The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  ‘So, how was it?’ she asked excitedly, grabbing my hand tightly once I’d put our drinks on the table.

  ‘Wow. Where do I start? Hectic. Crazy. Scary …’ I said, reflecting.

  ‘Oh, come on, it couldn’t have been that bad. Surely it was fun? It’s The Beat.’

  I told her how I’d struggled to get my head round all the departments in the building and what they did. The next thing that had had me scratching my head were the details in the induction like PAYE, health cover, depression counselling and pensions.

  ‘Depression? Pension? I’m twenty-two, not sixty-two,’ I said in a panic.

  She laughed at my reaction to it all. ‘All very grown-up and official.’

  I showed her what looked like a forged attempt at a staff pass. A flimsy card, the size of a credit card, with The Beat stamp, displayed an out-of-focus headshot of me from Blackpool Pleasure Beach, my details scribbled in the handwriting of a twelve-year-old.

  She ran her fingers over it and stared at The Beat logo. ‘So what will you be doing?’

  I inhaled deeply and let out my anxiety. ‘We have two shows to produce every week. Total BEATS, the weekly entertainment round-up show, and Defm8,’ I said, spelling the latter out.

  ‘Your English teacher will be so proud,’ she said, smiling. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Third-party deprecation. All the week’s gossip is ripped into by a different celeb guest every week alongside the presenter, PJ,’ I told her, a look of worry on my face about the pending responsibility.

  Everything I said seemed an exciting opportunity to Sophia, but to me it was a potential way to drown and fail. To illustrate this to her, I opened up a black A4 diary Max had given me to make notes of all my daily duties. I briefly smiled, remembering what he had said before handing it over: ‘This isn’t for your “dear diary” moments or to note your girlfriend’s menstrual cycle so you calculate when you can giddy up.’

  Looking on the first page, I’d copied down the first sentence verbatim, after which it was all shorthand and illegible scribbles.

  On Monday we research both shows and finalize scripts for the record the next day. Research newspapers, Internet, magazines (VIBE, MOJO, NME, Blues & Soul, allmusic.com, et al.) & record labels. Get biogs on guests to interview. Roll-ins, movie EPKs. Watch & timecode. Get NEW music videos. Finish off scripts.

  Tuesday: Studio record shows (x2). Floor manager (me) director (M). Sort out admin. Send Defm8 to TX + PA logsheet & forms. Defm8 transmits on Weds p.m.

  Wednesday: research more news, roll-ins & new vids. Sort admin & chase leads. Check Billboard and Music Week mags. End of day, go edit M. Show tape to The Beat. TXs on Thurs p.m.

  Thursday: Keep researching & admin. Catch up emails. Do artist interviews and poss. edits. (Support M). Filing systems. Pull library tapes. Logging. Sort legal docs.

  Friday: Get all content for both shows. More research. Give M vids & research so far. Make show running order (x2). Speak to lawyer. Liaise with edit. Updates.

  I just about managed to decipher my own notes, stuttering throughout like it was in a foreign language. But the words sure did paint a clear picture: one of long days and late nights. Even Sophia’s face dropped at the workload.

  ‘The stuff I’d been doing for work experience was basic. I had no responsibility. Within the first few hours today, I felt like I had everything on my shoulders and that Max was counting on me not to screw it up,’ I said, all flustered.

  She tried to bring back some positivity. ‘Yeah, but this is about music. It’s about what you love. Or would you rather be doing something else?’

  I paused. The alternatives were bleak. Wearing a suit? Working nine to five? No, far too boring and adult.

  ‘It’s just a lot, that’s all. Any small mistake could have massive effects. I just don’t want to fail … or let Max down,’ I said, looking apprehensive.

  ‘You’ll be fine. Max wouldn’t have chosen you if he felt you weren’t capable.’

  Sophia would have made a lousy politician because she made good sense.

  ‘So will you get to direct stuff?’ she asked quickly, changing the subject.

  ‘No way, that takes years of experience. I’ve just got through the door and you want me piloting the shuttle.’ I laughed as she gave me a look that said Why not?

  I carried on filling her in on every minute detail as she listened intently. Anyone else would have been bored as soon as I said ‘caching form’, but not her.

  ‘So what was the work like?’ she asked.

  ‘Forget about getting any actual work done, you end up spending most of your time deleting and answering heaps of emails,’ I complained. ‘I did attempt one piece of work. Max wrote Total BEATS, and told me to look at old scripts as a guide to writing for Defm8. But, no matter what I wrote, he said it was wrong and I had to start all over. It was like waxing an armpit with Sellotape,’ I said, clearly frustrated.

  ‘Sounds like tough love.’

  ‘More like barmy love,’ I replied. ‘I spent six hours rewriting twelve links till he called it a day on busting my balls and told me to finish it tomorrow morning. It’s why I had to keep changing the time to meet you,’ I said, feeling worn out as I said it.

  ‘Babe, you’ve taken some wobbly steps for your first ever script. Be patient; you’ll be walking, then running in no time. I believe in you,’ she encouraged.

  ‘I know,’ I replied, still not satisfied and ready to keep complaining.

  Sophia tried to shift the focus. ‘What are the other interns like?’

  It worked as I perked up describing the other people in the same boat. ‘Pretty cool. Some are quirkier than others, like James III who inexplicably likes to whistle Christmas carols. You have to admit, hearing “Away in a Manger” in spring’s a bit weird.’

  ‘I wonder how long till it goes from quirky to annoying?’

  ‘Well, that could be in my favour. Cara’s already heard rumours that there’s one permanent contract up for grabs at the end of the six months.’

  ‘Wow, that’s amazing,’ said Sophia, with a shot of excitement.

  ‘There’s no way I’m going to get it. The others are much better than me,’ I replied, reverting to being downbeat about it all.

  ‘Forget about the others. First things first, your work will be on TV. On The Beat! It’s what you’ve always wanted. Look how long it’s taken you to get here. Be proud of yourself.’ She grabbed my hand again, placed her fingers in between mine and squeezed.

  No matter what I said, my pessimism was being beaten back by her optimism like Rocky. She was a great cheerleader and my best friend. Sophia knew that thinking positively wasn’t my natural habit. Some people deal with life’s ups and downs through religion, friends, counsellors, watching Oprah. Not really for me. My coping mechanism was music, and Sophia knew how important it, and now The Beat, was to me.

  Music had played a big part in my life from my earliest memories. Mum said she played it to me all the time when she was pregnant, to nurture me for the nine months I was in her womb. As a little kid it became a distraction for me when my parents would shut me away in my bedroom while they argued. To block out the screaming and violence next door, I focused on the music they left playing on the radio or the record player. I still remember that the louder they yelled, the tighter I squeezed my eyes and concentrated. Soon, I didn’t hear them, just the music.

  I spent so much time in this state that, after a while, I didn’t just hear the music: I saw, felt, smelt and tasted it too. Stevie Wonder literally tickled the tips of my fingers; Wham! fooled my tongue into tasting a hint of Coke; Beastie Boys made myriad colours seem to bounce off the walls; I’d smell grass when The Beatles’ White Album played. It was hard to explain and the closest I’d come to understanding it was when I read an article about a person with synesthesia. They experienced music similarly to me, but not quite the same,
and turned out to be a world-class concert pianist.

  As time went by, I found further practical uses for music. Dad walked out on us when I was eleven, suffering from chronic depression, and we never heard from him again. As a result, Mum was hardly at home, working two jobs to make ends meet and so lyrics became my parental guidance through life. Marvin Gaye’s ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ rang true when a girlfriend cheated on me; REM’s ‘Everybody Hurts’ played for months when I was feeling aimless and down, having left uni jobless with what seemed like a useless piece of paper.

  Some kids play with their imaginary friends, eventually getting rid of them when they get some sense and grow up. Without any siblings, I turned to my equivalent, but it was usually in the guise of a singer or sometimes an entire band. I’d have actual conversations with the artists in my head and sometimes – only sometimes – I’d see them in front of me. It was a natural, if freaky, occurrence that allowed me to function, especially in traumatic times. Even Sophia didn’t know about these bizarre conversations. I hadn’t told anyone for fear of them thinking I was loopy like the kid in The Sixth Sense.

  Sophia slipped her fingers out of my grip and went to the Ladies as I closed my eyes and tried to focus my panicked thoughts. Music entertained, inspired, educated and somehow gave me confidence. It didn’t judge, betray, nag or lie to me. It was the only constant and true thing in my life. So here I was working at The Beat, the highest church of music. And I was pissing on my own parade having made it to the Promised Land.

  Sophia was right; I had got what I asked for. I had been given an opportunity most people don’t get to see on their first day but have to earn over months or sometimes years. Max had believed and The Beat had given me a chance; it was up to me how far I’d take it.

  Warmth began to radiate from my chest and circulate around me like the Ready Brek kid as I loosened up. The voice of optimism, confidence and belief that was normally shackled behind bars in solitary confinement was out. Well, being allowed to exercise in the yard at least. I wasn’t foolishly letting down my guard and thinking everything was going to be OK, but I had at least removed one hand from my knackers.

  5

  It’s the Hard Knock Life

  I awoke to the door slamming as my flatmate went to work. I lifted my head off the pillow but my body didn’t move an inch. I slumped back down.

  By the time Sophia and I finished catching up over drinks, headed back to mine for a Pot Noodle and the first non phone-sex in weeks, it was late – 2.24 a.m. late. I had to be up at six o’clock to get to the office for seven. My scripts weren’t good enough for Max so I wanted to have another go before he came in. He’d look over them ahead of us going to the studio and I really wanted to nail it this time.

  I kept dreaming I was late and woke up nearly every half hour checking the bedside clock. But, despite the paranoid interrupted sleep and the slamming door, the irony was that it was now 6.14 a.m. and I was now running late.

  My flatmate, Pritesh ‘Pritz’ Shah, worked as a trader for Lehman Brothers in the City, which meant he had to be at work by six a.m. sharp. He tried explaining what he did to me on several occasions – it boiled down to ‘playing with other people’s money’ – but I’d glaze over and think of paint drying on walls. Pritz had been my best friend since nursery and the closest thing I had to a sibling. What he lacked in good looks he made up for with confidence and the gift of the gab. He was that average bloke you see walking down the street with a really hot girl.

  Pritz was part of a classic two-point-four kids family, with a father who was a dentist, a mother who was a part-time dentist and housewife, and an older sister who was a trainee dentist. The Shah’s were part of the North London Hindu community, which was aghast when Pritz didn’t follow in the career footsteps of the family.

  He was part of the new generation of Brit-Asian kids who didn’t want to be stereotypical doctors, dentists or accountants. The new profession was banking. The aim? To get filthy rich. (‘Look at the huge rims on my limited-edition Porsche; I own a house next door to Kate Moss; I can buy a date with and shag a model/Bollywood or Hollywood actress/Virgin stewardess/aristocrat/all of the above; I want a helicopter, a yacht and a submarine; I want to retire to the South of France and be divorced at least twice by the time I’m sixty, fifty, forty, thirty-five.’)

  As a new member of the Lehman Brothers graduate training scheme, Pritz wasn’t yet earning the six- or seven-figure amounts that the experienced traders took home. Confidence was high as everyone realized the Y2K bug was about as dangerous as a ladybird, and Pritz was hoping for a bumper bonus even though the bubble of the dotcom boom had just burst.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate, I won’t leave you behind. You can live above the garage of my mansion once I’ve made it,’ he once told me. But for now we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Angel above Kemal’s Kebab Shop. Pritz’s favourite was a number-six chicken shish, even though his mother raised him as a strict vegetarian. But once he got hooked on hamburgers and sausages in primary school, meat-eating became the first of his many dirty secrets that he kept from his mother.

  Pritz was happily paying a bigger share of the rent as he knew I couldn’t afford to live on my Foot Locker salary or The Beat intern’s wage. I got the food shopping in when I could and sent him a direct debit every month that he probably spent in one night entertaining clients at the ‘Holborn Bar & Grill’, which was the official name of the establishment on his receipts after a night out at a strip club. He wasn’t shy of flashing his cash. Whenever I’d say he was wasting money on an ugly lamp/shirt/shoes/watch, he’d respond, ‘Don’t be such a tightwad. You’re thinking short term. This market is going up and up. I can spend all my cash for the next few years knowing that when I’m thirty I’ll still be a millionaire.’

  However, it would be unfair to not highlight the fact he was at work at six a.m. Monday to Friday and didn’t get home till eight p.m. or, if he was entertaining clients, three in the morning. He barely slept but somehow used the power of money to help wake him up. Literally. He had a stack of fifty-pound notes by his alarm clock so that when it went off he was reminded why he was getting up.

  Right now, at 6.14 a.m., I didn’t have the same money-motivation. My motivation was to not royally screw things up and embarrass myself. I had a nervous energy inside that was hitting panic buttons every five seconds saying, ‘You’re late, you’ll never make it, oh shit!’

  In a bid to prove my mind wrong, my body jumped out of bed and headed to the shower, stubbing my toe on the door on the way. I screamed in silence so as to not wake Sophia. I fell into the shower and turned it on, not waiting for the hot water to start flowing. The cold hit me and jolted my body like a defibrillator.

  Once dressed, I felt my bowels churning and a big weight began to pull me down, like gravity on Newton’s apple. But I didn’t have time to give in to it. I grabbed my rucksack and went to the kitchen for breakfast: a banana on the run. Pritz had left a note for me on the fridge next to the Premier League fixtures, which were a constant reminder that his team, Manchester United, were dominating once again, having controversially dropped out of the FA Cup. The note read ‘Yo, Ndugu Bwana, we out on the chirps tonight?’

  Heading out I noticed the light on in Pritz’s room so I stuck my hand in and hit the switch to turn off the light. Yet there was still a slight glow. It was probably his bedside lamp. I opened the door fully to find a girl lying asleep in his bed. Not wanting to disturb her, I quickly grabbed the door to close it, scanning the room for clues to establish who it was. Judging by the see-through high-heeled stilettos on the floor and her perfectly upright breasts as she lay on her back, Pritz had brought a stripper back the previous night. As I left, I smirked, thinking, What would his mother say?

  6

  Space Oddity

  As I entered through the revolving door of The Beat offices, my insides were turning at the prospect of having to rewrite the script
for Defm8. The TV screen in Reception was on mute and it was so quiet in the building you could hear the sound of silence. I was eager to flash my spanking-new but crappy ID card, only to find both the security guards sleeping in their chairs. In fairness, it was a pretty boring twelve-hour shift protecting a bunch of videotapes and some flashy Apple Macs. Max had joked that the closest these guys got to action was once chasing a dog around the building after it had crept in one night trying to find shelter from the rain.

  Once behind my desk, I began amending my script. I read over what I’d done so far and still couldn’t find what was wrong. The sentences were well constructed with tantalizing information, subtle wit and the right splashing of youthful slang. What’s wrong with it? I thought.

  I’d been at it for an hour and a half and I could now hear crew from the studios gathered round one of the tables in the Greenhouse, slouched on beanbags eating breakfast while reading the papers. As my eyes scanned the rest of the ground floor I saw Max running up the stairs, balancing a coffee in one hand and a plate of toast in the other. He came over to my desk and plonked his stuff down.

  ‘So, how did you get on?’ he asked, getting his breath back.

  ‘I went over it again this morning. I think it’s better,’ I said confidently, with a touch of cockiness, moving my chair over so he could see my computer screen.

  ‘Right, let’s have a look then.’ He bit into his toast.

  No ‘good morning’, then. Just straight into it like the last ten hours and wardrobe change didn’t happen, I thought.

  He began to mumble as he read the first link. Then he went silent. I stared at the computer screen, too anxious to look at him. Moments later he came to life as though the script was taking time to settle in his mind this early in the morning.

  ‘OK, I see you’ve tried to make changes. Good. This is a good script for you.’