{"id":104400,"date":"2016-11-01T15:16:25","date_gmt":"2016-11-01T19:16:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=104400"},"modified":"2016-11-01T15:16:25","modified_gmt":"2016-11-01T19:16:25","slug":"killing-dirks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/11\/01\/killing-dirks\/","title":{"rendered":"Killing Dirk\u2019s"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

Photo: Houston Streetwise<\/p><\/div>\n

Since I moved to Louisiana, every few months I\u2019ve met someone who\u2019s spent time in Montrose. It\u2019s this trendy suburb in Houston, the kind the South\u2019s accused of lacking, and the folks who bring it up are usually bemoaning the neighborhood\u2019s changes. They\u2019re always white. Always a stone\u2019s throw away from rich. Rocking flannel and Converse, or a leather jacket and boots, or a floral-print skirt just this side of tattered. One guy, a tattooed teacher, told me he missed the block\u2019s grit: Montrose used to be this place where you never knew who\u2019d beat the shit out of you. Now the notion\u2019s less plausible, which really is a shame, or at least that\u2019s what this guy said. That\u2019s usually how those conversations go.<\/p>\n

But every now and again somebody brings up Dirk\u2019s. It was this coffee shop on the corner, one that\u2019s been closed for a minute. But it felt like the neighborhood\u2019s nexus, the thesis of the place, and its phantom still hangs between West Main Street and Branard.\u00a0<\/p>\n

The interior was plain. Just some benches and a register. And the same six baristas slunk around smoking cigarettes. They\u2019d yawn at the counter, slumped, skin grinning through the holes in their shirts, routinely disappearing for some air, or some pot, or to swap words around on the banner facing the boulevard. \u201cOf course we\u2019re open,\u201d it might say, if Dirk\u2019s was obviously closed. \u201cSame same same same same\u201d was another regular. \u201cStop drinking\u201d made an appearance, right after \u201cCurrently out of stock,\u201d and once, hungover, biking back from wherever, I looked up to find a simple admonishment: \u201cDon\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

I found Dirk\u2019s on my bike. I didn\u2019t own a fucking car. And you have to drive in Houston\u2014everything\u2019s thirty minutes away. But I\u2019d been living in the Third Ward, this historically black community up the road, for a few years, and also I was broke, which meant I went everywhere on two wheels. So I\u2019d fill a water bottle, pack a worn-out copy of Gary Soto, and push myself down Elgin until the skyscrapers started to shrink.<\/p>\n

Except I may as well have ridden to Shangri-La. Dirk\u2019s regulars were foreign to me. I knew Country Black Folks and Suburbanites. No one told me about gays. No one told me about the skinheads sipping espresso by the window, or the crew-cut women conducting book club in the back, or the blind violinist tuning up by the door.<\/p>\n

I needed to figure them out. I spent whole days in those booths. Read the same poem over and over (\u201cHow strange that we can begin at any time\u201d), but mostly I sat and I watched. A couple years later, the rest of the block would catch up with itself, its high-rises would stretch even higher and some bike-shares would erupt beneath them; and a sheen settled onto the road, and the neighborhood haunts began to crumble, and it\u2019d leave me, on more than one occasion, perturbed, just strung out on the curb; but no one knows what will drive them away until it finally does. So I kept my eyes open. I posted up at Dirk\u2019s.<\/p>\n

I was waiting for a Turning Point. This felt like the place it\u2019d happen. And one day I was just sitting there when a black dude sat right across from me. He was middle-aged, and bearded, with a stoop that implied he worked with his hands, and he told me he was an artist, and he invited me to this show.<\/p>\n

I followed him to a gallery. We stalled in front of the paintings. They were shitty, if I\u2019m honest, but it was the Profound Experience I\u2019d been waiting for. He offered to buy me coffee, and I was broke, so I let him do that, and then we sat down and we looked at our hands and he told me he thought we should probably stick together.<\/p>\n

He said there weren\u2019t that many of us. I didn\u2019t know what the hell that meant. Or rather, I did, but I couldn\u2019t acknowledge it then. It felt like I\u2019d grazed a black hole, like I\u2019d steered too close to the sun, and when he got up for refills I stood up and I was gone.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

But that\u2019s not the story I tell when people ask me about Dirk\u2019s. We all have our places that exist beyond space and time. And a year or two after the afternoon I stumbled into it, the baristas posted a sign that said they were closing forever.<\/p>\n

Eventually the building came down. Realtors started to linger. For whatever cosmic reason, the banner stayed up a little longer. The property\u2019s since given way to a burger joint, and a smoothie shack after that. At the moment, it\u2019s nothing. If you blinked you\u2019d never know it was there.<\/p>\n

Bryan Washington divides his time between Houston and New Orleans. He is working on a collection of short stories.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Since I moved to Louisiana, every few months I\u2019ve met someone who\u2019s spent time in Montrose. It\u2019s this trendy suburb in Houston, the kind the South\u2019s accused of lacking, and the folks who bring it up are usually bemoaning the neighborhood\u2019s changes. They\u2019re always white. Always a stone\u2019s throw away from rich. Rocking flannel and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1069,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4393],"tags":[35,25485,12511,5853,15220,25484,6699,25483,25482,19248,25481,14128,17303,6661,1179,514,6205,1166,7258],"class_list":["post-104400","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-first-person","tag-art","tag-branard-street","tag-city-life","tag-coffee","tag-coffee-shops","tag-dirks","tag-gentrification","tag-gentrifiers","tag-hipsters","tag-houston","tag-montrose","tag-neighborhoods","tag-race","tag-racism","tag-real-estate","tag-suburbia","tag-suburbs","tag-texas","tag-the-south"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nKilling Dirk\u2019s<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Bryan Washington on Montrose, his gentrifying neighborhood in Houston.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/11\/01\/killing-dirks\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Killing Dirk\u2019s by Bryan Washington\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"November 1, 2016 \u2013 Since I moved to Louisiana, every few months I\u2019ve met someone who\u2019s spent time in Montrose. 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