Lot

by Bryan Washington

  When Poke asked Rod about his new name, he never got a straight answer. The dude always dodged him. But one day Google told him: it was because Poke was thicker than the rest of them. All of the other boys wore one another’s clothes, all Supreme and Adidas and Urban Outfitters and Gap, except for Poke, who Rod made solo purchases for.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rod wasn’t their pimp, but you’d be a fool to tell him that. He took rent from the boys. He bought food from H-E-B. He kept the carpet decent. He scrapped with the whiteboys on Yoakum. He made the rounds at all the shelters for handouts, kept roaches from colonizing the kitchen, and, once, after Nacho’d asked who the fuck made him king, Rod broke his thumbs launching him into the wall.

  Poke called a cab to drop them at the Urgent Care on Westheimer. Rod’s thumbs swelled like a pair of pale cucumbers. Nacho had a sprained ankle and three bruised ribs, and he wouldn’t step straight for the rest of the year. But Rod iced Nacho’s ribs. He brought pho from the noodle bar and menudo from the taquería. And although Nacho still called him el pinche pendejo blanco, there was warmth in those words from there on out. Not respect or gratitude. Nothing akin to praise. Just acknowledgment. An acceptance of the way things were.

  It took months for Poke to ask Rod why he’d done that. When Rod answered, it was like he’d been waiting for the question.

  Because one day someone’s gonna kick the shit out of me, he said. They’re gonna beat my fucking ass, and then we’ll see what you do.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rod kept tabs on all his boys, but he kept Poke a little closer. He’d have denied it if you’d asked him, but he felt for the kid—there was something in the way of kinship.

  Poke had no history. He’d hit the streets straight out of the shelter. Rod hadn’t seen him swapping needles on Almeda, or huffing paint in Hyde Park. This made Poke, Rod figured, a true victim of circumstance. So Rod kept Poke in clean socks. And Rod told Poke which cabbies to dodge. And Rod snuck Poke into Minute Maid Park on an off night during the playoffs, a favor from an ex, and they walked from aisle to aisle palming the backs of every seat, mouthing the names of Astros who’d walked the field before them—Biggio, Oswalt, Peña, and Altuve—muttered like saints under their breath.

  One night they sat in Katz’s huddled over a Reuben and a milkshake that Rod insisted on despite the extra dollar. Most Thursdays found the boys on Fairview, waiting for the bars to leak their patrons into the morning. But Rod said he had news. Big news. And Poke’d learned not to sleep on an empty stomach.

  They rarely ate out, and Poke thought maybe he’d come into some money. It was about fucking time. Maybe he’d found them a bigger spot. Poke envisioned wood floors, painted walls, no rodents, but Rod only sighed, and shut his eyes, and told Poke that he was sick; he’d finally caught the bug.

  The two boys eyed each other across the table. Rod with the lighter skin. Poke’s a little darker. Rod with the tapered fade, shaved to the neck, and Poke’s close-cropped, curly at the top. One a little older, the other a little shorter. Both of them brown in the eyes.

  Poke took a long bite from his half of the sandwich. He asked if Rod was sure.

  Sure enough, Rod said. The rapid looked sure. Nurse sounded fucking sure.

  Okay, Poke said. So take another rapid.

  That was the third.

  They glanced at the diner door as it yawned open and a gaggle of drunks stumbled in from the cold. Poke blinked through the men, glancing at their ring fingers, wondering how much he could pull. Then he pinched himself.

  Rod sipped their shake. He didn’t use the straw.

  So find a fourth, Poke said, but his voice was cracking.

  They didn’t know much, but they knew about HIV. They knew the way it hung over Montrose. They took their precautions. And then there was the rule, Rod’s rule—you got sick, you were gone. No questions. No exceptions. Your ass was on the street.

  And yet, Poke thought.

  There was froth all over Rod’s lips, strewn with half-chewed pastrami. Poke flicked the end of the straw against his nose.

  Fuck, Rod said. What’s fucked is I don’t even know who it was. I can’t even tell you who threw that shit to me.

  Poke wanted to say that he’d thrown it to himself—and that’s what didn’t compute. Not with all Rod’s yelling about safety. All the precautions he ran them through. All the grief he gave them. But those words dissolved on Poke’s tongue, and he shook his head instead, and he rubbed the nape of his neck with his palms.

  Poke started to ask Rod who else he’d told, but he already knew the answer. So he asked when Rod planned to tell everyone else.

  Rod took a long sip. He watched the crowd by the window. One of the men laughed, then glanced at their table. He turned away. Then he glanced again.

  When Poke reached for the rest of the Reuben, Rod slapped his hand. Soon, he said. I’ll figure something out.

  * * *

  • • •

  Rod stretched in the parking lot, bending toward the high-rises, and the gleam from the streetlamps made his shadow bloom in the night, and the reek of deli meat mingled with the tinge of gasoline, and Poke tightroped the curb alongside the cars congesting Westheimer. It was late. The roads were stuffed.

  Rod said he was tired. They should start heading back.

  Poke looked at his shoes, kicking at the concrete.

  Sure, he said. But it was still only eleven. They had the whole night ahead of them, and when was the last time they’d taken one off?

  Rod told Poke that was good and fine. But, really, his night was over.

  You’re a big boy, though, Rod said. You go on and do your thing.

  Just, y’know, Rod said, be safe, and he flashed a grin.

  Poke watched Rod saunter away, and then he peeked through the diner’s windows. He felt in his pockets for the space where the thread thinned.

  Which was how he ended up at Emil’s. It was a short walk. The brownstone sat in that patch of grass before the sidewalk dissolved into marsh, littered with bottles and cardboard and dog shit, dampened flyers from the most recent mayoral election. Poke punched the buzzer, and then Emil’s voice crackled and the door unlatched itself.

  Emil was a furry man. Well into his forties. Curly hair, and his accent was stronger than most. He’d told Poke about his home on the first night they fucked, and how he longed for his family, and Poke’d looked at his skin and rubbed Emil’s elbows and tried his best to conjure something in the neighborhood of empathy.

  They had a good thing going. Twice a week, most months. Holidays, too, unless Emil was fasting. But as nice as he was, Emil was still a john, and Poke charged him the going rate, or more, when he could swing it.

  Except when Emil reached for him now, Poke did a weird thing, something beyond the routine: he hugged the man in front of him.

  He did not know he was going to do that until he did it. It was a reaction. An impulse. To what, he didn’t know.

  They stood in the doorway before an audience of fronds, and the strays patrolling the block, and the dim lights shining through adjacent windows. Poke knew if he’d fucked up, if he’d made a miscalculation, he’d be back out on the curb. He’d have just closed an open door.

  But Emil only squeezed him tighter. He told Poke to come in.

  * * *

  • • •

  Early on, Poke had asked the other boys how they’d found Rod. This was after his shelter years, after he’d made it out from under the overpass. Poke spent those first few weeks in the apartment sprawled across the carpet, watching the other boys come and go, and Rod didn’t bitch about it. He said they were glad to have him. He brought greasy sacks from Brothers Tacos, splitting the aluminum evenly across the carpet—but Poke wasn’t a fool. He’d seen the other boys eyeing him. He knew he’d have to contribute. He ju
st wanted to know the stakes.

  Luckily for Poke, everyone had an answer for him. Before Rod, Nacho’d been another orphan junkie working the Latin bars on Washington. He’d lived in Humble with his aunt and some pocho from El Paso, until they caught him with the poppers. Then he needed a new situation.

  He hustled day to day before Rod cut him off at South Beach, snagging Nacho from the lap of some whiteboy by the door. Nacho thought he’d caught a deal—he wasn’t green, he’d done this before—but Rod kept tugging, until the man waved them both away.

  Nacho called Rod a cunt. He’d lost him that evening’s dinner.

  Actually, Rod said, I just saved your punkass.

  Your boy loves beating on Mexicans, he said, nodding toward the man. What you should be doing is thanking me.

  That’s when Rod gave Nacho an offer: Stay with him. Work the hot spots across the strip. Maybe slide him a cut of whatever came his way. And, in return, he’d have a place to stay at night, every night, no exceptions.

  Clubgoers maneuvered around them. Nacho spat on the road.

  He told Rod to go fuck himself.

  But still, Nacho told Poke, it’s hard. You know? Your boy knew the city. He knew who was carrying real money. I hadn’t been downtown too long, so I figured I’d shack up with him for a minute. Cut him loose the next. Maybe case his shit, too. But look. I’m still right the fuck here.

  Scratch and Knock met Rod the same way, just talking on the curb. Google found everyone else through Nacho. Rod brought all his boys back to the apartment, this shitty little walk-up in the toe’s crack of Waugh, and he schooled them on efficiency, showed them how to get more for their time. Some of the boys took to it, but most of them did not.

  There had been others before Poke, but Rod didn’t do second chances. A fight got you the boot. A stray needle did, too. One kid, Daisy, woke up looking like a rash, and this other guy, Mick, thought it’d be smart to try tina. Rod let them both go, because he’d told them what was up, the way he told everyone who stepped through his door.

  Rod’s boys would keep their noses clean. They would keep that shit outside. They would use a fucking condom, or they could pack their shit and bounce. The boys did their best to adhere, for the most part, but occasionally accidents happened, and sometimes rules were overlooked. And, sometimes, Poke found a better way, or a way that was better for him, but if he’d learned anything at all it was that sometimes you kept those things to yourself.

  * * *

  • • •

  Google was flossing his teeth over the sink when Poke made it back to the apartment. He’d woken up late at Emil’s. The blinds had already been drawn. Sunlight fell across Poke on the sofa, cordoned by the fronds tickling the brownstone’s windows.

  Poke’d snuck out of houses before. He knew how to do it. So before he even opened his eyes he knew it would be futile.

  But he tried to anyways. He fished his socks from under the sofa, hooked a sneaker from the kitchen tile, and was scrambling for the other one when he ran into Emil.

  Morning!

  Hi.

  You snore! Emil said. Like a whale!

  Emil stood barefoot, in a plaid button-down and slacks. He held some naan in one hand and Poke’s second shoe in the other.

  Figured I’d let you sleep, Emil said. Give you a few more hours.

  I’ve got a bed at home, Poke said, and Emil just smiled at that.

  Poke said he couldn’t stay for breakfast. He had shit to do. Emil nodded at all of this as if he understood exactly. He told Poke he’d drive him home. When the kid declined, Emil called bullshit. Don’t think anything of it, no one walks in this weather, it’s not the Texan way, ha ha!

  It occurred to Poke, dully, as they drifted past the AutoZone and the BBs and the Disco Kroger, that they hadn’t had sex after all. He’d spent a perfectly chaste night with a stranger for nothing. Which was a first, he was pretty sure. If not for all the boys, then at least for him.

  Emil dropped him off at the walk-up. Poke waved from the stoop. Emil waved back, looking a little sore, and it put Poke’s stomach in a knot, as if he was stepping away from something sure, but of course the fucker was still a john.

  Now, Google’s eyes tracked him across the carpet, from the kitchen to the bathroom to the window and back. Poke washed his face in the sink. What he wanted was a glass of water, but after what had happened to Knock, everyone in the apartment knew not to drink from the tap. It’d put him in bed for a week. Google worked on a bowl of cereal, and didn’t say shit about it, which made Poke feel grateful. In fact, Poke didn’t mind Google at all—the guy had grown up in Bellaire, in a regular situation, but then his people were deported back to Manila and he’d needed to figure something out.

  Long night, Google said, after a while, and Poke nodded.

  You’re the first one back.

  When Poke asked about everyone else, Google only shrugged.

  Knock’s wherever, he said, and Scratch broke his phone. He’s over at Apple. Nacho’s with that girl. The one with the ears. Meteor was slow, except for that one guy with the nose ring.

  And the eyebrows?

  Him.

  Fuck.

  Fuck’s right. You get a cough just looking at him, Google said, and it made Poke think about Rod, and it gave him a slow shudder.

  Sure, Poke said, reaching for some cereal, and almost simultaneously Nacho slammed into the room.

  Hey, bitches, he said, sneering just a little, and he hadn’t even locked the door before Google was cracking the window. Nacho reached in his jeans for a joint, and then he was sealing the paper shut, and the three huddled by the window, inhaling deeply and blowing into the breeze.

  The air felt crisp. A trill from some birds spilled across a rooftop. When the smoke blew back, they waved their hands, straining against the wind, and a handful of women powerwalked just below them. They waved at the boys. The boys waved back.

  They’re living dangerously, Google said, and Nacho hissed, and Poke smoked.

  Where hides our lord god the king? Nacho said, and Google nodded toward the bedroom.

  Poke blinked twice.

  You said everyone was out.

  I said everyone that went out was out. Your boy stayed in. Guess he didn’t feel so hot.

  Something’s always wrong with that nigga, Nacho said. He twiddled the joint with his fingers, sucking the smoke a little harder, but even with a wall between them the words came out under his breath.

  So no one’s checked on him, Poke said.

  Why the fuck would they, Nacho said.

  He’d call if he was dying, Google said, and Nacho just laughed at that, and Poke brushed at his shirt before he slipped into the bedroom.

  The walls were posterless, propless. Peeling at the ceiling. Rod’s comforter smelled like peaches, and Poke found him on the mattress, beneath its lone sheet.

  He lives, Rod said, raising his arms.

  Poke asked how he felt.

  Like a bag of Tic Tacs, Rod said.

  Good news can do that to you, Poke said, and Rod told him that his news was great.

  Poke’d seen sick men under the bridges in Midtown. He’d seen shrunken hands squeezing loose strips of cardboard. Poke knew that everything could and would be fine, until all of a sudden it wasn’t.

  But today Rod still looked like Rod. Maybe even a little more handsome.

  We should find you some treatment, Poke said.

  Of course, Rod said. From the doctor. With my insurance.

  Don’t play dumb, Poke said. You know about the clinics. All the volunteers on Jackson.

  And leave you motherfuckers here to run the ship? Rod said. Sure. Great idea.

  I’m just saying, Poke said. There’s places you can go for free.

  And places I will go, Rod said, but it’s only been a day.

/>   It’s been a day since you found out, Poke said, and he found himself standing. There’s no clock on that shit. Maybe you got it from your first fuck.

  Easy, Rod said.

  Maybe you got it from your ex, Poke said, all up in Rod’s corner, leaning over the mattress, hands choking the comforter, and with a speed that made Poke flinch Rod socked the younger dude in the nose.

  They stared at each other.

  It’d been as simple as flicking a light switch.

  Poke saw himself bashing the motherfucker’s face in, grinding down with his palms. He’d always thought he could do that, if he really had to. But he knew he never would.

  And, Poke thought, at this rate, why would I?

  He hated himself for thinking it.

  He cut Rod off when he opened his mouth.

  Stop, Poke said. I know what you meant. It’s fine.

  It isn’t fine, Rod said.

  No, it’s all right.

  It wasn’t fair.

  Okay, Poke said, but nothing’s fair.

  But, said Rod, and then the door exploded behind them, and Knock and Nacho and Google stumbled into the bedroom.

  Nacho thought you were fucking, said Google. I told him you weren’t.

  Lotta noise, said Nacho. Had to confirm.

  Sounded like a fight to the death, said Knock.

  Of course it did, said Rod.

  And then the four of them stared at Poke, and they squinted, and he smiled.

  Then Poke touched his nose.

  The blood dripped like a leak. It blotted onto his fingers, staining the carpet, seeping into the bottom. Poke rubbed it in with his toes, spreading the liquid thin, and he smiled at the boys.

  Everybody inhaled.

  * * *

  • • •

  Poke fucked around with a number of guys. Some of them were memorable but most of them weren’t. He fucked accountants and nurses and gas-station clerks and students. He fucked a guy who couldn’t finish unless Poke wore a mask, and another who couldn’t finish for anything, not until Poke had spent himself thrice. One time, he left with a woman who’d brought him for her husband, who’d insisted that she stay in the room until they were done.