Lot is a humble glimpse into the lives of the working class, revealing tales of familial trauma, and the forbidden aspects of queer love. Washington leaves nothing to the imagination; highlighting how toxic ideologies of domesticity still runs rampant, and prejudice is everywhere, even in places that appear hidden. Bryan’s stories contain elements which broadly illustrate the politics of race, infidelity, and poverty; intimate monologues nodding off into a weightless symphony.
In an urban community of decay, where daddy’s never coming home, and huffing paint doesn’t pay the bills —it is here we encounter unforgettable characters. Miguel -the crux of our narrator’s spiritual freedom, Benito the “resident queer”, Roberto who’s “pimply in all the wrong places”. Although there are other characters we are introduced to as well, whom simply disappear without a trace. In this sense, Lot is an unapologetic portrayal of abandonment. Bryan Washington presents to the reader a collection of what feels more like first person accounts, rather than fiction; dealing with humility, HIV, sex workers, shit jobs, murder, homophobia, racism, and violent upbringings —revealing that especially in communities under economic despair, individuals are dealing with devastating realities where skin color labels you and being queer remains taboo.
We are granted moments of poetics, which are dispersed throughout Lot like the pig guts at the taqueria where the narrator works. There is the story of Aja, and the white- boy whom she had a short-lived affair with. “We all knew, just like Aja knew, that he had something. In larval form, maybe. Cocooned inside of him.” Bryan speaks of love as something that isn’t allowed to transpire without misunderstandings getting in the way, true love being forbidden, as a farcity that gay men, people of color, and women everywhere endure. Then we come to the chapter titled Fannin, where we hear yet another voice, it’s Jan —the narrator’s sister. “I had an Afghani guy once, his fingers felt like chocolate, for a minute I lived with him in this hotel room on the ninth floor of Zaza…he didn’t know that my brother sucked more dick than the peddlers on Waugh, or that my mother spent whole months crying because of it.” Bryan Washington’s narrator often disappears, lost behind the voices of these Others. The narrator finds himself to be in limbo; as the son of a Latino Father and a tough as nails Woman Of Color. Washington reveals to us the fact that we aren’t always sure who these storytellers are, chapter by chapter, which alludes to the fact that the majority of underserved communities feel just that way. Their stories simply aren’t heard.
As the reader, we are not allowed to know the main narrator by his name, unless it is muttered by one of his lovers, such as Miguel —the boy we really do want him to end up with. By the end of the book, Miguel calls out “Nicholaus…What if you stayed, he said. He reached for my arms on the mattress. Laced his fingers in mine. I could smell me on his breath—or not me. Us.” Is our young protagonist finally ready to love without fear? Fear born from the homophobia in his community, especially from his brothel-owning brother Javi, who stated that “the only thing worse than a junkie was a faggot son.” Eventually Nicholaus steals Miguel’s car and heads past Highway 59, to the ocean in Galveston, only to realize that he is still running, from love itself.
Through Washington’s debut novel, we are presented with scenarios which propel some of us into an unwanted glance back, into our own childhood. But we are at the same time granted a squalid whisper of hope, amidst the grotesque social landscapes we must survive, especially if those of us are people of color, or queer. But how can one navigate a forbidden love? How can one ‘come out’ in a town that is so unforgiving? In the title chapter, we are garnered more of a glimpse into Nicholaus’ own loneliness —the disintegration of his family life, and most profoundly, his day job. “I slice and marinate and unsleeve the meat. Pack it in aluminum. Load the pit, light the fire. The pigs we gut have blue eyes.”
Washington’s characters pose many questions, the main one being – how is it that we might be able to separate ourselves from the tragedies we witness growing up in poverty stricken communities? Our narrator is determined to answer this question, although he is, at the same time, bitter. And rightfully so. Similar to most working class communities, like the ones which our narrator describes to us, the poor rob the poor. This is a book for survivors, social rejects, immigrants, and divorcees. This is a book that everyone needs to read, especially if you’ve never experienced poverty first hand.
Hungry for more on Bryan Washington? Check out our interview with the author on our conversations page.