Page 52 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

MAKE YOURSELF DECENT, JAYBIRD

Nolan

It’s weird sometimes, the pervasive idea that you can do anything. Be anything.

Can you, though? Most careers require a little thing called talent to get started.

Check. We’ve got that.

Then, there’s potential. Sure, we’re swimming in it, the way our viewer and subscriber numbers keep beautifully rising.

But leaving aside skill and opportunity, the hard reality is that you can do anything, but you can’t keep doing it if your “anything” isn’t making enough money.

Emerson and I are horseshoe close. The dice roll we made on a fun, flirty food-judging show where we also offer food-shopping tips is nipping at the heels of success.

But the show needs to take off really fucking soon because I’m running out of time to pay the piper.

I walk home from the coffee shop that evening, my legs eat up the sidewalk, and my mind flashes frenetically forward three months to that date—the looming day when an unexpected debt comes due.

Surprise! The joke was on me, and now the thought of my dirty little secret IOU is making me walk faster and driving me to work harder on the show all the time.

If I don’t, I’ll have to fight the millions of foodie wannabes for a job as a line cook. Maybe a sous chef if I’m lucky.

I shudder. Restaurant life is not for me. Been there, done that, have the scars from it. Not to mention it’s fuck-all hard to afford your own place on the pay—last time I worked that gig, I had three roommates in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment with bad plumbing.

As the chichi Pacific Heights neighborhood comes into view, I cycle through possible next steps to skyrocket How to Eat a Banana into the stratosphere.

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.”

Narrowing my eyes, I wag a finger at my taller, broader, younger bro. “You worship the ground I walk on, and this is your offering,” I counter.

In a blur worthy of a cheetah going for a Serengeti kill, Jason steps forward, whips off my glasses, then wraps his hands around my head.

Fucker cages me into an MMA move in less than three seconds.

“Say it. I know the peppers were just coincidental, Jaybird ,” he says, and holy fuck.

He’s stronger than I thought. I seem to have forgotten my five years on him mean jack shit to his gridiron-hardened muscles.

But I am stubborn-er.

“They were on purpose. A gift to me,” I mutter.

He breaks out the big guns, rubbing his knuckles against my skull, and that’s not fair. “No noogies,” I protest.

“Noogies till you admit the truth.”

I won’t, I won’t, I won’t . I try to wriggle out of his chokehold, but hey, I guess the San Francisco Hawks knew what they were doing when they locked him up. His hands are vises.

No choice but to throw in the towel. “The peppers were accidental. You didn’t get them for me,” I grumble.

Jason relents, letting go, then patting my shoulders and smoothing my vintage Roxy Music shirt. “I see we agree at last,” he says, then grabs my glasses and hands them to me.

I slide them back on with a huff. “Then we can agree that I’ll cook up these accidental peppers all by my lonesome then.”

He growls for a good long while. “Fine, I got you those peppers since you love them. Also, you’re really fucking good at making them. So, can you, you know, get cooking?” He eyes the skillet on the stove, pasting on a please cook for me grin, and I don’t feel like a schlub anymore.

“Course I will,” I say, then clap his back. “Want some chicken too? I found a new kale and chicken recipe that will make you salivate.”

He nods. “Pretty please.”

Personal chef I am and happy to do it. He’s let me crash here for almost a month, no questions asked.

Though, the brother code dictates I can’t let on that I like being his cook.

Must give him shit. “Knew you loved me bunches,” I say, then while he takes off to shower, I whip up dinner, sautéing the chicken and the kale.

A little later, with wet hair from the shower this time, he pads back into the kitchen as the veggies sizzle. “What have you been up to today?” he asks as he yanks open the fridge and grabs a bubbly water.

“I found a cool new contest to enter.”

“Is it for the hottest YouTube stars?”

“Ha.” I roll my eyes because sure, I made that list, and it did give us a boost for a bit. It also gave my friends and family endless fodder to tease me. Fair game, I suppose. “I only wish those paid well. If they did, I’d clean up.”

He cracks open the can and takes a sip. “So, what’s the contest?”

“You pair up with other top creators,” I say and give him the details. “So now, I’m just trying to decide who to reach out to. There’s The Burger Boys, Pizza Paulie, Drive-Thru Babe... oh, and the Wine Dude. He’s hilarious with his wine and food pairings for idiots.”

Jason’s blue eyes spark, and he sets down his drink on the counter and snaps his fingers. “I have the perfect duo for you.”

“You do? Who?” I ask, a little surprised since I don’t think he spends his free time chilling with online videos unless they’re of the game film variety or feature new yoga poses for football flexibility.

“I met these adorable grandmas at a signing the other week. They are so freaking cute. You’re going to love them. Dot and Bette’s Home-Cooked Meals .”

“Oh yeah! I’ve heard of them. They started a few months ago and shot all the way up, but I haven’t checked them out yet since their style is so different.

” I toss him a side-eye glare as I turn down the heat, then slide the peppers into a bowl.

“But what the hell? I can’t believe you watched another food show. ”

“Another? You assume I watch yours,” he deadpans.

I heave a sigh. “Why do I root for you?”

“Because I’m awesome, and I’m also your favorite brother,” he points out.

“Participation trophy for you too, Jaybird,” I say, but truth be told, this guy has done more for me than any brother should.

Hell, I could say the same for my dad. The men in my family are all the way awesome, and I’d just like to live up to one-tenth of who they are.

Maybe I will if I can get the hell off the damn cusp.

I sprinkle some salt and pepper on the green yummies, then put the bowl on the counter. “Let’s check out some Dot and Bette while we eat,” I say, plating his dinner next, then cueing up the ladies on the tablet and crunching into a fantastic pepper.

The screen fills with the welcoming faces of two sixty-something women. One is Black, one is white, and both wear gingham dresses.

“Well, hello there, y’all. I’m Dot. And I don’t believe in the gospel of butter, olive oil, or too much fat. I worship at the altar of healthy-ish meals,” the white woman says in a big Texas accent.

The Black woman goes next, her voice pure Georgia charm. “And I’m Bette, and you can bet your bottom dollar we’ll teach you every dang thing we know about how to substitute applesauce in chocolate chip cookies without a single soul but your priest knowing.”

Holy shit.

They are sassy and on the same wavelength when it comes to healthy eating. They’re like your favorite feisty grandmas.

“They’re good,” I say after a few videos and a few more of the life-sustaining peppers.

“They also love me ,” Jason says, setting down his fork, then pointing to their recent episode.

I groan, but it’s a proud groan when I click on that one.

And what do you know? Dot and Bette are both sporting my brother’s Hawks jersey—signed by the dude who threw footballs to me in the backyard. I was his favorite target growing up, and that still makes me proud.

“So, we are super excited because we met Jason McKay last week, and yes, hold your horses, friends, he signed my jersey,” Dot says and turns around to show off a number fourteen.

“And to think I signed a T-shirt in a burger shop today,” I mutter. But these ladies? A few short months on the site, and they’ve already shot past us in viewership. They’re YouTube darlings, getting love from the site and from sponsors. They’d be ideal partners.

Jason nudges me with his elbow. “Tell them you’re my bro. I bet they’d love to partner with you,” he says, then finishes his dinner.

This kid, he’s smart. I send Dot and Bette an email asking if they want to collaborate.

In the morning, there’s a reply for me, and I can’t decide if I’m thrilled or terrified to open it.