Near the end, they were his best customers. They swapped tamales wrapped in foil for whatever movies were under his sweater. Some mornings he fell asleep to the tune of their laughter, and the murmur of the melodies they hummed under their breaths.
* * *
• • •
Weeks or months later, Poke was dozing on the rail when Rod kicked him awake with the heel of his sneaker.
What Poke did was ignore him. He’d had a long day. He’d started picking up trash in the park, a job that paid less and less every day. The whitegirl who managed them was a brunette with glasses, she only looked a little older than Poke, and she forked over less than half of his pay. When the workers opened their mouths, she’d told them it wasn’t her problem. If they really cared that much, she said, they could get a fucking degree.
Now Poke was tired. He couldn’t even meet Rod’s stare. The rail driver was too caught up with the tracks to care about the strays in the back.
If something happens, Poke thought, better it happen here, with the camera that may or may not be on to record it.
But what happened was nothing. Rod left him alone. As he stepped off the rail, some women in neon dresses replaced him. They wore glasses shaped like numbers, a little tipsy for the evening. They laughed in each other’s arms, and Poke remembered that it was New Year’s.
* * *
• • •
The next night Rod kicked him again.
He nodded at Poke’s bag, flushed open with cans. You got diamonds in there, said Rod.
No, said Poke.
Must be something, said Rod, you’re holding it so tight.
Poke only nodded. Then he got off at the next stop. It wasn’t his usual route, but he hadn’t felt like chatting. He hadn’t felt much like talking as of late, and even after it began to rain he didn’t regret his decision.
Shit had only gotten worse. Poke made even less cash than before. And the whitegirl in glasses only shook her head in reply.
This must be the jackpot, said Rod, leaning over him, and Poke just shrugged.
By the way, said Rod, you from here? Houston?
Poke looked at Rod. Then, quickly, he shook his head.
Too bad, said Rod. I used to stay in Bellaire. Full house. Wood cabinets and everything.
What happened, said Poke.
Who knows, said Rod. Same thing that always happens. Things changed. I had to go.
Rod had slowly inched his way from his perch near the train door. Today he was wearing a jacket, something Poke knew he couldn’t have bought by himself. When Rod caught him staring he squeezed it with a grin.
Zipper’s stuck, he said. Beat it off a meter man.
Doesn’t matter, said Poke. Still works.
You like a pirate or something, said Rod. An urban scavenger?
Or something.
And how’s that working out for you?
It’s working, said Poke, and Rod nodded in agreement.
Fair enough, said Rod. Gotta take what you can get.
They watched the city through their window, flanking the corner of the Medical District. They rode past the churches, up Buffalo Bayou Drive, until they plowed across the Galleria’s sprawl beside the Village. When the doors slid open, neither boy made a motion to move. The conductor eyed them in the back, pulling a cigarette from her purse.
You can keep on, she said, but not for free.
Poke neither moved nor breathed when Rod skipped down to pay for another loop.
They heard the whoosh of the doors as the rail rose again. They kept not speaking as the city glided beneath them.
* * *
• • •
The next time Poke showed up at Emil’s, he brought a bag that he’d stuffed with all of his shit.
Emil didn’t mention it. He extended his hand. He ushered Poke in, showed him where to drop his clothes, and Poke did his best not to think about Rod’s new situation.
Emil explained about the locks in the apartment. He showed Poke how to fold the sheets. Poke learned that the water from Emil’s tap was drinkable, that he didn’t have to boil it or disinfect it or anything, and it was this discovery that nearly sank him, crumpling him into a heap by the cupboard.
In the third week, Poke got comfortable. He found himself sleeping in, until nine, ten, eleven. He’d open his eyes to the depression on the other side of the mattress, blinking at the lamps atop the dresser, and, on occasion, he’d wonder about the guys on Waugh. But that only led to thinking about Rod, so Poke rejected the notion entirely.
Emil worked most days. In the evenings, he returned with dinner. He brought home whole roasted chickens, salmon wrapped in bay leaves, tomatoes ripe to the touch. For the first time in his life, Poke looked forward to food. Rice and beans and fish and curry and pasta and pizza and shrimp chips. Eventually, at Emil’s insistence, he tried a smear of tzatziki from Aladdin’s, and refused to eat anything without it for days.
Emil watched him eat, sometimes talking endlessly. But sometimes he didn’t say a word.
Sometimes he just watched.
Most nights they fucked and then other nights they didn’t. The new life took getting used to, but Poke’d gotten used to things before.
* * *
• • •
He’d been living with Emil for a month when he finally asked for the favor. They were sitting at the table, hunched over a bowl of salad. At this point, they’d woven a routine into the evenings, and Poke felt as much a part of Emil’s life as anything else.
Poke told him he had a friend. Someone who needed a place to crash.
Not for long, he said. Just to get his feet back under him.
Emil chewed slowly. Poke’d grown used to the hair on his face, and the way that his cheeks rounded out around his nose, and the light in his eyes when he sulked. In all of Poke’s time at the brownstone, he hadn’t asked Emil for anything. But, then again, he hadn’t had to. That hadn’t been a problem at all.
Just for a while, Poke said.
A day or two, Poke said. Three max.
Sure, Emil said.
I don’t see why not, Emil said, and Poke felt his calves unclench.
The moisture in the room seemed to evaporate all at once. Poke was aware of the clashing colors on the wall. Emil asked him if he wanted more salad, and he nodded, dully, but giddy all the same.
* * *
• • •
Poke didn’t know where he’d find Rod, exactly, but he had a general idea. He hit the soup kitchens on Dowling, and the servers shook their heads. He checked the churches on West Alabama, and the parishioners turned up their noses.
He checked the shelter on Rusk and the shelter on Main and the shelter on Dallas and the shelter on Dunlavy, and the receptionists told Poke that they’d found him, Rod was here, Poke was just in time, he could come right this way, but, when they showed Poke whom they meant, it was just some starving dude they’d pulled off the corner downtown. Poke thought about checking in with the health center on California, or the one on Branard, or this other one across town, but he decided against all that—help was the last thing Rod was looking for. He had too much hubris. That was the reason Poke was out here searching for him in the first place.
So Poke decided he’d ride the metro until he ran Rod down, because their city may have been big, but their orbits were infinitesimally small. He alternated routes. Switched up his plans. He seldom took a day off, seldom broke for midmorning traffic. Poke thought about reaching out to the boys, plugging Google or Knock for a lead, but he knew exactly how that would go.
About a month after he’d started searching in earnest, Poke saw Rod as he glanced through a window by the warehouse district.
He’d nearly missed him. The metro had stopped at a light and Poke got off. Rod was standing in line outside the soup kitchen, leaning like
a dwarf among giants. He wore an unfamiliar expression, something Poke couldn’t quite put his finger on, and then he realized the look wasn’t new or unfamiliar at all, he’d just never seen it on Rod’s face.
Poke went over and tugged Rod’s sleeve. Rod didn’t turn around.
The line shuffled behind them. Rod’s shoulders sank. For the first time in a long time, the stench made Poke’s skin crawl.
Rod, Poke said, tugging at his sleeve.
Rod, Poke said, nudging his elbow.
John, Poke said, and this time Rod flinched, and he glanced Poke’s way, and he did not smile.
Poke waited for Rod to pull his meal from the kitchen. They found a cluster of stone bricks a block from the building. Men huddled on the lumps of moldy sofas around them, donning blankets and scarves and jackets.
Poke looked away. He wore khakis and a cardigan. For the very first time, he thought he really might have moved on.
He watched Rod eat in silence. They stared at the warehouses painted with graffiti.
You got fatter, Rod said, once the sky began to dim. Not that it’s the worst thing. You could argue that fatter’s good. Fat shows upward mobility. Fat means progress. Growth.
Poke watched Rod chew. He pulled at his sleeves.
How long you been out here, Poke said.
Long enough, Rod said. There was a coup, although I guess you already knew that.
Poke blinked, blushing.
For the first time since Poke’d found him, Rod smiled.
They caught me on a bad day, he said.
And you let them? Poke said.
I didn’t let anyone do shit, Rod said. I beat their asses. Then I bounced.
A handful of black dudes in snapbacks walked between them, grumbling. Rod and Poke ignored them.
They took everything, Rod said. All the money. All my clothes. They took my shit and they locked me out. Rod flicked his fingers across his nose. But enough about me. I must be boring you. Don’t ask me how I know, but it looks like you’ve found yourself a sugar daddy.
I want you to come with me, Poke said.
Of course you do, Rod said. You came all the way down here to save me.
Fuck you, Poke said. Emil said he’s fine with taking you in.
Jesusfuckingchrist, Rod said, you’ve moved in. He’s got you calling him by his fucking name. Here I was thinking you’d started your own crew. Running the streets. Paving your way. Never thought you’d turned bitch.
Rod, Poke said.
Full bitch.
I’m trying to help you.
And who’s Emil anyways, Rod said. The dust bunny? Terrible fuck.
Poke stood and looked at Rod. Poke jammed his hands in his pockets, flexing his fingers, unforming fists.
He allowed himself to think that his friend looked a little pitiful.
Look at me, Poke said.
Rod didn’t.
And then he did.
I’m not going with you, Rod said. I’m not going anywhere. Call it a favor.
Because let’s say I steal your thunder, he said. Let’s say your plug takes me in. Then what? We both just live with him forever? I mean, imagine I decide to get comfortable. Let’s say he asks me to leave. You think I’m just supposed to go? You really think I’d let that happen? You think I’d just leave that shit in peace?
It was something that Poke had considered, Rod’s coming in and disrupting everything. Of course it was a possibility. But Poke hadn’t allowed himself to linger on it.
No, Rod said. I appreciate your concern. But I’m fine right here. I’ll figure something out. And besides, you had your fucking chance. If you wanted to help, you should’ve stuck around.
Poke stared at the buildings in front of them, and then at the bodies and the trash and the litter. The homeless picked from one another’s bundles. A handful smoked cigarettes. Some sat off by themselves, lecturing invisible audiences, and Poke gave them one last glance before he spat between Rod’s eyes.
Rod didn’t move.
He just took it, smiling.
Poke walked the other way. He turned around to look at his friend. He ran a hand over his face and then he got the fuck out of there.
* * *
• • •
A couple times a week, Poke used Emil’s card and caught a Lyft to the warehouse district. Some days he posted up just across the road. He found a spot beyond the dumpsters, or the fences shielding Clinton, or the shacks stacked west of Hamilton and the feeder beneath the highway. Other days, he crossed the boulevard, staking out a position just beyond view. Far enough to hide but close enough to see.
The days Poke found Rod, he observed him. He lingered. Rod didn’t look any worse. He’d become part of the scenery.
Some days, he looked like the Rod who’d taken Poke in. Shining with a stride. The captain of his space.
Most days he did not. Most days he just looked lost.
But Poke watched him regardless. Rod stared as if he were waiting for something. This thing he’d been cheated out of, his end of the deal. And Poke never closed the distance, he never called Rod’s name, but he kept coming, and watching, and waiting, for something.
Then one day Poke caught a ride in the afternoon. It’d rained softly all morning. There’d been an accident on the bridge, and a mist settled between the alleys, and Poke’s Lyft settled at the light before the intersection, and when he finally looked up he saw that Rod wasn’t under the bridge.
He was nowhere to be found.
So Poke checked the city’s shelters.
He checked the kitchens and the clinics.
He asked the squatters and the day workers and the addicts he passed on the road. Poke rode through East End and Midtown and Downtown and Montrose for weeks and weeks, scanning alleys and corners and shacks.
He looked for a long time.
ELGIN
1.
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. He saw the candles by the stairs and the lighters on the counter and the boxes in the kitchen and the cans lining the tile, and when he asked if I was coming or going I said this was just how some people lived.
East End in the evening is a bottle of noise, with the strays scaling the fences and the viejos garbling on porches, and their wives talking shit in their kitchens on Wayland, sucking up all the air, swallowing everyone’s voices whole, bubbling under the bass booming halfway down Dowling. But with the blancos moving in the whole block’s a little quieter now. You’ve got these dinnertime voices leaking in through the windows. You hear dishes clinking just like in the commercials. It all feels impossible to me, this shit no one I know could afford, but Ma called it cyclical. She said you have things and then you don’t.
It’s why she had to get out of town, back to Shreveport with the rest of her people. She swore that Harvey was a sign. Just one more thing that went wrong. The water blew away our porch, swept away all of the gravel and most of the cars, and we didn’t even get the worst of it. We could walk our roads a few days later. Jan’s neighborhood sat underwater for a week. But whenever I brought up Ma’s logic, to tell her things would come back around, she told me niggas don’t get to choose.
So she left me in Houston with the house and its new silence.
I fill it with sucios and güeros and hondureños.
And the chinos living down Preston.
And the Nigerians holed up on Cullen.
We both know it’s happening, but she won’t say shit about it since Ma’s man is gone and her daughter could care less and her other son’s in the ground.
At some point, niggas have to take what they can get. Ma used to say that too.
* * *
• • •
When the boy finally comes, it’s like he
’s been shot.
Afterwards, we deflate. Roll to opposite ends.
I tell him not to get too comfortable. Niggas swear they didn’t know they couldn’t stay if you don’t tell them. They’ll think they can stay if you don’t make it clear they can’t. Or they’ll scurry out in the morning on Very Important Business: they’ve got The Job or The Bills or The Deal. The Novia. Every now and again someone actually brings up a baby or a girlfriend.
Once, I fucked this whiteboy whose papi owns like half the city. He told me to come back to Galveston with him, that all I’d ever have to do is clean and screw.
Once, I fucked this poblano from Guerrero. He was looking for his brother, their coyote had dumped them, and now he was just biding his time in Houston, waiting.
Mostly that’s how it goes. A half-story, and they’re out. I don’t know what happens to these people or where the hell they end up afterwards.
So with this one, I smile. Roll a hand through his hair. He’s got these scars flaking up his neck like a sure thing gone wrong.
When I ask where they came from, he hums me away.
I lost a scrap, he says.
You mean you got your fucking head cut.
Whatever, he says, and then he’s humming again, and then he’s scratching my ear like he cares after all.
2.
We had a few months left in the house when Ma started talking about Louisiana.
We weren’t as broke as some of these niggas but we stayed on the edge. Ma lived off soup. I ate at the job. Used to catch the bus at five to work this breakfast gig on Navigation, but after a half-life of flipping tortillas I scored another one out in Montrose. It’s this restaurant called the Castillo. I wait tables for Houston’s glitterati. I give them something to laugh at over flautas and mezcal.
Ma spent most days indoors. Confined her drifting to the porch and the yard. So when she brought up packing her life in some boxes, and pushing those boxes out of Houston, I told her she wasn’t serious, she wouldn’t last two minutes on the road.
Lot Page 14
