Bryan Washington Reads “Gatekeeping”

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1:31This is The Writer's Voice, new fiction from The New Yorker. I'm Deborah Treisman, fiction editor at The New Yorker. On this episode of The Writer's Voice, we'll hear Brian Washington read his story, Gatekeeping, which appears in the July 20, 2026 issue of the magazine. A winner of the International Dylan Thomas Prize and the Young Lions Fiction Award, among others, Washington is the author of four books of fiction, including Memorial, Family Meal, and Palaver, which won the LA Times Book Prize in 2025. Now here's Brian Washington.

2:13Gatekeeping My passengers are old, but rarely see now. Still very much themselves. The black dude I wheeled toward his flight to Paris every other Thursday morning wears a patchwork cardigan and a teal silk scarf, regardless of the season, because, he tells me, the airport's temperature is always the same. Bet you keep this bitch freezing on purpose, Carl says. It's out of my hands, I say. Whatever. Carl says. With this wardrobe? I'm giving you predictability. You don't know shit about that? Okay. Believe me. You'll appreciate certainty when you're old, with grandbabies. What the fuck am I talking about?

2:59He adds. You'll never have kids. I just keep pushing Carl along. He's some kind of pianist. I've never heard him play. He insists that escorting him is the only part of my job that matters. When a crowd disembarking a flight from London crosses in front of us, I brake just a little too hard and Carl's coffee spills. He turns to me, furious. But I smile. We're silent the rest of our way to the gate. As a flight attendant assists him down the tunnel, I wave. Carl scowls. Evelyn, the woman I wheeled to her Taipei flight, speaks gently. I don't understand Mandarin. But I still hum at the breaks in her speech, and nod when she glances my way.

3:51She has a sash around her neck, and she asks me to feel its edges. Its pastel corners are thinning. Evelyn presses the fabric against her cheeks. When I drop her off at the gate, a chubby Taiwanese flight attendant asks what we talk about. We have an understanding, I say. Bullshit. He says. I can barely make out her accent. Okay, okay, I say. Then we're kindred spirits. The flight attendant gives me a look. When he takes Evelyn's arm, she's still rubbing the sash between her fingers. Sometimes, I accompany mixed groups. When I walk a lady to her New Orleans flight, she's with two friends. All in Saint's jerseys, sailor caps, thigh-high boots.

4:42laughing, yelling. Other passengers glide around us. The ladies ask me to stop at a sports bar ten minutes from their gate. When I warn them about the time, they insist that the plan will wait. The woman I've been wheeling, Rose, wears gargantuan glasses, three times the size of my own. After one margarita, and then again after her third, she asks if I have a wife. Must, Anne says. Looks like you eat well enough. No, I say. Then a husband? Gladys says. No, I say. Listen, Rose says. Do me a favor. If you want kids, have them now. Or don't have them at all. You'll just be a burden when you're older.

5:31I'm telling you the truth. Preach, Anne says. To God's ears, Gladys says. Then Rose taps me on the shoulder. She asks about my favorite NFL team, and I inform her that I don't have one. Rose runs a finger across the collar of her jersey, cackling, and yells, Me neither. Sometimes I'm the man in the middle. A white couple I'm assisting to their Berlin flight, the husbands in the wheelchair, snipe at each other in hushed voices for our entire walk to the gate. You probably left the stove on, the wife says. The better to burn your son's house down, the husband says. Leave your jacket on the security tray, he adds.

6:19It's a rag. I didn't want you to feel left out, the wife says. Don't bother helping him out of the chair, she adds to me, as I lead him to the metal detector. Give him something to actually do. I smile, nodding. I am a rock and a sponge. When we finally make it to the gate, I pass the husband off to a flight attendant, an Indian twink who throws me a knowing look. But the wife stands beside me. What if I just stay here? She says. It is a question without an answer. And I don't know if she wants one. So I loom beside her in silence, until last call sounds and she sighs and boards the flight. That night, the chubby Taiwanese flight attendant, JT, finally comes to my belly, and I do too.

7:12Then I roll onto my side. We're silent except for the television's drone, and then he chuckles, exhaling. Some women in the hotel room next door are throwing a bachelorette party. I said it's cool to finish inside me, JT says. I don't know, I say. Feels weird. Boyfriend adjacent? Jason? That's not it. Suit yourself, JT says, reaching for his glasses. Both of us tap at our phones. Michael B. Jordan hits a punching bag in front of us, yelling about somebody's legacy. It's because of your face, JT says. That's why they talk to you that way. You think so? I ask. Soft features. Everyone's always touching you, right?

8:02Right. Fat people problems. Happens to me too. It's JT's second night in the hotel. Some kind of flight delay. Which makes this our first back-to-back in months. We've been doing whatever this is for about two years now. The coffee table's covered with mostly unfinished takeout noodles because JT ate only a few bites before deeming them inedible. Now he reaches for his vape and takes a pull. When he offers it to me, I inhale a slower one. Once, JT says, this pilot spent our entire shift talking shit Just punching down I couldn't do anything right When the other attendants tried intervening, that didn't help at all But after we landed, I caught him waiting for me on the bridge To finish you off, I say Right?

8:57You'd think He had this look on his face, like he was so fucking embarrassed Then he puts his hand on my side and asks if I want to get dinner. JT sets a palm on my belly. Our cum's still on it. When I make a face, he rolls his eyes, wiping some of the mess on his stomach too. So, I say, what happened? What do you think? JT says. I told him to go fuck himself. Wrong answer. I say. Yeah? Yeah. Yeah. You could have been a house husband by now. I like working, JT says. That's my problem. Yours too. Then he squeezes my hip, sticking out his tongue. The next morning, JT starts getting ready to leave while I'm still in bed, but eventually I get up and pack my shit alongside him.

9:52In the elevator, he says that if I just came to Taipei, then I wouldn't have to wake up so early. My sister owns a coffee shop below our apartment, he says. We'd walk right downstairs for breakfast, Dan Bing and Luobo Gao. Luobo what? We'll practice that before you get there. I couldn't even find Taiwan on a map, I say. Look for China and poke around, JT says, and snorts, hopping into an airport shuttle. Rest, he says. Aye-aye, I say. So I drive home. My place is 20 minutes from the airport, and my brother's on the sofa because he is always on the sofa. When I lock the door, he yells my name from the living room.

10:40He's playing video games, smoking weed. Two of his friends occupy the cushions around him. They nod at me, and I nod at them, and I ask my brother if he's eaten, and he tells me there's no food. I bought groceries yesterday. I say. But there's no food, my brother says. Right, I'll make sandwiches or something. Word, my brother says, not looking away from the screen. But instead of stepping into the kitchen, I slump toward my room and lock the door behind me. I strip, lie down on the carpet, and spread my arms and legs, fanning. That's something I picked up. My first month on the job, I walked a white woman to her midday Vancouver flight.

11:27Sarah was entirely pleasant, and then she informed me that she had several months left to live. Four or five, she said, smiling. Give or take. Uh, I said. Terminal diagnosis, so be gentle, dear. I'd only just finished orientation. Hadn't seen this situation in the manual. I was silent as I pushed her wheelchair through security, then immigration, before she asked if I could wheel her to the terrace. Once we were outside, Sarah gripped my wrist and stood, then lay down on the cool tile. Then she spread her arms and legs. Slowly, she brushed them along the ground. Want to try? Sarah asked. I did not.

12:16The air was too crisp, but I lay down beside her. fanning slowly until our movements matched, and then our breathing too. Sometimes I do this, Sarah said, to remind myself that I'm still here. I won't be, eventually. And that's okay, because it has to be. But right now, I am. Then she sighed deeply, pushing all the air out of her body. This week, Carl stares ahead in silence for our entire walk to the gate. No quips about passersby, pajamas in the airport grown fucking toddlers, or the shouting from random children, Neanderthals breeding Neanderthals, or the pop music droning overhead, fentanyl.

13:07He's just quiet. When we stop for coffee, Carl's still wordless. He doesn't send his order back, or switch the milk at the last minute, or berate the barista in French. When I ask what's wrong, Carl gives me a long look. Then he clears his throat. I'm going to the hospital, he says. My oldest friend in this world is sick. Tumor in his head. Oh, I say. I'm sorry to - Stop, Carl says. You were doing just fine. Then he looks down at his hands. He and I didn't speak for two years, Carl says, over a woman. Not just her, but you know. He spends one fucking summer in Kanazawa, and all of a sudden she's his wife.

14:00We were 30, 31. I'm their daughter's godfather. Do you know I learned fucking Japanese to speak to this fucking child? The girl's a doctor now, and she doesn't listen to anyone, and she's perfect, and her mom Tom is too, but I wasted two years not speaking to my friend. Carl's silent again, and then he sneezes. I hold out a handkerchief. A whole minute passes before he accepts it. When we reach the gate, I ask for his friend's name. He gives me a long look. So you're a fucking brain surgeon now? He asks. Later, I walk a woman to her Mexico City flight. Her daughter passes her off to me after check-in.

14:48Watch my mother's hands, she warns me. I'll do my best, I say. I'm serious, the daughter says. They wander. The woman, Carolina, asks a question in Spanish, and the daughter replies nada something or other before her phone rings, and she gives me a frown and then she's gone. As I walk Catalina through the airport, she crochets what looks like a ball. Her hands move deftly around a hook. From time to time, she holds the ball up for me to inspect. It is gorgeous, split between bright colors and soft pastels. A toddler chewing pretzels and his sister amble through security beside us. Catalina holds the ball up for them to see.

15:36The TSA agents turn this fear in their hands and ask if she sells them. Carolina just keeps at it, as we pass from gate to gate, until we reach her flight. That's when I see the bar of chocolate in her pocket, and the toddler's pretzels in her tote bag. Three water bottles and a baseball cap are tucked underneath them. Carolina follows my eyes. She sets one finger to her lips, winking as the flight attendant wheels her away. Later, I'm taking a guy named Edwin to his Montego Bay flight. One of my co-workers, Jose, comes along, because he swears he has nothing better to do. But I'm grateful. Edwin speaks in a rapid-fire patois.

16:22Jose nods along, clapping his hands. When we reach Edwin's gate, Jose waves us off. and when the two of us are alone, the old man finally turns to me. Beckons me forward as if he has something to whisper. Then he kisses me on the cheek. I pull away. Edwin just stares, a goofy smile on his face, before he's whisked onto his flight. Afterward, walking through the terminal, Jose asks what happened. When I tell him, he squints. Oh, he says, that's assault. It's fine, I say. Fuck that old fucking bag. They're already airborne, it can't be helped. Jose fumes. Then he cracks a grin, just slightly. He was telling me about his wife, Jose says, and how he couldn't wait to get back to her.

17:20But he was also trying to persuade me to visit him in Jamaica? Said he'd pay for everything? Your type, I say. Fuck you. Jose says. Then he chuckles, shrugging. But I guess you never really know, he says, right? A few nights later, when I tell JT about the incident, he gives me a long look. My brother is closeted, he says. Oh, I say. Yeah, married, with kids, and Taichung. His wife is great, but, you know. We're in JT's hotel room again, lounging in boxers with our legs wrapped around each other. He's got a week off for the first time in a while, and he has declared that he wants to spend it doing absolutely nothing.

18:11So I did something I never do. Called in sick. My manager, a Colombian woman who could be 25 or 52, agreed immediately. Do you think that old fucker knew you were queer? JT asks. Did you know I was queer? I ask. Are you being funny? Okay, okay. Don't insult me like that again. Fine. How did you find out about your brother? JT blinks for a while. Then he sighs. He had a boyfriend. JT says. The dude worked at our post office. They were together for years, but then he broke up with my brother. And then, you know, they both got married to family friends. Hmm, I say. We lie there for a while, the television playing in front of us.

19:07You live with your brother, JT says. I do, I say. He's disabled? No. Then he can't afford his own place? He gambles on his phone, I say. Or something. But he probably makes more money than me. He went to cooking school for a while. What happened? He dropped out. Why? You've got a lot of questions tonight. JT frowns. Look, I say. It's just better for me to be around. For him? JT says. Or for you. You really are a cop. Just due diligence, JT says. And I still need time to recharge. We're not fucking again. That's what she said last week, JT says. So it's a guilt thing with your brother? What makes you say that?

20:09Guilt smells a certain way. He has a panic disorder, I say. What? Yeah. If I leave him, I don't know what'll happen. He's done a lot for me, though. JT gives me a long look. I feel myself swallowing spit. But you know what else smells? I say, leaning toward JT, running my tongue across his chest and making my way down, and I know he has more questions, but when I take his dick into my mouth, there's nothing left to say. A woman I'm walking to her Taipei flight is stopped for a random security check. Her husband, Van, stands beside us. The security officer, a dumpy white guy, asks Lin to hand over her bag for screening.

20:59He asks once, and then again, before over-enunciating a third time. She can't speak English, I say. You think I don't fucking know that? The officer says. He tries again, staring at Lin, until Van turns to me, throws up his hands. Look, I say, this woman's been through security already, there's no problem. That's not up to you, the officer says. He reaches for Lin's bag, tugging. She takes hold of the other end, but when she turns to me, I can only wince and shrug. Then she turns to Van. He nods, just once. His eyes never leave the security officer. So the officer opens her bag and rifles through it.

21:49Shakes his head, extracting photographs. They're old, full of family. The officer flips through them, fingering Polaroids, buildings, children, what looks like a young couple, and a bunch of gatherings. They're fucking pictures, the officer says. Why didn't you just fucking say that? Because she can't speak English, I say. Did I fucking ask you? Are you the one that I'm talking to? You don't have literally anything else to do. The officer glares at me, harder. There's something he wants to say. But the walkie-talkie on his waist buzzes. He reaches for it, grunting as he walks off. Van and I stand in silence.

22:39Then we both turn to Lynn. She watches the officer until he's lost in the crowd and then, resolutely, throws up two middle fingers. It's storming outside when I jog to a Toronto flight's gate. I have been called over to help with the passengers' move, which is rare after someone's already been taken to their gate. The rain casts sheets of water across the terminal's windows. travelers press their noses against the glass. I see the woman in her chair, also her son. When I ask him where their date is, he grins, pantomiming. So I text JT. I know he's working today, busy with a flight back to Taipei, but it's only a few moments before he materializes beside me.

23:27And then the four of us are walking together. The son holds his mother's hand, whispering into her ear. I push the woman along as our group weaves through the crowd. From time to time, he points and she smiles. Sometimes she turns my way, as if she isn't entirely sure why I'm there. Eventually, we make it to the gate, and I ask JT why they even requested me. JT talks to the son in Mandarin. The son looks offended. But then his face softens, and his voice is lighter than I expected. These two didn't, JT says. Her actual son did, from Toronto. Actual son, I say. Oh, I add. Yeah, JT says. He wouldn't have known about the sugar baby, obviously.

24:26The woman watches out the window as planes ascend and descend. Then there's the chime of a gate announcement. The sugar baby nods at me, once, and the woman smiles as they make their way toward the flight. Which leaves JT and me standing beside each other, not really saying anything. We brush shoulders. Neither of us acknowledges it. But we don't move, either. We wait until the plane takes off, lingering a little after it's gone. That night, we're smoking on the roof of JT's hotel. How come you've never brought me to your place? He says. Nothing to see, I say. JT snorts. We're both in tank tops and sweatpants.

25:12I'm borrowing his clothes, which fit me nearly perfectly. There's always something to see, JT says. I could learn more about you. I think you know plenty about me. You could be a father of five. So could you. I wish. Are you even Taiwanese? Fuck you. But I'm serious, I say. I'm an open book. Please, JT says. Really, I say. Ask away. Seeing with my own eyes is better, JT says. Just moments before, we fucked on his bed. After he finished in my mouth, I leaned in for a kiss, and he kissed me back. Afterward, while washing each other in the shower, he told me he'd never done that with anyone else before.

26:06Really? I asked. Fine, JT said. Just one other guy. Not two? Seven. Eighteen? Stop. You're one of the handful, a rare mineral. Now, on the roof, he nudges me. We hear planes taking off into the evening sky, but we can't see them. If you could travel anywhere, I ask, where would you go? I can travel anywhere, JT says. That is the point of my job. Really? JT scratches his ass, and he smiles. Ramallah, he says. Yeah? Yeah. I dated a Palestinian guy for a little while. You? I don't know, I say. It's been a while since I left Houston. Amsterdam? Oaxaca? Osaka? What's in Osaka? If I go, then I'll let you know.

27:13Try Tokyo first, JT says. When you're done being bullied for not speaking Japanese, pit stop at my place. I take a long pull on my cigarette. JT and I make an effort not to turn to each other. The breeze flaps against our shirts, and I press against the railing. Taipei? I ask. Where else? JT says. A quick trip. Or longer. I could get you a ticket. In the bottom of the plane with the bags, I say. I'm serious, JT says. It's a proposal. You're American, right? Regrettably, no visa needed. You can stay for three months, easy peasy. And your passport's up to date? Sure, keep it in my jacket at work, in case I ever actually flip out and decide to go somewhere.

28:08A beat passes between us. JT stretches, showing a bit of belly. When he does it a second time, I reach up his shirt until he hunches over, nearly sending his both toppling over the railing. Proposal, I repeat. Like an idea, JT says. I know what you meant. Proposal sounds better. JT grins, reaching for my dick and squeezing it. I move in to kiss him, but he blows smoke in my face and I gag. That night, my brother calls. JT's snoring, his ankles locked around mine. Hey, he says. I need you to pick up some food. I look at the time. It's half past three. Can't one of your friends do it? I say. They're busy.

29:03And you don't think I am? Can you do it or not? He says. I can hear some kind of television through the phone. Some kind of sportscasting. JT's snoring fills the gaps. He murmurs just a bit, and I wonder if I've woken him. But he only farts. Fine, I say. Good, he says. But after a moment, he adds, You okay? Yes, I say. You sure? Feeling normal? Well, I'm fine. Really? Because you usually text. When you don't, I get word. I'm good. Thanks for your concern. Right, my brother says. When I hang up, I lie there for another moment. I take my time slipping out from JT. He opens his eyes briefly, but he's still sleeping.

30:01And he closes them again, curling back into himself. Once, years back, I was staying with my brother in our parents' house when he got a call. It was winter break. He was home from cooking school, flying in from New York for Christmas, and our parents were out. That evening, our family planned on ordering pizza and re-watching the same movies we'd spent every other Christmas with. My brother answered the phone, then started nodding. His breathing didn't change. But I felt his body shift, just slightly. When he hung up, he turned off the television. He told me that there'd been an accident, but not to panic, because he'd take care of me.

30:48Neither of us moved. My brother hugged me. I didn't know it would be for the last time. It wouldn't happen again at the police station, or when the cops explained about the car accident. or when they asked us to identify the bodies, or at the funeral, or even when my brother announced that he'd be dropping out of the Culinary Institute of America. But it was rare. I knew that, then, at least. So I squeezed him back. I'm wheeling Carl to his Paris flight when he asks me to stop. So I do. Folding his hands in his lap, He asks what love means to me. The airport isn't especially busy. A bunch of military people shuffle through the terminal.

31:38When one of them tips his hat to Carl, the old man only snorts. Call it anthropological curiosity, Carl says. Do you have a lover? I ask. Too many to count, Carl says. Okay. Are you fucking stupid? Do I not seem lovable to you? Okay. Why the fuck else do you think I fly back here every other week? The military crowd dissolves. A gaggle of Dutch flight attendants follows them, rolling suitcases and shepherding children who skip alongside them. Carl takes a sip of his coffee, then shakes his head. The best one died of AIDS, Carl says. You wouldn't know anything about that. I know plenty about, of course you do, Carl says.

32:28Black fag, have to. The two of us are silent for a bit. It's silly, Carl says. People like to say that when loved ones leave you, they're never entirely gone. Their memory lives inside you. And you do think about them. If you're lucky. Remember their faces. What made them laugh. How you spent your time together. But really, that's a selfish thing. Because they are gone. You're the only one who benefits. Carl doesn't say anything after that. But the monitor above us shows that it's time for him to board. So he allows me to push him to the gate. A little later, I'm with Jose, wheeling an old dude to his Venezuela flight.

33:23The man is talking about his new boyfriend in Caracas. His Spanish is brisk. I can only pick up bits and pieces. But what about, the old man asks, holding his hands a sizable distance apart. Ah, Jose says, perfecto, a meal and a treat. It's important, the old dude says. Remember that, the most important. He claps and cackles until we reach the gate, then squeezes my thigh before he's passed off to the boarding staff. Afterward, Jose says, he reminds me of my dad. I thought you were Mexican, I say. I mean aesthetically, Jose says, pendejo. Sorry, sorry. Está bien. How are things with you and JT?