The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description Read Free

in the middle of whatever he was doing, and asked him.
Even realizing Joe probably had as little idea about what he wanted as I did,
it might’ve saved me time. However, I was no rank amateur. I had been through
the minor leagues of internships, working for journalism groups, environmental
groups, small-town politicians, and outdoor musical theatres which catered to
the elderly set.
    And now, thanks to good recommendations and twenty-pound
resume paper, I was in the big leagues. During my other adventures, I had
learned my bosses didn’t want to see me; nothing against me, but they had
plenty to do. They wanted drafts, not questions. If I ended up having to do the
same work all over again, so be it. At least I wasn’t wasting their time. So I
should try something; let him read it, and then probably do it all over again.
    I tried more first sentences that afternoon than Charles
Dickens did in his entire career. I knew it would flow after that, but I had so
little clue as to what I was doing, I tried everything but haiku.
    Of course, this was between a couple of Tetris games, a
snack break, and reading the daily clips.
    The clips were an agency ritual, when we got to read what
had been written about us in the Times , the Post , and other
papers we didn’t care about as much. The clips in recent days were dominated by
the addition of Gerald Greer, a new columnist for the Post , who was
supposed to be covering all kinds of different issues in Washington, but seemed
to center a whole lot on us.
    I read the clips, initialed the sheet to show I had read
them, and took them “next-door” to Damon, the red-bearded live-wire who was a
program specialist. 
    “Greer’s got another article this morning,” I said as I
handed him the clips.
    “Enlightening?” he asked, not looking up from something he
was scribbling.
    “Pithy.”
    He turned and grabbed the clips. “My friend Jane says all he
does is sit and drink at the Hawk and Dove, trying to pick up pages and college
girls. He’s a lush. Wanted to be a playwright. Guess that’s why he picks on
us.”
    The picture of Gerald Greer, with his brillo beard and polar
white hair, clutching some pretentious imported beer while ogling a college
student’s ass somehow made him seem like less of a threat.
    “When’d you find this out?” I’d never be able to use the
information, but good to know.
    “Saturday night. Saw her at a party, and she commented on
the McHolland article. She knew him from when he used to work for the Boston
paper.”
    “The McHolland article was a near hatchet job.” It contained
some truths; there had been some upper-management problems, and the McHolland
Foundation was taking fewer artistic chances.
    Damon scowled. “Greer didn’t tell the whole story. He was
way too judgmental. And he wrote nice things about other arts groups, so what
gives?”
    Most of my colleagues at the NEA were angry about the
article because the McHolland Foundation was a partner in the Regionarts
program, and they were scared Gerald might say the same things about us.
    “I don’t have any idea what he wants.”
    Damon kicked back in his chair and stroked his beard. “We
don’t have many perks.”
    True. “None of us make enough to bribe him.” We worked for
the government, so we were prohibited by law from even getting free tickets to
go see the shows we supported.
    I snorted. “Maybe he wants love.”
    Damon threw his head back and laughed.
    I looked around the office. Everyone else had moseyed back
to the panel. I grinned and arched a brow at Damon. “Hey, why don’t we go up to
the seventh floor and throw food down on the patrons walking past?”
    Damon shrugged. “I’ve already done that. Not much fun,
really.”
    My turn to scowl. Fun or not, it spoiled it for me because
he had beat me to the punch. “I have to put some information together for Joe
on Regionarts. Want to give me a hand?”
    He snickered. “No, I’ll let you have all the joy.”
    Honestly,