HOLLYWOOD'S
PROLETARIAT
CONTINUED
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The
intern (usually a college student from the Midwest with
a car their parents had bought them) is motivated by
greed, desire, and the promises of success their employers
make to them.
I
began to notice the thick layer of interns on which Hollywood’s
functionality depended; to run its errands, read its
scripts, answer its phones, clean its toilets, walk its
dogs, take out its trash, and dig through that trash
for the post-it note containing that important phone
number you gave it earlier that day. We were Hollywood’s
Private Proletariat and upward mobility began to feel
impossible. A person needed connections, experience,
and talent. I had none of those things.
Then,
one day something incredible happened. The husband and
wife duo called me into their office and offered me a
job. They wanted me to be their in-house producer. It
finally had happened. I would be paid. I would manage
all the graphics artists, editors, writers and probably
the coffee. I had broken through! Dreams did come true!
On my way home my truck’s engine light turned on
and funny sounds started to punch their way out from under
the hood. I limped my truck into a
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mechanics
shop where Tito explained, in broken English, that I would
need a new engine. I couldn’t believe it. I had
borrowed too much from my parent’s to borrow any
more. My summer lease was up and what little cash I had
left wouldn’t come close to covering a new engine.
I called up my friend Sean and he took me to a bar to
spend what little I had left.
Back
to the guy at the end of the bar… he nodded and
started to spill his sad story, but who gives a shit about
him.
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