The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  Next to it, though, was the thing I would cherish forever, more than the pictures of me standing next to the stars, the record plaques from artists for ‘helping to achieve high album sales’, the signed Paul McCartney guitar and all the other memorabilia I’d collected over nine months at The Beat. I had proof I’d been here. It was a farewell card from everyone in the office signed to ‘Jay’, ‘Jam Master Jay’ and ‘Wanker’. Lump after lump filled my throat as I read the kind words. I was feeling emotional and lucky to be smelling the flowers after I was gone.

  I took in the department for one last time as images from my internship ran through my mind like a montage. The desks where Max and the managers had sat singing songs; the Pillar of Fame with everyone’s mugshots from papers and magazines; the viewing machine where we’d gather round to watch new videos; and the area where I had taken a drop on the BMX bike. I’d been living the fast life like a music video. It had finally come to an end and was fading to black.

  I walked down the steps towards the exit with a heavy heart. I was meant to hand my ID card to Security on my way out, but I decided to keep it as a memento. I got to the revolving door that had invited me in on my first day in spring and stared briefly at my reflection in it. I’d entered with unassuming clothes and was leaving with more designer labels than you could throw at a boy band. My face looked haggard and the bags under my eyes told a story all of their own. The person looking back at me was strange to comprehend.

  Before I could have a full-on Dorian Gray moment, I quickly walked out. But as I did, the door got stuck in the middle of a turn. I tried to push it with one hand but it wouldn’t budge. It needed a two-handed effort to get it going again and it finally spat me back out into the big bad world.

  50

  Losing My Religion

  During my first week away from The Beat I realized I was still attached to the umbilical cord. I couldn’t sleep without dreaming I was still at work, late for a studio record or that I’d forgotten to turn up at an interview with an artist. When I was awake my mind was whizzing but had nothing to do. It was a bit like a Ferrari in neutral but with the accelerator down, revs way up and the engine roaring. My body twitched at the inactivity.

  As the US courts went about trying to settle the outcome of 7 November, my mind considered the outgoing American president, Bill Clinton. What was it like giving up the best job in the world? What must it be like going from being the President of America to the ex-President of America? Being the most powerful human in the world to just holding the title in an honorary capacity. Like Superman without his powers. What happens to you when you realize you don’t get to influence the world any more? Would you forget what a ringing phone sounds like? Worse still, when it’s over comes the question – did I have any real friends? Did Gorbachev call Reagan to see if he wanted to grab a beer? Sure you can open a library named after you or try to continue life in the public eye by lecturing, but that’s like giving a drug addict a cigarette as a hit.

  I was still connected to The Beat in the real world as my phone kept ringing with calls from the office. Each time I looked down to see ‘The Beat’ calling I hoped it was the Minister calling to ask me to come back. Instead it was always someone asking for a videotape that was out in my name from the library. Eventually I stopped answering. The following week the calls stopped altogether.

  My low self-esteem and feeling of humiliation ensured I didn’t go out or speak to anyone. I couldn’t even turn to music to lift my spirits as it just rubbed salt into my wounds. I stayed in my room with the blinds down, blocking out the world. Soon my paranoia was asking if I was ignoring the world or if it was ignoring me. My phone lay silent, just like the people who’d once called to invite me to their party or event.

  Pritz knocked on my door every day, but I lay still and quiet, successfully avoiding him. Other than staring at the TV and sleeping, the only constructive thing I did was try to raise money to make the rent and pay the bills by selling off the free stuff I’d got on eBay. Even the signed copy of Hot House, my leaving present, had to be auctioned along with anything else that was autographed and worth something. It added to my glum state but I had no choice.

  As the second week rolled on, I spent time flicking through my tattered work diary, looking back on the end of a remarkable year. Full of notes, to-do lists, doodles, phone numbers and graffiti from week 14 to 50, the last weeks of December were now looking threadbare. Was the depression making me inactive or the lack of structure making me depressed? Nothing ‘to do’ apart from a job interview at the BBC PJ had put me on to and a visit to the job centre.

  The latter was a morbid place containing others inflicted with the same unemployment disease, and we all smelt the same. For any of us to get out of this, we needed someone else to believe in us again. I had a degree and had worked at a global media giant. But the only believers appeared to be shops wanting part-time shelf-stackers. I needed the money but how could I go from interviewing A-list stars to stacking shelves? I only went through the humiliation of going to the job centre to sign on because I needed any scrap of money.

  The ‘employment advisor’ spent the time asking me to tell her my celebrity stories from the year. Apparently it was necessary to ‘identify skills’ I’d picked up. I willingly obliged. Initially it was a buzz that made me feel happy for the first time in days, but I ended up leaving there feeling even worse, having relived every small detail of the life I’d left behind. This was yet another reminder that I’d been living a fantasy, like Harry Potter. With the spell broken, reality loomed large.

  Mum had already gone to Essex to spend Christmas with her sister’s family. I wasn’t looking forward to joining her as they’d want me to repeat my Beat adventure and that would depress me all over again.

  The night before the BBC interview, I sat alone in the flat. The Beach was playing on the TV on mute. The lights in my room were off as Track 13 on Moby’s old CD repeated on a loop. There was trouble in my own paradise and I was feeling lost. Christmas is a time for celebration and joy for most people. But for those who have nothing, it’s not. I may have had a roof over my head, but my soul felt homeless. I needed someone or something to help me get out of this.

  I sat at the edge of my bed, rocking back and forth as my mind filled with voices. I wanted to call my friends but I wasn’t sure who they were any more. There were ten times as many numbers in my phone now than when I began at The Beat but I still felt alone. As I scrolled through my contacts list, not one name jumped out to me. Like everyone else, Pritz was probably having a good time at some work Christmas party. I wanted to turn to him in my hour of need, but who wanted to hear from a downer like me? Sophia and I had sent each other the odd friendly text since the Manchester party and now my finger hovered over the ‘call’ button. But pride still stopped me.

  I’d lost touch with Sara D and my uni mates and it felt awkward to call in this state. I hadn’t heard from the other interns either. Were they feeling withdrawal symptoms like me or was I the only one? I stopped looking for names. I had to try and find some inner strength but all the things that gave it to me were gone. My confidence was linked to the love from Sophia, my family and friends, being in my dream job. The Beat had given me a sense of purpose, belonging and a reason to get up and be something. It was my raison d’être. I’d lost it all and it was my fault. My eyes began to fill with the pain as my mind went into a haze.

  A voice came to the fore. Not everything enjoyed is good.

  The voices kept coming and I couldn’t recognize them. You were hooked on it and enjoyed the addiction.

  I blocked the voices out in a panic. Fear had gripped me and I felt like I was wandering in the dark. Would this ever lift?

  Was Sophia right, would I regret letting The Beat take control of me?

  Deal with it, it’s over. Whatever you do, don’t panic. Everything will work out, said a returning voice.

  Will it? I asked. My only w
orry is I’ll never change. I’m used to the high speed.

  That won’t be any trouble. Parachutes will help you to land softly.

  So everything’s not lost? I asked.

  No. Life is for living. But you have to rip it all down and start again.

  I decided to trust the voices. I took down all memories from the wall, CDs from the shelves and everything else, throwing them into black bin bags and into the back of my cupboard.

  I busied myself by getting my suit ready for the interview the next day. But soon my doubts returned and I realized hiding things away wasn’t going to solve my problems. How could I get away from the biggest reminder of all? I couldn’t run from it forever. My world revolved around it like a whirling dervish. Even if I escaped to the quietest place on the planet, my heart would continue to create a beat for music.

  51

  Bitter Sweet Symphony

  ‘Ndugu Bwana, you there?’ said Pritz, outside my door.

  It was eight a.m. and I lay awake, having barely slept a wink.

  ‘I’m coming in, so cover up your knackers.’

  ‘What’s up, dude?’ I said, sitting up.

  Standing by my doorway he asked, ‘You OK? You haven’t responded to my texts or calls.’ He looked around the room. ‘Where’s all your stuff?’

  ‘Early spring clean,’ I said.

  Behind him was a red suitcase that reminded me he was going home for Christmas and then to Rio de Janeiro on Boxing Day for a week with his banker mates. He’d offered to spot me, but I was already too indebted.

  As he said his goodbyes we spoke about everything except the cloud that was clearly over me, but that was our dynamic. We didn’t talk about feelings with each other; that’s what women were for. Whenever either of us got close to it, it would be met by an elongated ‘Don’t get eeeeeeeeemotional’.

  Before leaving he said, ‘Listen, you big, prancing, dancing gaylord, I’m out. If you change your mind, the Bank of Pritz can sponsor you to Brazil.’ With a quick high-five he was gone.

  I’d reflected on a lot these last few weeks and now it was time to get my house in order, from getting a new job to reconnecting with friends like Sara D and Isabel. But there was one person in particular with whom I needed to build a bridge. I sent Sophia a text to see if she was up for a chat over coffee. She agreed to meet me in a Notting Hill coffee shop later that morning.

  Having been hugged by Mary Schmich’s wise words via Baz Luhrmann as I got ready, I took the Tube to the BBC in White City, almost getting off at Notting Hill as a force of habit. During the journey the Metro was quick to remind me of the world I’d left behind with gossip about the stars.

  This new job would be in the children’s TV department as a researcher. I was worried at the thought of perma-smily-faced presenters, puppets and gunk tanks, but was in no position to be choosey. However, my trepidations were ill-founded and it seemed like a nice place, if a bit quiet. There weren’t any people throwing frisbees, pinging rubber bands, riding BMX bikes or playing music really loud. I’d be a minnow worker with about as much responsibility as Baldrick from Blackadder, but it was the return to the real world I needed.

  It went well, especially as the interviewer had studied at my university. I wasn’t offered the job on the spot but was happy to be in the half pile of CVs that didn’t get thrown in the bin as he gave me a big hint that it was mine. But I wasn’t falling for that again. I’d wait for the call.

  As I left the BBC I took a right and walked down Wood Lane past a huge construction site on the left and on to Shepherd’s Bush Green. From there I walked up to Notting Hill Gate to meet Sophia.

  I entered the quiet coffee shop and saw her in the corner reading Hello! We didn’t hug or embrace but it was clear all defences were lowered.

  I filled her in on what I’d been doing, but kept some of the more depressing details to myself.

  ‘Sounds like your new job will be a step forward. Now you’ve got the BBC to conquer,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Haven’t got it yet. But I will handle things differently, I suspect.’

  She hugged me with her smile.

  ‘So, plans for Christmas?’ she asked.

  ‘I was dreading it, but I think time with the family is in need. Going to get a train there tomorrow. How about you?’

  ‘Same. Dad’s taking us on a skiing holiday.’

  After small talk about the contents of her magazine, we finally addressed the real issue. Refreshingly, neither of us were blaming the other but ourselves for not communicating properly, point scoring and making bad judgements. We didn’t go into it any further as it was water under the bridge now and wasn’t going to help bring us back together. But the entente cordiale was signed.

  I wanted to put it all on the table and apologize for my behaviour. The job, my pride and the bad decisions I’d made. The words wanted to come out but they weren’t ready just yet. It seemed like Sophia wanted to do the same but our confessions stopped short. Maybe for another day? Perhaps there was hope for the future. Even so, there were signs we’d salvaged a friendship from this car crash.

  As we got up to leave, I hesitated before hugging her. The human photosynthesis she always offered me gave me the strength to finally apologize. ‘I’m –’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, cutting in while squeezing me back.

  I could have gone home on the Tube but had a Forrest Gump moment and decided to walk instead. I blocked out an entire city of people with each step and gathered my thoughts. I had pressed the ‘reset to factory settings’ button and was ready to start afresh. Doubt could only be defeated in a duel by belief and so I had to believe in myself once more. Like Biggie, there would be life after death.

  I went past Marble Arch and Oxford Circus, the arching Christmas streetlights of Oxford Street above my head. I continued till I got to Holborn and took a diagonal left past a shop with a lit Hanukkah menorah in the window. Soon I was on Goswell Road outside my flat, watching as Kemal, the kebab shop owner, and his co-workers broke their fasts with dates.

  As I entered the flat, the streetlight outside the kitchen window made turning the hall lights on pointless. I threw the mail and newspaper I’d collected on to the table and opened the fridge door, scanning the shelves for something exciting to eat. The only thing that looked remotely edible was the milk – just. On tonight’s menu would be a bowl of Kellogg’s Corn Flakes that I placed into the microwave for two and a half minutes.

  Exhausted, I sat and scanned the newspaper in the dim light for its happiness and goodwill messages. The last mail drop hadn’t brought much Christmas cheer as I held up bill after bill, pizza leaflet after pizza leaflet and, right at the end, a postcard. Clearly just another marketing gimmick by a travel agent asking why I was still in the UK and persuading me that it wasn’t too late to be in Thailand. Idle curiosity to see the offer got the better of me. I turned it over.

  J, Whatttup? Hope you’re enjoying London weather! Been trying to call you, but you haven’t picked up. Wanted to speak to you on the phone but I figured a postcard would be best as the Internet cafe is six miles away from my beach hut. Good news, got a call from the Doc and he wants me to come back for something big. With my own team. The beat goes on like Sonny & Cher. 2001, we bring the roof down. I don’t need to ask you if you’re in, do I? M

  The microwave pinged. The house had dealt a new hand.

  Author’s Note

  The chapter titles were inspired by the variety of music that I listened to growing up in London. Whether it was on the radio, in the record store, on TV, in a club, at concerts or in the underground, the eclectic mix covers rap to rock, reggae to pop and everything in between. London is a city that promotes and highlights the sounds from its diverse people and those who visit from further afield. Thanks to the many musos who helped me put this list together. For more, go to www.theintern.co.uk

  The Impossible Dream – Matt
Monro, The Impossible Dream, Pinnacle, 1967

  The World Is Yours – Nas, Illmatic, Columbia, 1994

  Break On Through (To The Other Side) – The Doors, The Doors, Elektra, 1967

  Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood – Nina Simone, Broadway-Blues-Ballads, Philips, 1964

  It’s The Hard Knock Life – Annie, Sony, 1977

  Space Oddity – David Bowie, David Bowie, Philips, 1969

  China White – Scorpions, Blackout, Mercury, 1982

  Bicycle Race – Queen, Jazz, EMI, 1978

  The Choice Is Yours – Black Sheep, A Wolf In Sheep’s Clothing, Mercury, 1991

  Girls On Film – Duran Duran, Duran Duran, EMI, 1981

  Alphabet St. – Prince, Lovesexy, Paisley Park, 1988

  Every Breath You Take – The Police, Synchronicity, A&M, 1982

  All Night Long – Lionel Richie, Can’t Slow Down, Motown, 1983

  Aicha – Cheb Khaled, Sahra, PolyGram, 1996

  Purple Haze – The Jimi Hendrix Experience, Are You Experienced, Track, 1967

  Chalo Dildar Chalo – Mohammed Rafi & Lata Mangeshkar, Pakeezah, Saregama, 1972

  Don’t Look Back In Anger – Oasis, (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?, Creation, 1996

  Three Lions – Baddiel, Skinner & Lightning Seeds, The Beautiful Game, Epic, 1996

  Paid In Full – Eric B. & Rakim, Paid In Full, 4th & Broadway, 1987

  Karma Police – Radiohead, OK Computer, Parlophone, 1997

  Summertime – DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince, Homebase, Jive, 1991

  Perfect Day – Lou Reed, Transformer, RCA, 1972

  Tom’s Diner – Suzanne Vega, Solitude Standing, A&M/PolyGram, 1987