Lot Stories

Bryan Washington, 1993-

Book - 2019

Coming of age in his family's Houston restaurant, a mixed-heritage teen navigates bullying, his newly discovered sexual orientation, and the ripple effects of a disadvantaged community.

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Subjects
Genres
Domestic fiction
Published
New York : Riverhead Books 2019.
Language
English
Main Author
Bryan Washington, 1993- (author)
Physical Description
222 pages : illustration ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780525533672
  • Lockwood
  • Alief
  • 610 North, 610 West
  • Shepherd
  • Wayside
  • Bayou
  • Lot
  • South congress
  • Navigation
  • Peggy Park
  • Fannin
  • Waugh
  • Elgin.
Review by New York Times Review

LOT: Stories, by Bryan Washington. (Riverhead, $25.) The subtle, dynamic and flexible stories in this debut collection play out across Houston's sprawling and multiethnic neighborhoods. About half of the stories are about a single family, and in particular about the coming-of-age of a teenager, the son of a black mother and a Latino father. "The promise Washington displays is real and large," our critic Dwight Garner writes. He is "an alert and often comic observer of the world."

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [September 14, 2019]
Review by Booklist Review

Washington's debut short story collection takes place in the Houston neighborhoods surrounding a teenager finding his way as his family leaves him, one by one. His Latino father, whom his Black mother's family warned her not to marry, disappears most of the time, and then all of the time. His brother, in whom he keeps confiding his interest in other boys, despite the beatings, enlists. His sister settles down with a kid of her own. When he and his mother are left to their lot, the restaurant and apartment above it that his parents bought as hopeful newlyweds, it's clear this new normal won't last long either. Stories that don't star him complete his constellation: one, for instance, about a prostitute who doesn't know if he can trust a client's benevolence, or another, told in the collective voice of those who remember the fallout of their neighbors' infidelities. Washington writes scenes to live in and dialogue that's practically audible on the page, giving his standout first book a novelistic arc and a defiantly satisfying ending.--Annie Bostrom Copyright 2019 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Washington debuts with a stellar collection in which he turns his gaze onto Houston, mapping the sprawl of both the city and the relationships within it, especially those between young black and brown boys. About half of the stories share a narrator, whose transition into manhood is complicated by an adulterous and absent father, a hypermasculine brother, a sister who leaves their neighborhood the first chance she gets, and a mother who learns that she and her restaurant may no longer be welcome in a gentrifying Houston. All this is on top of his grappling with the revelation that he might be attracted to men. Washington is exact and empathetic, and the character that emerges is refreshingly unapologetic about his sexuality, even as it creates rifts in his family. In general, there is a vein of queerness in these stories that runs deep and rich. Washington excels when he gets playful with his narration, like the Greek chorus of "Alief," in which the residents of an apartment complex acknowledge their role in an affair and its disastrous ending. And in the best stories, such as "South Congress," "Waugh," and "Elgin," Washington captures the dual severity and tenderness of the world for young people. Washington is a dynamic writer with a sharp eye for character, voice, and setting. This is a remarkable collection from a writer to watch. (Mar.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

A sensitive portrait of life among Houston's struggling working class.At the center of this debut collection is a preternaturally observant, unnamed Afro-Latinx boy who narrates many of the stories. His philandering father eventually abandons the family, while his mother's pain at this betrayal permeates the home even after the father's disappearance. His brother, Javi, is a neighborhood drug dealer who reacts to this dysfunction with mean-spirited aggression against the narrator; his sister, Jan, distances herself from the family. Amid this domestic strife, our narrator begins to discover his sexuality through a string of encounters with other neighborhood boys. This is difficult for the narrator, whose brother is an intensely disapproving and homophobic figure. In the title story, the narrator recounts that "Javi said the only thing worse than a junkie father was a faggot son." When the narrator's sexuality isn't met with disdain, it is mostly obscured in silence, in his family's collective inability to recognize who he is. But we don't get much of a chance to know him, either: Though he is the collection's epicenter, he functions more like a reader stand-in than an actual character, providing us access to his world. The collection ripples outward from his perspective, using story to bring Houston's myriad cultures to life. In "Alief," we're introduced to Aja, a married Jamaican immigrant who begins a torrid affair with a local white boymuch to the chagrin of the Greek chorus-like neighbors. Their nosy disdain sets a tragic denouement in motion. In the collection's centerpiece, "Waugh," a sex worker named Poke and his pimp, Rod, deal with the profession's inherent dangers; rather than painting a portrait of abjection, however, Washington gives us the story of a tightknit community of marginalized people who cling to one another for safety and support. For all of this, however, there's something airy about this book. Despite its aspiration to represent a city, its prose often feels maddeningly abstract. "Elgin" begins this way: "Once, I slept with a boy. Big and black and fuzzy all over. We met the way you meet anyone out in the world and I brought him back to Ma's." This vagueness characterizes many of the stories' voices, such that they are often indistinguishable from one another. The collection sometimes feels more like a collection of modern fables than the hard-nosed, realist stories it wants to be. Still, Washington writes with an assurance that signals the arrival of an important literary voice.A promising, and at times powerful, debut that explores the nuances of race, class, and sexuality with considerable aplomb. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

LOCKWOOD   1.   Roberto was brown and his people lived next door so of course I went over on weekends. They were full Mexican. That made us superior. My father found every opportu- nity to say it, but not to their faces. So Ma took it upon herself to visit most evenings. She still didn't have many friends on the block--we were too dark for the blancos, too Latin for the blacks. But Roberto's mother dug the company. She invited us in. Her husband worked construction, pouring cement into Grand Parkway, and they didn't have any papers so you know how that goes. No one was hiring. She wasn't about to take chances. What she did with her days was look after Roberto. They lived in this shotgun with swollen pipes. It was the house you shook your head at when you drove up the road. Ma brought over yucca and beans from the restau- rant, but then my father saw and asked her who the fuck had paid for it. Javi, Jan, and I watched our parents circle the kitchen, until our father grabbed a bowl of rice and threw it on the tile. He said this was what it felt like to watch your money walk. Maybe now Ma'd think before she shit on her familia. And of course it didn't stop her--if anything, she went more often--but Ma started leaving the meals at home; instead, she brought me and some coffee and tinned crackers. Roberto had this pug nose. He was pimply in all the wrong places. He wore his hair like the whiteboys, and when I asked why that was he called it one less thing to worry about. His fam couldn't afford regular cuts, so whenever they came around the barber clipped off everything. I told him he looked like a rat, like one of the blanquitos biking all over town, and Roberto said that was cool but I was a fat black gorilla. He was fifteen, a few years older than me. He told me about the bus he'd taken straight from Monterrey. His father'd left for Houston first, until he could send for the rest of them too, and when I asked Roberto about Mexico he said everything in Texas tasted like sand. Roberto didn't go to school. He spent all day mumbling English back to his mother's busted TV. Since it was the year of my endless flu, and I didn't exist to Javi anymore-- he'd taken up with the local hoods by then--that meant I spent a fuckton of time next door.  They had this table  and these candles and a mattress in the living room; when Roberto's  father  wasn't  out  breaking  his back,  I  usually found him snoring on it. His mother was always exhausted. Always crying to Ma. Said  it  wasn't  that  this  country  was rougher--everything was just so loose . Ma told her to wait it out. That's just what America did to you. They'd learn to adjust, she'd crack the code, but what she had to do was believe in it. Meanwhile, Roberto and I walked to the corner of Lockwood, where East End collapses and the warehouses begin. We threw rocks at the cars on Woodvale. Tagged drunks on their porches by Sherman. We watched loose gangs of boys smoking kush on Congress, and I saw Javi among them, and he didn't even blink at me. But that night he shook me awake on our bunk, mouthing off about how he'd kill me if I spoke up. He smelled burnt and sour, like a dead thing in the road. I thought about warning Roberto to keep quiet until I remembered he had no one to tell. Once, I asked Roberto if he liked it in Texas. He looked at me forever. Called it another place with a name. Could be worse, I said. You could be back home. Home's wherever you are at the time, said Roberto. You're just talking. That doesn't even mean anything. It would, he said, if you knew you didn't have one. The first time we tugged each other his father was sleeping beside us. They'd cemented the 610 exit and he'd found himself out of work. It was silent except for the flies above us, and Ma on the porch with his mother, promising that they'd figure it out. When Roberto finally gasped I covered his mouth with my free hand. We put our ears to the screen door, but nothing'd changed outside. Just our mothers sobbing, and the snores overlaying them, and the Chevys bumping cumbia in the lot across the way. He'd gotten it all on his jeans, which cracked us both up--they  were  the  one  pair  he  had.  He wasn't  getting another. That night Ma told my father about their situation. She said we should help. We'd been fresh once, too. My father said of course we could spot them a loan, and then they could borrow some dishes from the cupboard. We'd lend them some chairs. The bedroom too. Jan laughed from her corner, and Ma said it wasn't funny, we knew exactly what she meant--we were twisting her words. Gradually,  things  began  to  evaporate  from  Roberto's place. I know because I was there. I watched them walk through the door. His family still didn't have cash for regu- lar meals, Roberto started skipping breakfast and lunch, and this is the part where I should say my family opened their pantry but we didn't do any of that shit at all. But it didn't stop the two of us. We touched in the park on Rusk. By the dumpsters on Lamar. At the pharmacy on Woodleigh and the benches behind it. We tried his parents' mattress, once, when his mother'd stepped out for a cry, and we'd only just finished zipping up when we heard her jiggling open the lock. Eventually, I asked Roberto if maybe this was a bad thing, if maybe his folks were being punished for our sins, and he asked if I was a brujo or a seer or some other shit. I said, Shut the fuck up. But you're sitting here talking about curses, said Roberto. I don't know, I said. Just something. It could be us. Roberto said he didn't know anything about that. He'd never been to church. 2. When they finally disappeared it was overnight and without warning. I only knew it happened because Ma hadn't slapped me awake. I palmed open their door, and the mattress was on the floor, but their lamps and their table and the grocery bags were gone. They took the screws off the doorknobs. The lightbulbs too. All I found were some socks in a bathroom cabinet. My father said we'd all paid witness to a parable: if you didn't stay where you belonged, you got yourself evicted. Ma sighed. Jan nodded. Javi cheesed from ear to ear. He'd just had his first knife fight, owned the scars on his elbows to prove it, and Roberto's family could've moved to the moon for all he cared. The morning before, Roberto'd shown me this crease on my palms. When you folded them a  certain  way,  your hands looked like a star. Some lady  on  the  bus from San Antonio had shown him how, and he'd called her loco then but now he was thinking he'd just missed the point. His parents were out. We huddled in his closet. His shorts sat piled on mine, they were the only pair left in the house. He didn't tell me he was disappearing. He just felt my chin. Rubbed my palms. Then he cupped his hands between us, asked if I'd found the milagro in mine. I couldn't see shit, just the outline of his shadow, but we squeezed our palms together and I called it amazing anyways. Excerpted from Lot: Stories by Bryan Washington All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.