McLaren Street Vignettes: Brick
I watched him through the fish-bowl shop window, standing sentry, gatekeeper to a rooming house drug den. I learned his name, shouted from the second floor, “Hey Brick! Come up here a second.” Bouncer-sized, his buzzcut red hair framed a deep brow and shadowed dark eyes. In the spring, his studded black leather jacket covered a Motörhead t-shirt and topped black jeans and Doc Martens. The tear tattoo beside his right eye assured a perimeter of fear.
On the busy corner at Bank Street, Brick was a fixed rock around whom pedestrians flowed. On bright mornings, he leaned back on the south-facing red brick wall, the sun warming his freckled face. As the day wore on, he’d bend his knees and rock, shifting the weight of his hefty frame.
Customers used the pay phones across the street to arrange buys. Then, crossing the street, the furtive, fidgeting addicts, desperate in their obeisance, slowed up in front Brick like petitioners before a judge. Folding his arms and tipping back his shoulders, Brick gave a penetrating once-over. Admitting them with a slight nod, he communicated with grim assurance that any shenanigans would not go unpunished.
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28ba9565-6342-43ec-9b84-f218ac164776_6231x3869.jpeg)