against that. Your back doesn’t take to the couch at all, so now you wake up in the morning in more pain than ever.
Only a bitch of color comes to Harvard to get pregnant. White women don’t do that. Asian women don’t do that. Only fucking black and Latina women. Why go to all the trouble to get into Harvard just to get knocked up? You could have stayed on the block and done that shit.
This is what you write in your journal. The next day when you return from classes the law student throws the notebook in your face. I fucking hate you, she wails. I hope it’s not yours. I hope it is yours and it’s born retarded.
How can you say that? you demand. How can you say something like that?
She walks to the kitchen and starts to pour herself a shot and you find yourself pulling the bottle out of her hand and pouring its contents into the sink. This is ridiculous, you say. More bad TV.
She doesn’t speak to you again for two whole fucking weeks. You spend as much time as you can either at your office or over at Elvis’s house. Whenever you enter a room she snaps shut her laptop. I’m not fucking snooping, you say. But she waits for you to move on before she returns to typing whatever she was typing.
You can’t throw out your baby’s mom, Elvis reminds you. It would fuck that kid up for life. Plus, it’s bad karma. Just wait till the baby comes. She’ll fucking straighten out.
A month passes, two months pass. You’re afraid to tell anybody else, to share the—what? Good news? Arlenny you know would march right in and boot her ass out on the street. Your back is agony and the numbness in your arms is starting to become pretty steady. In the shower, the only place in the apartment you can be alone, you whisper to yourself: Hell, Netley. We’re in Hell.
*
Later it will all come back to you as a terrible fever dream but at the time it moved so very slowly, felt so very concrete. You take her to her appointments. You help her with the vitamins and shit. You pay for almost everything. She is not speaking to her mother so all she has are two friends who are in the apartment almost as much as you are. They are all part of the Biracial Identity Crisis Support Group and look at you with little warmth. You wait for her to melt, but she keeps her distance. Some days while she is sleeping and you are trying to work you allow yourself the indulgence of wondering what kind of child you will have. Whether it will be a boy or a girl, smart or withdrawn. Like you or like her.
Have you thought up any names? Elvis’s wife asks.
Not yet.
Taína for a girl, she suggests. And Elvis for a boy. She throws a taunting glance at her husband and laughs.
I like my name, Elvis says. I would give it to a boy.
Over my dead body, his wife says. And besides, this oven is closed for business.
At night while you’re trying to sleep you see the glow of her computer through the open door of the bedroom, hear her fingers on the keyboard.
Do you need anything?
I’m fine, thank you.
You come to the door a few times and watch her, wanting to be called in, but she always glares and asks you, What the fuck do you want?
Just checking.
Five month, six month, seventh month. You are in class teaching Intro to Fiction when you get a text from one of her girlfriends saying she has gone into labor, six weeks early. All sorts of terrible fears race around inside of you. You keep trying her cell phone but she doesn’t answer. You call Elvis but he doesn’t answer either, so you drive over to the hospital by yourself.
Are you the father? the woman at the desk asks.
I am, you say diffidently.
You are led around the corridors and finally given some scrubs and told to wash your hands and given instructions where you should stand and warned about the procedure but as soon as you walk into the birthing room the law student shrieks: I don’t want him in here. I don’t want him in here. He’s not the father.
You didn’t think anything could hurt so bad. Her two girlfriends rush at you but you have already exited. You saw her thin ashy legs and the doctor’s back and little else. You’re glad you didn’t see anything more. You would have felt like you’d violated her safety or something. You take off the scrubs; you wait around for a bit and then you realize what you’re doing and finally you drive home.
*
You don’t hear from her but from her girlfriend, the same one who texted you about the labor. I’ll come pick up her bags, OK? When she arrives, she glances around the apartment warily. You’re not going to go psycho on me, are you?
