7. Ryan
RYAN
C alyx stares down at my phone, watching the video Kaylin sent me of the disastrous audition Malcolm attempted last night. His eyes bug out at a certain point, and I lean over to see what he’s seeing. It’s when Malcolm leaned on the wall, copying me.
I can’t watch that part without sweating, so I sit back and wait. Calyx has the volume up loud enough that I can hear what he’s watching anyway. The lean effect is real, and now I know. Not the way I wanted to find out, though.
“Okay, being honest,” Calyx says, “It’s better with you both.”
“Okay, but let me be honest and say the dog is the point.”
“I love the dog.”
“If I give you fifty bucks, can you come up with a handle for this and tell me what hashtags to use if we’re gonna post more of him doing this?”
“If you give me fifty-one dollars, I’ll even give you some advice to make it better.”
“Deal.”
“You should create a competition—like a rivalry. Like he gives a piece of advice, and then you stitch it to a better piece of advice, but you have to be just as sexy. Do you have a cat?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh my god, perfect.”
“Is that your best advice?”
“For a dollar? Yes.”
“I said fifty.”
“Fifty for all the work I still have to do.” He slides the round lollipop he’s been intermittently sucking between his lips and holds it in his cheek. It’s almost obscene to see him like that. He’s like fucking Lolita or something.
“Can you have some ideas for me by this weekend?” I ask, snapping out of it.
“For sure.”
“I’ll run your stitch idea by our other partner, but it makes sense.”
“The algorithm likes a stitch, and the kids love a battle. You’ll be like the financial Kendrick and Drake. I love it already.”
“And then we can do a YouTube, and people will watch it?”
“If you bring the dog.” He sucks the lollipop and removes it from his mouth.
“It’s not his dog. It’s his girlfriend’s.”
“Well, if he’s gotta compete with you , he needs the dog.”
I snort. “Are you saying I’m hotter?”
“ Much hotter.”
“Right. Okay. I gotta run. I need to write some sexy financial takes.”
“See you tomorrow?”
“Yep.” I snatch back my phone and shove it in my pants pocket, then I grab my bag and go.
I hate that I like this idea, but if it works—and I think it might, especially with Calyx’s help, we could make real money.
One month to build a following, two months to monetize—it could happen.
I just hope that after a few videos, Malcolm will loosen up.
Maybe if no one’s watching him film, he can act more like himself.
Because I don’t know who the fuck that guy with the little dog was last night.
For the first time since we were kids, I felt like I had the upper hand. Like he was the one reacting, being knocked back on his heels and reeling. Where was the cocksure asshole who tormented me for years? I mean—I could tell he was in there somewhere, but the malice wasn’t.
Is being around me still hard for him? Because it was nearly impossible for me.
I wasn’t thrilled to see Kaylin there—nothing against her—well, a little bit against her, because she was supposed to be my first girlfriend, not his, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to last. Bailey’s presence saved it like I hoped it might. She made the evening bearable.
If I’m honest with myself, she was probably the one rattling Malcolm. I could almost laugh thinking about it, but laughing and Malcolm rarely go together. Still, he and I used to laugh all the time. I’ve never laughed more with anyone than I once did with him, but those days are long over.
After a shower, I get to work at my desk writing out some short scripts to send over to him to read on camera.
They’re quicker bites of easy to implement financial changes people can make, and per Calyx’s advice, I jot down some possible responses to each point, either elaborating, educating, or offering a quicker, better hack for people with a little more cash to risk.
I also make a list of counterpoints in case conflict is what gets people off.
We’ll have to start testing this content sooner than later. I consider my cat who is lolling as usual with his cheek on the edge of my laptop and his body splayed belly up on the desk.
He’s been with me since I took him in as a stray in Portland my first year there, hiding him in my dorm and annoying my roommate with the litter box.
There is no cat lazier or more malleable than Bud, who—I’m not proud to say—is named after marijuana.
He used to like lying on my chest while I smoked in bed, enjoying the contact high I gave him.
He’s been stuck with catnip since I stopped smoking before grad school.
He seems fine, but I’m convinced I destroyed half his brain.
He’s a big, handsome tuxedo cat with white paws and a sleek black coat that sheds constantly.
I go through so many lint rollers, I have them on subscription shipping. Love the cat, can’t stand the hair.
Once I’ve gotten a few short scripts written, I put them into a Google doc and share it with Bailey and Malcolm.
Bailey immediately enters the document and starts adding, editing, and moving things around. I have no arguments with any of her improvements. Mal’s icon appears at the top of the document, his cursor, too, but he doesn’t change a thing.
When Bailey begins communicating at the bottom of the document, however, there’s a vibe shift.
Malcolm, you’ll need to memorize the lines. No reading off a screen for the real thing.
Malcolm’s pink cursor appears beneath Bailey’s green text. I don’t need a script. I understand the concepts fine. What if I just talk?
Bailey is quick to respond. This is a group effort, and all our contributions need to be attributable.
In pink: So, no ad libbing? At all? Because if you want it to look natural, I don’t talk like this.
Green replies , Practice makes perfect. This isn’t meant to be you. It’s acting. Like a persona.
I don’t want to add to this conversation, but I agree with Malcolm.
He’s gotta feel comfortable in order for this to work.
I stay out of it, though, afraid if I stick up for him or take his side, it’ll look like I’m trying to get back in his good graces, or worse, that I’m still in love with him.
Never mind the fact that I kind of always will be. He doesn’t need to know that.
As horrible and uncomfortable as it is to work with him and re-center him in my daily life, I don’t hate having him there.
Not that I love all the feelings coming back up, but they’re as familiar as my heartbeat, and I can’t help but welcome them back.
The painful twists in my chest. The semi-obsessive thoughts.
The overanalyzes of every word and gesture.
Does he care? Does he not? Is there a future where we don’t hate each other?
I’m not expecting to lie next to him in a bed, snuggled up watching a movie ever again, but one of those golden smiles aimed my way—for me —that wouldn’t suck.
A question pops up in green. You here, Ryan?
My response is in blue. Present.
Green says, Can we get together Saturday evening and try out this content?
I don’t have any concrete plans for the weekend, but now I have to say what needs to be said. — Maybe Mal can film a few on his own and see if they come off more natural.
I can sense pink’s reluctance, but he types, I can work on a few Saturday morning and we can look at them in the evening. Wanna meet here again?
Bailey is fine with that.
Pink asks, Should I use some of the money to buy a ring light and something to hold my phone with?
Now I have to admit to using some of the money too, and I should have asked first. Shit. I type, I spent fifty one today on a content creator to help us with handles and hashtags, and he had a decent idea too, but we can talk about that Saturday.
Green in all caps : FIFTY ONE?
I reply: Look, he’s smart about social media and unless any of you are, I consider it money well spent.
Anyway, pink cuts in, ring light? Phone stand ?
Green: Keep it under fifty.
I write for the record, These are all good investments if this is the route we’re taking.
Green: with a hundred and forty-nine left, we’re stuck with it, so we need to make it work.
I reply, feeling fairly confident. It’s gonna work.
There’s no sign of Kaylin or Stephanie at Malcolm’s apartment Saturday night.
I waited until I saw Bailey go in before I approached the door, not ready or willing to be alone with him.
The awkwardness between us is worse than his cutting remarks, and I have no doubt he’d rather avoid it, too, the same way he’s avoided me in the office all week like we’re not working on a team together.
I don’t know where the hell he goes for lunch—I never see him in the break room anymore, and in the intern meetings, he’s always hyper-focused on his phone or Georgie.
It’s chilly this evening, even in my sweater.
The concrete stairs shake slightly beneath my feet as I walk up to Malcolm’s door.
I really dislike his apartment. It’s not like I think I have the greatest living situation in San Francisco, but at least the place I share with Deacon has character.
It’s in an older building of renovated townhomes, spliced into smaller apartments, but it has the classic San Francisco bay windows and warm wood flooring.
There’s even a fireplace. It’s small and crowded with my roommate’s workout equipment, but it’s not half as depressing as this.
This looks like stripped down corporate housing with its gray walls and cut-out windows.
The kitchen has a fluorescent light for fuck’s sake.
Okaying the ring light was a no brainer .
“I feel like we should make popcorn to watch the show,” Bailey says once I’m inside, and we’re seated on the couch.
“Not necessary. It’s five minutes’ worth at best,” Malcolm tells her as he approaches the sofa with his phone in hand.