Brick is live now with 33.5K viewers
Category: Just Chatting
I Do Whatever Chat Tells Me—10k Sub Special
Brick, a basic white guy wearing a tan sweatshirt emblazoned with his own username, is sitting at his desk. He has been streaming for twenty-seven minutes.
“Oh hey, thanks for the raid, KingCoal. Welcome, KingCoal viewers! Welcome to the Brick House.”
Chat
[27:07]—raid let’s go <3 <3 <3
[27:07]—RAID
[27:08]—KingCoal says HIIIII
“If you’re just joining, here’s the deal. I’ve got donations turned on, twenty-dollar minimum, and I have to do anything they tell me. Anything!”
He leans close to the camera. His face blurs.
For a moment the background of the room comes into focus. Behind him, a bookcase made of white cubes, each cube full of artfully arranged memorabilia. To the right: a cream-colored leather sofa, with a stack of rust-red rectangular throw pillows. To the left: a door, closed.
“I am your puppet, chat. I am your puppet!”
[27:22]—WOOOOO
[27:22]—catjam
[27:23]—anything?? Sounds dangerous
Though a bright light is focused on Brick’s face, the rest of the room is dim, lit only by a large neon sign on the wall behind him—the looping glass tubes shaping the letters of Brick’s username. He leans back, pulls the adjustable arm of his Shure SM7B microphone with pop filter and cloud lifter closer to his face.
“Well okay, almost anything. Nothing that violates terms of service, obviously, and nothing that’s going to cost more than like a hundred bucks in one go. Unless you donate a hundo and then, shit, who knows. Feel free to try it and find out.”
He grins, pushes an unruly hank of floppy brown hair out of his eyes. He’s got a boyish energy, always moving in some way, even as he remains seated in his high-backed gaming chair.
[27:37]—I’m broke someone donate for me
[27:38]—Ten month sub, I love you Brick
“All right, let’s see what you monsters are going to make me do next. Mods, send the next one through.”
Text appears in the center of the screen. A robotic voice reads it out in a steady monotone.
Brick holds his water bottle up to the camera. It’s part of his limited-edition merch line, with his name on the side. He pulls an exaggerated face of mock fear, eyes wide, teeth gritted.
“Well, I guess this
one was inevitable.”
He makes a big show of tilting the bottle slightly, flinching, hesitating.
[28:03]—hydro homies
[28:04]—come on
[28:04]—omg do it already
He chuckles, eyes fixed somewhere to the left of the camera. His second monitor, where he can read the chat.
“Okay, fine, fine, here goes.”
He upends the nearly full bottle. Water streams down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead.
[28:11]—omegalul
[28:11]—he looks like cat gettin bath
“Aw, shit.”
Brick jumps up, knocks the camera askew. We see the corner of his desk as he pushes his rainbow-LED optical switch keyboard out of the way and mops up the spilled water with a wadded T-shirt—also from his merch line.
[28:21]—F for Brick’s keyboard
[28:22]—RIP
Brick sits back down, adjusts the camera. He wraps the T-shirt around his damp hair like a towel.
“Crisis averted. It was touch and go for a moment there, but I think the patient will pull through.”
He holds up his keyboard, mimes rocking it like a baby. The robotic voice speaks again, awkwardly sounding out an unpronounceable username.
Brick squints at his second monitor.
“Open my door? There’s nothing that exciting out there, chat, I swear."
[28:50]—door?
[28:51]—lol why
[28:51]—weirdchamp
“But sure, whatever, I’ll open my door for you. Does that sound dirty? I mean, I know you, chat. You can make anything dirty. I’ve seen the fan edits. There’s some real out-of-pocket shit out there. Well, I said I’d do anything, so…”
He bounces up from his seat, gives the camera a double thumbs-up and a salute. His makeshift T-shirt towel falls off. He saunters to the door.
[29:12]—he’s calling us out
[29:12]—Brick, i’ve had a really rough month…your streams are the only thing that makes me feel okay anymore
The camera shifts focus from foreground to background. Brick’s voice is muffled.
“Okay, I’m opening it. Wow, can you see that, chat? So thrilling! A hallway.”
There is indeed a hallway. It is shadowy, indistinct.
[29:24]—hallway reveal!
[29:24]—<3 <3 <4
Brick returns. The camera settles back into focus on his face as he plops into his chair.
“Well, I hope that viewer was satisfied with how they spent their twenty-five dollars. No refunds, boys! Any new viewers, this is the kind of action-packed content that you can depend on here. Hallways for days. Absolute pinnacle of entertainment. Worth a sub, right? Worth a prime, at least.”
The hallway is dark.
Out of focus.
“Aw, hey, AvenueB, thanks for the twenty gifted subs!”
Something moves out there.
[29:50]—I just resubbed for 3 months
[29:51]—wait wtf
[29:51]—what is that?
The thing in the hallway is indistinct, blurry. It’s hard to say at first if it is moving toward us or away.
[29:58]—omg behind you
[29:59]—BRICK look behind you
No, it is moving closer. A shadow. The height of a person. The shape of a person.
“Okay, people are saying to look behind me.”
Brick looks.
“There’s nothing there.”
But we can see it. There, in the doorway. The shape of a head, a neck, shoulders. It is too dark to make out a face.
[30:05]—do you guys see that
[30:05]—yeah there’s someone there
[30:05]—omfg
Brick turns back to us. He laughs.
“Chat, stop fucking with me.”
He glances over at his second monitor, startles. He looks quickly from screen to door and back. “That’s…Okay. Huh.”
[30:18]—is this part of a game or something?
“Chat, it’s just some kind of visual glitch.”
[30:21]—this is freaking me out for real
“There’s nothing there. That’s just on the screen. Maybe it’s a problem
with the software.”
Brick stands up and approaches the door. As he nears it, the figure shifts backward into the hallway.
[30:33]—omg no
[30:33]—NO NO
Brick closes the door, returns to his desk. He looks at the monitor to the left for a long time. He’s more still than he’s been this whole stream, face slack as he types, concentrating on something we can’t see.
[30:49]—he didn’t see it?
[30:50]—brick what was that
Finally, apparently satisfied, he snaps back into character: grinning, animated. He tries to run his hand through his hair, discovers it is still damp.
“Okay, let’s get the next dono up on the screen, see what else you maniacs have in store for me.”
Behind him, the door is opening. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“Mods? Send the next one through.”
[31:19]—forget about donations and look behind you
[31:20]—Brick!!
[31:20]—brick the door the door
Brick laughs.
“Seems like this one came through too late. But sure, okay. Anything for you, my good sir sixtynine420.”
He makes a face, does a big, dramatic turn.
“Nope, nothing
there. Door is closed. All is well.”
On the screen, the door is open. It is clearly open.
[31:47]—what is he talking about?
[31:47]—the door is open!
The figure is framed in the doorway. The shadowy shape of a person.
[31:48]—chat calm down he’s clearly doing a bit
[31:48]—I AM SCARED
Brick turns back to us, grinning, nonchalant.
Abruptly, the neon sign goes out. The ring light that we cannot see—the one behind the camera, pointing at Brick—goes out too.
[31:57]—OMG
[31:57]—brick wtf
The room is plunged into darkness. The focus reels, the camera fuzzing in and out.
[31:59]—is this real?????
Brick’s face is only barely visible now, illuminated by his screen’s bluish glow. His eyes shift to the monitor on the left.
“Okay, what? That’s weird. I swear this stream is so scuffed.”
He looks behind him.
There is something moving in the darkness. A blurred shape. A shadow.
[32:04]—im literally shaking rn
[32:05]—can everyone else see that?
Brick looks back at the
second monitor, frowning.
“The lights are still on, chat. I don’t know why it’s showing up like that on the screen. In real life, in my room, the lights are—”
The shadow moves suddenly. Rushing forward. Reaching.
[32:16]—BRICK
[32:16]—brick! behind you!
[32:16]—oh god
1://
The internet is a graveyard. Full of broken links. Inactive forums. Unloadable images. Ghost traffic from automated processes churning out useless data. The social media profiles of the dead.
Teresa refreshes the page. She refreshes it again. And again.
In the upper-left corner: the same picture of Becks, as always. Wry smile. Bangs askew. Her hand a blur as she reaches up to brush them out of her eyes. At the top of the page, her full name: Rebecca Crenley.
Beneath it, her last post.
May 27 at 1:26 AM
Ah yes the high-pitched squealing of the spinny plate in my broken microwave when I try to heat a mug of water that shit is my JAM
Such a silly post, and yet every word of it is burned into Teresa’s memory now. She’s read it at least once every day for the past year.
Teresa refreshes. The page blinks away and then back, the same as before. Becks’s smile, her last post. No hint of what was going to happen.
On her worst days, Teresa just sits here, refreshing over and over, staring so hard at the picture of Becks she can almost imagine it is moving, almost imagine it is gazing back.
Her therapist says this is an unhealthy coping mechanism, but Teresa can’t bring herself to stop. She is addicted to that infinitesimal moment of hope each time the page reloads. Maybe this time it will be different. Maybe this time something will change.
But it never does. It never will. Becks is gone. She isn’t coming back.
Teresa pushes back from her computer, rolls her desk chair over to the window. The oak tree in neighbor #2’s yard catches the glow of the evening sun, soaring branches painted with orange light.
It’s been almost two months now since Teresa last went outside.
Four months since she went any farther than her own backyard.
Across the alleyway, neighbor #3 is letting out their dog. Squirrels zip along the power lines like an extra current. A V of geese knifes into view overhead. Teresa’s phone dings.
A notification: Brick has just gone live.
Teresa turns away from the real window to the other window, the better window. Through this one she can see not just a few backyards but the whole world. She pulls up Brick’s stream on her laptop, which she’s configured as a second monitor, and starts a screen recording. On her primary monitor, she opens her video editing software, ready in case she wants to make a clip. The “stream starting soon” screen gives way to Brick’s face.
“Hello, boys,” he thunders, grinning into the camera, positively bursting with energy drink exuberance. “Today is a very special day. We did it! We hit thirty thousand subscribers.”
A sharp knock. Teresa jumps, spins around just in time to see her bedroom door creaking open.
“Hey, honey,” her mother says, poking her head around the doorframe. “Am I interrupting?”
Teresa’s parents won't
let her put a lock on her door. She’d been asking since before the accident, but it’s taken on a new importance now. She’s tried to explain that it’s partially for their own good. What if she’s streaming? Do they really want to be suddenly exposed to a bunch of internet strangers? Her mother said she’d just knock first.
Teresa pulls off her headphones. “I guess not.”
“You coming down to dinner tonight?”
This is a formality more than a real question. Her mother’s tone makes it clear that she already knows the answer. Is already disappointed.
“Not tonight,” says Teresa. It has been six days since she last went downstairs.
Her mother pushes the door farther open, steps all the way inside the room. Teresa tenses. She hates that anyone can barge in at any time. She’d feel so much safer with a lock.
“Can you try, honey?” her mom says. “I think it would mean a lot to Jason. He had a tough day at school today.”
Teresa doesn’t answer. She is gritting her teeth. Her anxiety is rising, a faint but persistent hum. She wants her mom to leave. She wants to be alone.
Her mom is wrong, anyway. Jason, her little brother, doesn’t want to see her. She supposes they’d been growing apart for a while, even before the accident, but in the last few weeks he hasn’t spoken a single word to her. If they pass in the hallway, he ignores her, glaring down at the floor. Two days ago, he had a friend over after school. She overheard them in the hallway as they walked by her door. The friend had asked, “Is that your sister’s room?”
Jason’s reply: “I don’t have a sister.”
“Who’s that?” her mom asks, gesturing at Teresa’s computer.
“Brick.”
“Oh. Is he one of your friends?”
Teresa rolls her eyes. “No.”
She’s told her mom who Brick is—the first streamer she ever watched, the one who inspired her to start making her own content. She’s also told her mom the names of the friends she streams with—Ozma, Jolley, Pete45, RnBw, Sparklekitty—and shown her pictures of them, but her mom insists she can’t keep “all those internet people” straight. She doesn’t quite see them as real, Teresa suspects. It’s funny—sometimes they seem more real to Teresa than anyone else.
Her mother leans against
the doorframe. She looks like she is getting comfortable, like she intends to stay and chat. “What’s he doing?” she asks.
Teresa glances back at her desk. Her setup isn’t exactly fancy—an old dusty tower and monitor, plus a laptop beside it. The laptop was a birthday gift from her parents a few months back. She’s pretty sure they were hoping its portability would encourage her to spend more time out of the house. Instead, she’s used it to go further inward.
On the laptop screen, Brick is speaking, though there’s no sound, his voice lost in the headphones sitting on the desk. Teresa reaches over, slams the laptop shut, a little more aggressively than she meant to. “Nothing,” she says.
Her mother looks hurt. She opens her mouth, seems about to protest, then waves her hand, a slight gesture, as if brushing something away. “Well, I’ll make a plate for you then.”
She heads back downstairs. The minute she’s out of sight, Teresa jumps up and closes her door. Not quite a slam. But firmly shut.
She leans against the door, takes a deep breath, feeling a mix of guilt and relief. Her mother means well. She’s just trying to help. But she doesn’t understand.
Teresa needs to be alone. She needs to be in her bedroom, with the door shut. Lately, that’s the only way she feels safe. She can keep everything clean, keep everything under control. Nothing can hurt her and, just as important, she can’t hurt anyone else.
Teresa returns to her desk, reopens the laptop, slips her headphones on. She missed a little of the stream, so hopefully nothing major happened. She hits the record button again.
She is seeing Brick through a screen of course, from a great distance, but he truly does seem more real to her, in a way, than her own mother. More vivid. There is something about him. His energy, his easy laugh.
It’s like he fits into his own skin better than other people fit into theirs. Better than Teresa does, certainly. She’d always felt uneasy in her body, disconnected from it, a reluctant inhabitant.
She pulls up a video she needs to edit on her other monitor, glancing over occasionally at Brick’s stream as she works. In addition to livestreaming, Teresa runs three separate video channels: one for short clips of more popular creators, one for the recorded VODs of her own streams, and one for video essays analyzing streaming trends.
Onstream, Brick dumps a water bottle over his head, wetting his hair. Is that worth cutting out and posting to her clip channel?
His viewers get possessive about his hair. It’s dark brown and goes wavy when it grows out. Many fans were upset when he cut it about a month ago. Teresa had seen “in memoriam” fan art, ...
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