sorry for the little delay, I've completely lost track of what day it is. Not written a word this week either, whoops 😬
Masen
I go to sleep with four hundred and eleven followers on Instagram and wake up with just shy of eight thousand. There's shock—a rub of my eyes to make sure it's real—and then, overwhelmingly, a sense of relief. It soothes the pain of the last few weeks where I've felt ashamed about the lack of interest in my accounts, the dismal view counts, the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I open up Instagram or TikTok and don't see any progress. And, although it doesn't completely douse the burning hole in my wallet from the things I've had to stock up on, it offers a little sliver of hope that maybe I can make this a thing. And maybe I'm not a complete failure, either.
It's all thanks to Veggiella. Bella. Sharing one of my posts to her followers. And somehow, despite my extensive recon of her accounts, I completely missed her name. It suits her all the way down to her pastel toenails, because even her feet are in keeping with her Instagram aesthetic. It's almost sickening.
But I appreciate it.
I can't help myself. I send her a DM with a screenshot of my follower count.
Masen: This is insane. Thank you. :praying hands:
It's early on the East Coast, and I know she's in LA so I don't expect her to reply for sometime, but she does, ten minutes later. When my eyes have closed and my face is back buried in my pillow. I crack an eye open and roll over, stretching as I go before propping myself up to read her reply.
Bella: once upon a time I only had a few hundred followers myself. You deserve it. I'm envious of your content, everything looks amazing (even the meat but shh, don't tell anyone I said that)
I can't help the way a number of innuendos flit across my mind, a smile tugging at my lips.
I almost type one out.
You like my meat?
I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing myself to get a grip as my dick stirs, staring intently up at the ceiling until I can think of something other than this girl tasting my… meat, making that little humming sound—
Just like that, my cell vibrates against my chest.
Bella: just out of curiosity, what's your background?
I highly doubt she's asking me for my life's history, so I keep my reply simple, and food-related only.
Masen: culinary school, then I interned at a restaurant called Gilbertine for a year, under a chef named Gordy Ruez. Got a permanent position for another year...
I hesitate, then decide there's no harm in spilling my woes and being honest, especially if it means she'll help me grow, or even just give me advice. I think about how I crumbled last week, and out of desperation watched three videos in a row on YouTube all to do with 'growing your social media following'. The conclusion I came to was that it's mostly down to fucking luck, or shady tactics—buying followers, following and unfollowing. Whatever I am though, it's not someone who resorts to faking it.
And maybe this is my luck—Bella.
Masen: I got let go at the beginning of November so I'm still looking for another opening. This keeps me busy in the meantime, I guess
Bella: I'm so sorry to hear that. I mean, I know it's only Instagram and TiKTok, but you come across as talented and passionate. I hope something comes up for you soon.
Masen: thanks, I appreciate that. Keep your fingers crossed for me?
Bella: I sure will ? ﾟﾏﾻ
I can hear Emmett moving around in the kitchen, the sound of the microwave as he heats up his standard cup of coffee in his mug with Queen Elizabeth on it. He whistles tunelessly, but it's more upbeat than normal. A side effect of Rose; she's a cool girl, but something tells me she's gonna break his heart with the way she's wrapped around it so fast.
Feeling emboldened, high on the feeling of possibility, and seeing all the notifications still coming through on my cell, I ask Bella a question too.
Masen: isn't it 4 AM on the West Coast? What are you doing up?
Bella: haven't you heard? The early bird catches the worm.
Masen: better be a fucking good worm to be up that early
Bella: haha. Maybe it is. We'll see.
Masen: Good luck with your worm :)
She doesn't respond after that, and I immediately regret sending my last message. Good luck with your worm? Smooth, Masen. Either way, I ignore the pang of embarrassment and I do something I haven't done in weeks. I get myself out of bed and into the shower before noon.
Emmett mocks me as soon as he sees me come into the kitchen, running a towel through damp hair. I drape it over one of the kitchen bar stools, so old there are holes in the pleather seat and you can see the yellow stuffing on the inside.
"Well, well, well. The Dark Lord rises."
"It's a good day," I tell him, carving up some sourdough bread I made yesterday and shoving it into the toaster.
"Yeah?" Emmett sounds surprised.
I lean on the counter, turning my cell around and tapping the screen, sliding it over to him waiting with my elation held in a casual façade of nonchalance.
Emmett's spoon pauses halfway to his mouth, milk dripping back into the bowl as his eyebrows raise in astonishment. It makes me laugh loud, bouncing on my feet with glee.
"How the fuck did you do that? Didn't you only have three hundred followers yesterday?"
"Four hundred. And, uh, Veggiella shared one of the videos I did on her stories, so…"
"Wow."
"I know, right?" I grin. "Should I ask her to help you out with the new dog biscuit launch or—Ouch."
I rub my arm where Emmett's just hit it. "I won't take advice from you. You didn't spend—"
"Four years doing a marketing management degree; yeah, yeah, I know."
My toast pops. I move away and smooth butter over it, and then a homemade peach jam. By nine, Emmett's left for work, and the apartment is silent except for the muffled sound of the TV from the neighbor below. I plug in headphones, listening to a varied playlist on Spotify, everything from Royal Blood to Liam Gallagher crooning in my ears as I settle at the kitchen window on the bar stool, typing replies to comments on my TikToks and Instagram posts.
It seems to take forever, but if it helps keep the followers going, I need to do it. Engage.
Plus, some of the comments are interesting… others less so.
Y'all really sleeping on how hot this guy is?
There's a slew of replies in agreement. I ignore them, but I won't lie; it gives me the ego boost I didn't know I was looking for.
Most comments are looking for tips, or asking questions, or requesting things for me to do. I write all of those down in the notebook I've been keeping track of ideas in.
Is there a technique for chopping?
What knife brand do you use?
Where's the best place to go in NYC for ingredients?
This is where the real buzz comes from, I realize, looking at the list with a swell of excitement: new content ideas—not just food recipes, but techniques, and recommendations. I can definitely do that kind of thing too. I stare at my spider-like scrawl on the pages, chewing over my bottom lip as I decide where the hell to start. There's so much I could divulge. So much to share.
A glance at the time and it's only just past ten. The day is young, and as I get up and grab my hoodie and backpack, I think maybe Bella's right. Maybe the early bird does catch that fucking worm.
…
For the first time ever, I head out to one of my favorite local open markets in Brooklyn and I record it, talking into my camera as I walk in weak winter sunshine, past people bundled up in thick coats, scarves and gloves, without even giving me so much as a double take. That's the beauty of NYC—no one really gives a fuck. There are far crazier things going on than talking into your cell phone these days.
The market isn't hugely busy, and I point out some of my favorite produce stalls, panning over crates of fruits and vegetables. Grabbing a few things I need with ideas in mind; white asparagus, rooted ginger.
Soon enough I find myself on the subway, heading into Manhattan, comforted by the rumbling noise of wheels on tracks and the gentle sway of the car. I sit on one of the orange seats, and find myself scrolling through Instagram once again.
Veggiella's the third thing I see, a photo of her dressed in pale green leggings and matching sports bra; at the top of a hill, early morning sun on her face and her arms outstretched, like she's Queen of the fucking world. Despite it being cold here, it warms me up just looking at her. I swipe across and then there's another photo, a closeup of her smiling, makeup free, and really fucking pretty with freckles across the bridge of her nose.
I add one comment to the hundred already on there.
cullenary: happy bird ?
Then there's another email from my dad, sent this morning. It's at the top of my unread inbox, along with the other one he sent days ago that I've left festering there.
My dad doesn't text or use a messenger, he emails about everything. Old school. Like he hasn't moved on from ten years ago, when he and his Blackberry couldn't be separated. I'd watch from the kitchen as Maria, our house keeper, fussed over him and he ignored her, glued to that thing, like always. Maria never took it to heart, but even then, I did. I knew. You should judge people on how they treat people lesser than them, and I judged him hard.
I bite the bullet and finally open the first email he sent. It's just a few lines, and I almost scoff he's left it this late, with a week to go.
Subject: Thanksgiving
11/18/2019 07:34
edward
Masen,
Tanya and I would appreciate your presence for the Thanksgiving weekend. We have some news we'd like to share. Let me know what time you're coming. I can arrange a car to retrieve you from Brooklyn.
He doesn't even bother to sign it off.
And then there's a follow up, laced with annoyance.
Fwd: Thanksgiving
11/22/2019 07:34
edward
If you could acknowledge this, Masen. You can't possibly be that busy if you're unemployed.
I shake my head, as the train slows to a stop, the exchange of people getting on and off making me look up, a blast of cold air as it happens. The car is getting crowded, and when I see the pregnant woman get on, I stand and give her my seat.
Either he's marrying Tanya—who's only nine years older than me—or he's got her pregnant, or both. But I won't be there to find out because I already accepted an invitation from Maria for Thanksgiving. His assumption that I'll be going to see him and Tanya grates, and in return, my reply is both short and snappy.
Subject: Re: Fwd: Thanksgiving
Sorry, I already made plans this year. What's so important? Can it wait?
A notification pops up again, showing me Bella's replied to my comment on her post, just after I get off the train. I stop, people flooding around me in a rush to get up the stairs.
veggiella: very! caught my worm. How about you, chef?
Instead of replying to her comment, I return to our DMs, browsing through the gallery of photos I've taken and sending her one of loads of vegetables stacked in crates.
Masen: I think so.
She likes the image, and the words typing appear.
Bella: You know what would be fun?