Friday, August 29, 2014
My plane lands and I’m here. I’m a West Coaster. I have no
return ticket. These bags and this guitar are literally the only things I have
to call my own now. And for how long? Where am I going to sleep tonight? “We
have an old intern, a guy named Jordan, he’s I think 22, and he has an
apartment in the University District. It’s small, but right now it’s empty,
because he’s out of state on business. He’s left you his key, so you can stay
there until Tuesday.” My boss hands me an envelope. Inside is a key and a note:
“Hello Stranger,
Mi casa es su casa. Treat
it as your own.
-
Sorry
about the mess.
-
Eat/Drink
any food, it will go bad otherwise.
I’ll
be back on the 3rd, will see if we can get ya some work.
Jordan”
(He’s a
production assistant – aka PA – which is the job I’ll have once I know
something relevant to this industry). But his pad is cool. It’s situated in an
old brick building in the University District, so there are countless students
milling about at any given moment. The apartment is cozy; unlock the antique
wooden door and you walk in to a small living room with large windows at the back.
On your immediate left is a bathroom and on the right is a small bedroom, and
at the back on the left is a door leading to a tiny kitchen. It’s perfect, I
tell my boss as we drop my stuff.
I’m
whisked away again to get a bicycle, and then again to the office. The bosses
don’t expect me to work, but I want to work. I’m here to work. And honestly,
what else would I do besides work? They give me my own office key, and then we
unlock the door and walk up a long flight of stairs. At the top is this
industrially decorated open space with large skylights letting in lots of light
and a male’s rendition of interior decorating. They have a good thing going:
unfinished plywood floors, neutral gray tones in various shades on the walls,
some sick couches that were featured in a commercial they shot, and this
incredible vintage video camera from the 60’s. In the back corner is a fully
equipped, all-purpose espresso cart, one that you’d see on a street corner, and
a little kitchen area in need of some organization. The other back corner is an
office, the one I’ll be using. Then in another corner is Brad’s office. Brad is
one of my bosses, the producer. He’s got a big leather couch in front of his
desk, and a huge ping pong table beyond that. Then Matt’s office is in the last
corner, walled off with a door. Matt is the guy who gave me the job; he’s the
director.
I like my
bosses. Matt is the son of Tom Skerritt, an actor who was in Top Gun, Alien,
and a few others. He’s from LA, and he’s in his forties now, married with two
daughters. Brad’s even better connected in the industry: they say he’s one of the
most connected producers in Seattle, and at this moment he’s enjoying a weekend
trip with his wife and their family friend Dave Matthews (yes, from the Dave
Matthews band). He’s married to a costume and makeup artist who works closely
with Russell Wilson, Macklemore, and the list goes on. He has a daughter and a
son. I asked them what time they want me at work; they said around 9, although
since then I’ve been getting to work at 9 and sometimes they’re not there until
noon. I don’t have any other coworkers; it’s just the three of us at the
office, because anyone else they pay to help them is freelance. Technically I
am too, but I can’t afford to not be at the office to gain that experience.
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