How awesome is being an intern for The Stranger? Put it this way: yesterday I made two trips to Tacos Guaymas. And I had pizza for lunch.
That’s right, folks, it’s officially started. No more Where’s Wetzler? the travel blog (though I never really went anywhere, unless you count Bainbridge). Say hello instead to Where’s Wetzler?: Chronicles of an Unpaid Intern. I know most of you wake up in the mornings with what feels like a boll weevil gnawing into your inner ear but is actually just the same inner dialogue you’ve been having over and over. “Jesus,” you say, “What the hell would it be like to be an unpaid intern for The Stranger? I mean seriously, what the hell would it be like?” So here I am to put you all at ease. Wetzler the good Samaritan. And we’re off:
Yesterday was my first day on the job and only my third time ever in the The Stranger building and every time I’ve gone in I’ve gotten the feeling that the receptionist thinks I’m vaguely homeless. Yesterday was no different. I showed up wearing corduroy pants, an old “St. Olaf” t-shirt, a hooded sweatshirt, and one running shoe. I hadn’t shaved in a few days and I also hadn’t showered. They say you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, not the job you have. So what job does that mean I want. Vagrant? I guess you can’t really blame the guy.
Anyway, upon seeing me he started to reach for something behind the desk. I leaned over the counter to see what it was and saw a flashing button clearly marked “Security.” I tried to diffuse the situation.
“Hi, I’m Mark. I’m the new intern,” I said, smiling to show I had a full set of teeth.
Ahh, homeless people tell the funniest lies, he thought. “Have a seat, Mark. Someone will be with you in a bit.”
I sat down and looked at the posters on the walls—covers from old issues—and eventually the guy who hired me showed up and whisked me past the receptionist, hand still next to the intercom, and into bowels of the newspaper. We walked past cubicles and conference rooms and offices and watercoolers and vending machines and copy machines and fax machines. Then we scaled stairs and made our way into the brains of the operation: the top floor. There were the head honchos, all whirring away at their desks: the head of design sitting behind a computer monitor the size of a cookie sheet; a sophisticated woman in black leather boots that looked me up and down the way someone does before saying the words, “You’re despicable,” but then cordially welcomed me to the office.
Alright, I thought. The new intern. Making the rounds. Getting acquainted.
We walked back downstairs past the advertising department, down a long, narrow hallway and more stairs before bursting out onto the floor below. The writing floor.
Yes! I thought. This is where the magic happens! Creative juices flowing so thick they need to hire a special woman certified in handling cerebral cortex fluid just to get the floors mopped each day! This is where I’m supposed to be! I’ll be pumping out feature articles in no time!
Thirty minutes later I was on my way to Tacos Guaymas, getting lunch for some of the very people I had just met. Chicken and pork “super burritos” with little containers of salsa on the side.
I’ll get to the feature articles in the afternoon, I said to myself.
When I got back, though, things were in disarray. Apparently a woman had received a beef burrito in error (”She wanted veggie. She goes in there every day. They’re supposed to know this”) and Could I go back? So off I went again, on my second trip to Tacos Guaymas, this time to haggle with the poor lady at the counter over a sorry-looking beef burrito in a plastic bag that I now held in my hand. Oh, and could I get a bottle of Diet Coke, too?
Whatever, though, I thought, It’s good to get out of the office (I’d been there for an hour and a half) and besides, this is probably what they do with all interns on their first day. It’s probably just some sort of ritualistic hazing process. By the end of the day we’ll all be standing around the water cooler wearing party hats and drinking mimosas and slapping each other on the back.
“Oh my God, we got you good!” they’ll say. “Yeah you did, you fuckers,” I’ll say, letting out a hearty guffaw.
And then we’ll all leave the office and head to a chic Capitol Hill bar where we’ll sit and act decadent and tell stories using words like “ephemeral” and pretend we don’t notice all the people in the booths next to us leaning across their tables and whispering to their friends, “Hey, isnt that…? Wait, isnt that…?” even though we fucking love it. And then one of them will finally get the courage to approach our table and say, “Hey, aren’t you—?”
And the the managing editor will grab my arm and look at me as if to say, Don’t worry, I’ll handle this, and I’ll shoot her back a look that says Oh my god–thank you! and she’ll say to the girl, “Honey, Mark’s had a really long day. Maybe another time?” And the girl will head back to her table, brows raised: “Oh my God, it was him” and we’ll look at each other like, Seriously? and then someone will tell a joke about how Andy Warhol used snort coke off a vanity mirror and we’ll all laugh hysterically and forget what even just happened.
ASDFJAKDJASDAAASDFJAAA
I’m jolted out of my daydream. My boss is asking me if I can go stand down by where the writers work and cut myself in front of them to see if the pain and rawness of it all will provide some kind of inspiration. “Alright,” I say, getting up from my swivel chair.
I guess the feature articles will have to wait ’til tomorrow.
-Wetzler
Next on Where’s Wetzler?
Why I Don’t Have a Cell Phone: An Essay
This entry was written by , posted on January 7, 2009 at 2:17 am, filed under Capitol Hill and tagged feature articles, super burrito, tacos guaymas, writers, writers' block. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.