Enter a killer contest?
Nab a new sponsorship?
Pair up with an influencer?
I plan to spend the rest of the evening brainstorming the above like I do most nights. That’s what I’m thinking about as I bound up the steps to a sleek, modern townhome on Jackson Street.
Swinging open the door to my brother’s swank pad, I call out, “Better make yourself decent, Jaybird. Don’t want to have to buy any bleach to wash out my eyes.”
No answer—the house is still. Jason’s probably out for a run, so I toss the keys on the foyer table a decorator picked out for him along with the big-screen TV, the U-shaped couch, and the wet dream of a kitchen. The appliances in this place get me going.
“This is your last warning. You are not alone. You are now in the presence of your older, hotter, smarter brother.”
More silence, so I’ve got the place to myself. But warnings are good, if not essential. The other week, I walked in right as a hookup of his was walking out.
In the kitchen, I settle in with my tablet at the counter, ignoring the temptation of the stove as I check out some other online channels for ad ideas. When I have a list of potential sponsorships, I fire it off to my friend and agent.
Hayes is on it; the dude replies right away with, Speak of the devil. I had some good calls today about your show.
Were you going to keep that intel to yourself? He wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t give him a hard time.
Another quick reply: No, smartass. I didn’t tell you because I’ve been racing to catch my flight to LA to meet peeps on your behalf. I just boarded and this is the first chance I’ve had. But thanks for the vote of confidence. And just so you know, I met with a cattle farmer today, and he wants to peddle manure on your show. I said yes for ya. Cool?
I crack my knuckles and type, That’s why you get the . . . little bucks.
I get a middle-finger emoji, but that’s what I deserve for hiring my buddy as an agent for Em and me, even if the guy is a wunderkind.
Hayes sends one more note: Anyway, I had some good calls. Just talking you up with streaming services and producers. Irons, baby. I’ve got ’em in the fire.
I pump a fist then write back: Very well. I’ll keep you for now.
Next, I toggle over to YouTube and log into our dashboard. And whoa.
Check this out.
There’s a message to all top creators titled Everything’s Better in Pairs! Collab Up! I scan the message to get the gist. The goal is to link similar shows that garner lots of views. You choose a partner, and it’s easy as pie—you recommend each other’s work for a week or so. If YouTube likes what you do, it goes on the home page.
Cha-ching.
This smells like a jackpot, the type of opportunity that could push us over the cusp where we’ve sat for so long. I’ve been living on the motherfucking cusp for so long I’ve got squatter’s rights.
The brink of success is sharp and uncomfortable, but it keeps me hungry. Then again, so does my belly. It’s been eight hours since burger time, so I set down the tablet and amble over to my brother’s fancy-ass Sub-Zero fridge.
I stroke the door and sigh because the brushed steel feels so good. “You’re a babe,” I tell the sexy silver beast before yanking open the door.
I peruse the offerings laid out neatly and orderly. Chicken breast. Tofu. Kale. Quinoa. Broccoli.
Can someone say my brother’s a health nut?
But then again, so am I.
Oh. Look at that. “Shishito peppers. My little bro loves me,” I say, and right as I grab the bowl of fresh green goodies, the front door whooshes open.
“That’s debatable,” a voice calls out.
As Jason saunters in, I shake my head. “There is no debate. These peppers are proof.” I point at the shelf. “You love me more than any other brother.”
“Not much competition when you’re the only person entered. You basically walk away with first place.”
I brandish the veggie as evidence. “You got my fave snack ever. I call that brotherly love. Obviously, you want to keep me around.” I set the bowl on the sleek, black counter as if daring him to argue, but mostly I want to hear him say he enjoys me hanging around at his place.
I feel like a freeloader because I am. Before I returned to San Francisco a couple of months ago, I spent some time in New York, crashing at my friend TJ’s place. Couch surfing is a special skill, but not one I’ve honed by choice.
With a dismissive wave, Jason doesn’t even nibble on the bait. “Nah, those peppers are accidental. The food delivery company must have sent them over by mistake.”