Before I started my internship the police ended up in my house.
In hindsight, there were two main factors that lead them to break down my front door and smash its stained glass into pieces. The first was that the only male attention I had gotten was by a small, plump asian boy who tried to pull down my shorts at a trampoline centre. The second was that I had been feeling so shit that I cut myself off from all my friends and all their social events. I didn’t hear them when they broke down the door, or came into my house, which means my Beats-By-Dre headphones must be seriously legit.
When they made themselves known, I was sitting, listening to Lil Yachty, whilst eating a bowl of Special K. They probably thought they had got the wrong house or something, and I knew then that I shouldn’t have sent those texts to my Mum. They tore me away from my Kellogs, told me to put on some clothes, and put me in the ambulance where my shock led me to conduct a chat about drugs and their effects. After a three hour wait at the hospital I was politely asked
“You gonna try to kill yourself 2nite then?”
I landed myself not only one, but two internships! At both production companies my day to day tasks were really riveting and I learnt a lot. I took the liberty of making some bullet points of some of my duties :
Cleaning pigeon shit off the toilet
Selling used phones illegally
Raking up leaves whilst someone shouted “You’re not getting PAID”!
Squatting under people’s desks to change their bins
Of course I didn’t write those exact bullets on my CV, instead changed cleaning pigeon faeces to “managing logistics” and selling phones to “uses initiative”. I’m no stranger to menial jobs, but when you know more about the office’s toilets then the films themselves, you know it’s peak. To make up for my disappointment, I signed up for a film course.
On my first day, we were sat on seats in a circle like scientologists waiting for Tom Cruise to give a testimony. He didn’t show up, but instead we went through that whole ‘state ur name’ shit that is first day protocol. I kept my eyes peeled for some talent, but everyone looked boring and wore bootleg jeans from Superdry. Then this guy walked in who looked a bit like a Sasquatch. He had curly, bushy brown hair, and was wearing hiking boots, a jumper that barely concealed his beer belly, and I instantly fancied him. I’m still not sure why because my normal type is piff, and he, just, well… wasn’t. His name was Simon and as each class went on, Simon and I developed, in my head, a cute friendship. We had so much in common. Like, both of us always got hot in the classroom and subsequently would turn bright red. When this would happen (every 5 mins), we’d look at each other, nod and then meet at the water fountain to fill our bottles up.
Moments like those made me forget I was sad and about the boy at the trampoline centre.
Another milestone was that we’d walk out of the class together and to his car! #MoneyMoves. I always longed for a lift home, because, unbeknownst to him, I walked way past my route home just to ask him how his shift went at Costco, or what he was being for Halloween. He said he never dressed up for Halloween and he never did offer me a lift home. Even when it rained.
As the lessons went on, so did the sexual tension. Especially when he got the chance to direct, and the quiet confidence that he carried amplified, and whilst it brought out the best in him, it brought out the worst in me. I’d wind up staring at him for a solid ten minutes and then clock I looked gormless and scary so I would turn the other way.
The class finished at 10pm, and despite the string of pubs nearby, we all never made it there. Until the last day. I wore a bit more perfume that usual because I thought it’d be the perfect chance to get some #cheeky pints in and maybe even flirt for a minute or two! Of course he didn’t fucking drink because he was driving, so I drank for him. #Amateur. All of us talked about.. film, because it was a film course we had been on, after all. As we left the pub, and back onto the familiar stretch leading to his car, I clocked it was the last time we’d do it, and I felt an ickle bit weepy. Once we arrived at his Fiat, we talked for a whole 30 minutes and that’s when I said
“Sooo, we should totally exchange emails or something”
“Or, maybe Facebook?”
“Yeah, my name is Simon Johnston on Facebook”
“Or, we could just exchange numbers!”
I mean, talk about drawing blood from a stone!! As I walked back home, I felt pissed off, mugged off, dissatisfied, sad and so naturally I texted him:
“Get home safely”.
FIND out whats HAPPENS NEXT in PART 3!