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One of the interns taps a button to a higher floor, then shoots me a look. “This is where you’re heading, upper-level boy.” The other one carrying the coffee gives me just as much of a sneer. “Good luck … and riddance.” And the pair of them are off.
The doors slide shut. Silence swallows me as the elevator hum fills my ears, carrying me higher.
Ding.
The doors slide open again, revealing a very different atmosphere. A long hallway stretches on before me with doors on either side. As I make my way, I catch glimpses through the windows of the doors, peering into stark interiors of offices as well as boardrooms with tables big enough to seat fifty, yet I only seem to ever count four or five faces.
With a gasp, I narrowly avoid crashing into a woman walking by, who shoots me an annoyed look before disappearing down the hall. “S-Sorry,” I say a moment too late, then wince as I continue my way into a lobby-like area with a few chairs, water tank, and a large display case with awards, plaques, and portraits lining its sleek, steely shelves.
“Are you Connor Hill?”
I turn to find a woman at a desk, her straight hair cropped at the chin. I smooth my tie out and smile. “Yes!” I answer her brightly. “Nice to—”
“You’re late.”
“I … I’m sorry, I was—”
“No, you’re not sorry, you’re late,” she cuts me off. “I’m Brenda Markowitz. Count yourself lucky that your professor who recommended you knows Mr. Wales personally. Or else I’d fire you. There is a waiting list of far more qualified candidates.”
I swallow hard. “It’s my first time coming here,” I explain, “and I missed my stop on the—”
“Mr. Excuses,” she decides, her half-lidded eyes appearing bored as she folds her arms on her desk, leaning forward. “That’s what I’ll call you, if you’d prefer. Do you like that name, Mr. Excuses?”
I put on a smile. This is my dream job. If I play the game a little, it could set me for life. “No more excuses,” I insist with a nod. “I’m late.”
“Good boy. You’re learning already. Now …” She fetches a tablet, rises, and saunters around her desk. “Let’s get you up to speed. And it is a very fast speed, so no time for questions. Just hit the ground running, know everything before I say it, and you’ll make me one happy manager.”
6
From that point on, my day becomes a series of sweating, lip-shutting, and half-asked questions I’m probably not allowed to ask anyway. The first thing I do is sneak in (late) and sit in on a meeting, which makes me think about the two interns I ran into on the elevator. I’d swiped a tiny spiral pad and a pen from a supply room, and it’s on those tiny pieces of paper that I take notes, listen with my wide eyes, and absorb. I would be lying if I said I don’t notice the other interns giving me strange looks, as they’re studiously typing on their laptops or lightly tapping on their tablets. I don’t care; my focus is a bit strained trying to play catch-up as it is.
There are only ten of us. I am one among ten in this intimate handful of upper-level interns. That notion might have made me feel special back in Kansas, thinking about it from a distance, but here in the actual Wales Weekly building full of suits, ties, and cold stares, it’s making my fingers sweat.
Have my fingers ever sweated before?
Is that even possible?
Brenda takes us all around the building, from the graphics design studio, to several different copy rooms, to a writing boardroom, and to something called a “big plan room”. Three hours go by before I even know it, and when I lean in to one of the interns to say, “I hope we break for lunch soon,” he responds with a haughty snort, and: “If you came here to eat, you’re in the wrong business.”
I don’t get much warmth from the other interns either when we’re sent to an empty boardroom to brainstorm ideas on a mock “civilian hero” project. “Dartmouth,” answers an intern named Bree when she’s asked where she went to school. “Yale,” says Dave, another intern. “Princeton,” adds another.
“I went to Harvard, like my father,” answers a tall and impressive intern named Jay, whose stiff, thin lips look incapable of bending at all, even for the benefit of a smile. I’m not sure why, but the others seem to respect him, their backs stiffening and their eyes tracking him whenever he speaks, as if he’s been nominated as the top intern of us all, the greatest competition, the example, the leader.
After Jay’s answer, his aloof gaze turns on me. “You look like you’re a Columbia grad, if I had to guess. Or is it Stanford, perhaps?”
