This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker.

I'm Deborah Treesman, fiction editor at The New Yorker.

On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Brian Washington read his story,

Waw, from the October 29th, 2018 issue of the magazine.

Washington's first collection of stories, Lott, will be published in March.

He lives in Houston. Now here's Brian Washington.

Wa.

Polk lived in a one-bedroom with five boys in a window. The complex sat on mantrose just across from St. Thomas. They rented it from

a woman who couldn't be bothered with a lease, a regular maintenance, or even a deposit. Rod

had talked her down so that she wouldn't raise the charges on them. Rob was the one who spent

the least time fucking around. He was always outtricking.

Most of them were.

But, on the rare moanings, Polk awoke on the fading carpet of the room,

he could watch crowds in the chapel drifting up the block.

The apartment was next to the Chevron on Richmond and the pharmacy on Yolkham with the diner in between.

And Polk would hover by the window, humming at the sink,

willing to tap into something a little nicer. Usually he was cleaning up from last night's John.

Polk tried to keep things local. It made life easier. Most guys were fine getting jerked off in their

cars, or driving Polk and the other boys a block from the bars on Fairview.

But others insisted that they had to be comfortable, and these were the ones who took Polk home with them.

Although, once, Polk ended up at Memorial Herman.

He had been sucking off some doctor, and the doctor was on call.

...