by JOSH ALLEN, FORMER ASPIRING INTERN
Being a Hollywood intern is pretty much like being a feudal serf. Except not as much fun. The only thing better than being a Hollywood intern is interviewing to be a Hollywood intern. At the time of my one (and only) Hollywood internship interview, I was very disappointed not to be offered the job. But now I realize that rejection was the kindest thing the universe ever did for me. Although when I think back to that fateful day, I have oh-so-many regrets.
Picture it: summer 2003. The back lot of a major Hollywood studio. I wander around said lot for about twenty minutes in a desperate search for the offices of Bob*, a Disgustingly Old Producer. This is after my messenger bag is rifled through by security officer, one of whom thumbed quizzically through my copy of
Us Weekly. I finally find the building and step inside, where freshly watered plants and half-empty cups of coffee indicate that humans once lived there. So I take a seat on a hard white block of 1960s plastic that masquerades as a couch. Pretty soon, a really tall Hollywood guy emerges from an office. And walks right past me.
"Excuse me?" I say, hoping that Important Tinseltown Man will find it in his heart to bestow just a meager portion of his oh-so-valuable attention on me.
"Hi," Mr. Celebrity says, surprisingly cordial and flashing a winning, cosmetically enhanced smile.
"Um, I'm supposed to have an interview here with Dave*," I manage to mutter before being melted into a puddle by his bright shiny Star Wattage.
"Oh, he's with someone. I'm sure he'll be right out for you," the man says. And then, just as fast as he appeared, he was gone. Gone forever.
So in an attempt to appear cool and in-the-know, I pass the next ten or fifteen minutes by flipping the latest issue of
Premiere magazine. I get through about ten pages before I realize the magazine is upside-down. Soon, two guys emerge from the door right next to the chair I'm sitting in. A leggy blonde follows them out.
"Yeah, so we'll call you," the ugly guy says, and his tone suggests that he'll actually call her.
"Thanks a lot," she says, making sure to give one last flip of the hair before she leaves. She and I share a nice cordial moment.
So I go into the office (which was VERY dimly lit, for some odd reason) and stand around, not exactly knowing what to do at all. The ugly guy, whose name turned out to be Dave*, encouraged me to have a seat and assured me that he and his partner-in-crime, Mike (the shorter, better-looking one) would return shortly. While they are gone, the couch I sit on attempts to eat me. Unlike the marble slab I sat on in the lobby, this couch is made of sticky brown pleather. I start looking around at the wall. It's covered, surprise surprise, in pictures of Disgustingly Old Producer. Disgustingly Old Producer on the set of some big-budget 1950s epic. DOP with Al Pacino (or was it Jack Nicholson?) on the set of some big-budget 1970s crime thriller. DOP walking down Sunset Boulevard with his ex-wife, some pseudo-famous actress. And finally, DOP, old and pockmarked, on the cover of a recent issue of
Variety.
Soon enough, the Two Stooges return, and all is well. I can tell very quickly that Mike has never conducted an interview before, which makes me wonder what
exactly he was doing in here with the blonde. He has no clue what to ask, so he starts off with the regular bullshit (my thoughts will be in italics):
"So you're a student at USC?"
"Yes," I reply.
Says that on my resume. "So you're a theatre major?"
"All day long," I say, trying to be funny but inadvertently letting the scathing sarcasm in my brain slip out of my mouth.
Boy, these questions are tough. Keep 'em comin', cowboy. Then again, Mike did seem really nervous. And as he gazed across the room at me with those big blue eyes, I could tell that he was feeling something he had never felt before. Probably indigestion from lunch.
At this point, Dave takes over the interview. Couldn’t he see the growing connection between me and Mike? Cockblocker. "So tell us why you wanna work for Bob for free."
He's finally stumped me. "Um...well, I've always loved movies, and I do a lot in the theatre, and I've worked at the student television station, and I just wanted a more professional atmosphere."
"Oh, okay. Well, do you know anything about the business, like how a movie gets made?"
"I'm pretty sure I have a beginner's knowledge."
I left my TV on Project Greenlight once while I was vacuuming. Does that count?"So you wanna learn?"
"Sure."
Especially if by “learn,” you mean “be chained to the coffeemaker.”
"Well, let me be plain, Josh. Being an intern here...well, it won't be pleasant. Basically, you'll be doing whatever it is we don't want to do. I mean, we need someone who's willing to bring some dog food up to Bob’s house or walk down to CAA and make deliveries. You know, the things we'd rather not do."
"I see."
Is the dog food for Bob? “Walk to CAA?” I gulped.
“Of course. Parking on Wilshire is IMPOSSIBLE.” With that, Dave and Mike share a quick, knowing laugh. Then Dave immediately clears his throat, now resuming his bad-hair, all-business demeanor. "Then, after a few months of that, we'll probably get you started doing some coverage. Have you ever covered a script before?"
"No."
Unless you’re asking about that time I covered a script in crayon (periwinkle, to be exact). Is that what you mean?"Well, you'll learn how to do that. But for the first few weeks you probably won't enjoy coming in to work."
"That's understandable."
What if I already don't enjoy it? "But if you wanna learn some of the ins and outs of this business, then this is the place to be. If you don't mind doing A LOT of scut work for free."
"Right."
Of course not. Who would mind doing scut work for free? What's that I smell? Oh, right. That's the smell of me not working here.
[meaningless small talk for about twenty minutes]
As I start to doze off, Mike decides it's a good time to wrap up the interview. "Okay, so either way we'll call you," he says. Somehow, I don't get the same sense that he'll actually call me as I did with the blonde. Then again, I don't have blonde hair. Or boobs. Or a hoohah.
"Great. Thanks." I start to get up and freeze. My arm is stuck to the couch. For a moment, the next few years flash before my eyes. Me trying to fit into my Chevy Cavalier with a couch stuck to my arm. Me taking a shower with a couch stuck to my arm. Me in a bar, trying to pick up a girl with a couch stuck to my arm. It is a future too horrible to imagine. After a desperate struggle, a struggle that Mike and Dave watch in horror, I manage to free myself, though I’m pretty sure I’ve left a DNA sample behind.
“It was nice meeting you,” I said, using everything I learned in theatre school to pull off that lie. I’m a really good actor.
“Same here,” says Dave. Unlike me, Dave cannot act. I look at Mike, searching his chiseled face for some glimmer of hope. He can’t meet my gaze. I understand.
"So like I said, we’ll call you,” Dave says, ushering me out of the room with one large sweaty hand. “The last thing we want is someone putting their plans on hold because of us."
"Thanks. That's a relief."
Because rest assured, I would be sitting by the phone.
And sit by the phone I did. I really choose not to bore you with the rest, but suffice it to say that I jetted out of that office faster than you can say "Anbesol." Sadly, Mike never called. Promises, promises.
I remember that afternoon fondly. Of course, there are things that won’t leave my memory: Dave’s acne, the alluring shine of Bob’s liquor cabinet, that leggy blonde...
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if Mike had actually made that phone call. Occasionally, I see Mike’s name attached to the credits of a major motion picture, and for just a moment, I consider what could have been. And I wonder if he’s thinking of me, too. Mike, if you’re out there, and you read this, know that I forgive you. And I hope you find happiness one day. It’s just too bad I won’t be a part of that happiness. But we’ll always have the summer of 2003 and that sticky brown couch.
*Name changed to protect the innocent
RIIIINNNNG!! RIIINNNG!!
Except for where it comes to my family. Man, I love my family. And they love hockey too, just like me! See how they're always in hockey shirts and/or at a game in every single picture I have up on the wall? Yeah, I'm really grateful for this comfortable salary so that I can support them and their hockey habit...
