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

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.