Iron Gut, Golden Lung Pt. 5

15

Life at Louisiana State revolved around two square miles of lawn decorated with Japanese magnolia. Students meandered red-bricked covered walkways to and from Spanish-style lecture halls. An easily navigable campus, sleepy, sprawled in arrogance along the curve of the Mississippi. The first week of classes had the lawn swarming with residents pushing overfull baskets to their dorms and posing for maudlin photos with their nest-emptied parents.

Jeremiah observed all of this with rule #6 of his Breathing Plan in mind: greatness is the fox who learns to live with dogs. Simply put, a great person will shine no matter his location. His advisor made him a schedule of sophomore year requirements of which only Business Admin and Yoga interested him. He convinced Damarius to enroll in Business as well, both for companionship and the Waver’s benefit. On the first day of class, Jeremiah demanded he explain himself when he tried sitting in the back.

“I don’t wanna sit up front,” Damarius complained.

“Is you scared of the teacher? Quit crying.”

Business began at 7:15 a.m. on Monday and Wednesday. Both days, Damarius fell asleep at his desk, head tilted back and knees apart like he was cradling a watermelon. Jeremiah had to prod him awake. After class he made the Waver apologize to the professor. In his opinion, behaving like an ignorant negro had no longterm benefit. Mornings and evenings, when Jeremiah might find himself dozing off, he would stay awake sketching the people around him. He’d learned the tactic from Jaelin.

Though he preferred to study in his dorm, as part of his resolution to take social obligations more seriously he would meet the Wavers at Middleton Library at five p.m. It was an open secret that years of flooding had turned the basement to a mold jungle. Most students ignored the infections doing a conga line up through the floorboards and down their tracheae, but Jeremiah always covered his nose as he hurried to the third floor.

As a student-athlete, he always had a private room reserved. Before every session, Ariel would arrange their materials into specific spots on the table—textbooks, notebooks, phones, markers, Sharpies, ink pens, highlighters, laptops, blueprints, protein bars, Bluetooth set to Mozart, flash cards, timer, Rubik’s Cubes to keep their beta waves throbbing during breaks. Then he would step back and examine the grid, eyes beady, ticking off boxes on his cerebral rubric with feverish precision that Copernicus himself would have called extra before incrementally adjusting items once more.

Though irritated, Jeremiah considered himself blessed to witness a beautiful mind at work. Ol’ country-ass, Urkel’s-son-looking-ass big-forehead-having-ass genius Ariel.

The Wavers would offer Jeremiah nuts and fruit from their own meal plans, and he’d promise to repay them once he got his stipend, washing down brain food with a gallon of orange juice to prevent even the thought of catching cold. Ariel would share his notes for U.S. History, helping him with concepts in between discussing the Saints’ upcoming season.

On Tuesday that first week, Damarius just had to show them a pic on his phone of a white girl aiming the camera up at her vagina.

“Bitch all up in my DMs,” he said. “Name Ashley. Imma fuck that bitch tonight, nigga.”

Staring into the goose-pimpled skin of Ashley’s reproductive organs, Jeremiah thought up the Eminemish bar In Vacherie I smashed an unabashedly trashy PAWG named Ashley and knew with satisfaction he could pursue a rap career after becoming a sports star. To bring the Waver down a peg, he said to Ariel, “This nigga that excited to fuck a woman.”

Damarius didn’t seem to hear him. “The things I’m gone do to that ass would violate the Geneva Convention. (‘Yeah,’ said Jeremiah.) ‘Cause I got hoes, nigga. I dog a bitch at my mama house. (‘I get it.’) I leave the bitch and go make a sandwich. My mama walk in the room and see the bitch in my bed, freshly fucked. (‘You take so long.’) She can’t say shit.”

“Hmm,” Ariel grunted, nose in a Sociology book.

“Agreed,” said Jeremiah. “You still pick up girls at Walmart?”

Damarius looked indignant. “Hold up—”

“I remember that Michelin-Man-looking-ass female you was spittin’ at in the Frozen Food section. I ain’t say nothing ‘cause I always knew yo’ game was Walmart level.”

Damarius looked like he was having an ice cream headache. “Nigga . . . Yo’ game weak . . . You ain’t . . . The bitch want . . . The bitch looking for . . . Y’see, the bitch want the nigga with the dick . . .” His frustration had Jeremiah grinning. “Man, whatever! Least I hit it.” He changed subjects. “Look what I got.”

From his book bag he produced a fresh copy of the 2015 Bio Sports Media Guide. Jeremiah snatched it from him. “You had actual news and you just wasted all that time?” he snarled before inspecting the book.

Striking tough-guy poses on the cover were the starters, including Zahara, the bittersweet pang of seeing her quickly supplanted with anger to realize the photoshopping douchebag designer made Katie Bourque taller than him. Allowing himself a momentary scowl, he reasoned it made sense from a marketing perspective to push the white girl. He and the Wavers took a selfie with the guide. ‘Grammed it.

J.Lungs its time #TheTalent

“Now,” he told Damarius, “Confucius philosophers in Edo Japan encouraged rich men to take mistresses ‘cause it spread the wealth. So,” he curled a hand around the back of his neck, “you young rich nigga—go do yo’ thang.”