the intern | part II
Photo Credit: KirillWasHere.com
Part II: How to Lose a Job in 10 Days (or less) | Happened: June 27, 2009
I had been trying to get my hands on any kind of plastic ID that would get me into the hot venues in the city. I had a dream internship with unlimited drinks being handed to me, and I couldn’t even get into the clubs. I tried asking for my brother’s duplicate, calling around old friends for spares, but no one was in the mood for doing such a favor for me.
A couple of friends had pointed me in the direction of a sketchy tattoo parlor that supposedly made flawless fake ID’s in the back room. I had sat on this idea for a couple days, twirling my thumbs looking for alternatives before paying $150 for an ID. I finally gathered my thoughts and hopped on the subway to find this place. My stomach was telling me that I was nervous, and I was sweating. I knew that this probably wasn’t the smartest thing I could be doing. A couple of blocks past the subway, I came upon the parlor. I walked by once just to check it out and all of the employees stared back. Great, this was going badly already. I turned around and walked back into the store, everyone inside silent. Bongs and other paraphernalia lined the display cases. They didn’t open up with the customary “Welcome, how may we be of assistance to you,” so I broke the ice.
“Hey, you guys make ID’s here right,” my voice cracking as I barely got the sentence out.
“No, I don’t know nothing about that,” said one of the guys behind the counter. Another employee across the room surprisingly wanted to strike up conversation with me.
“You lift or you just do calisthenics?” he asked rapidly. I had to ask him to repeat himself three times before we had a clear line of communication. Needless to say, I hadn’t established rapport with any of the three guys in the store.
“I just lift,” I told the guy who was randomly intrigued by my workout routine. “So, you guys don’t know where I can get an ID?” I said nervously. It looked like they were more nervous than I was. It finally dawned on me that they thought I was a cop.
“How old are you?” they asked me in an interrogating tone.
“Twenty,” I replied back confidently. I look like I’m way older that twenty. I’ve always been a big guy, and they couldn’t believe that I was underage. I finally dismissed myself from the dead-end conversation and left empty handed.
I had hit a wall. I was too old to buy a fake ID, and too young to get into the bars and clubs. I was stuck in the middle of the underage drinking laws in our country.
–
Chachi had invited me to go with him to Tenjune. Never in my life would I have imagined being able to do this… I was thrilled.
I had spent all week trying to find an ID to use. My luck hadn’t worked out at the tattoo parlor that supposedly sold ID’s, so I was desperately sending out mass texts and pleas to my entire network of contacts. An acquaintance who I barely knew (besides the fact that he was the promoter for my spring break trip) named Tony finally had the solution. He had a friend who looked like me who he was going to try to convince to give me his ID. Finally, someone who looks like me besides Tim Tebow.
Tony wanted to meet outside the club he was promoting, Forum, at 10:30pm. I got there early, just to be on the safe side.
I stood outside for an hour. To anybody who saw me, I looked like an awkward drug dealer. This was ridiculous. My head was spinning; I had to walk into Tenjune with Chachi at 11:45, otherwise it would be hell trying to get by the door guy, Alex. Finally, Tony shows up, and I handed over $100 for the ID. This felt more and more like a drug deal every minute that went by.
Tony was promoting at Forum in midtown and wanted me to chill for a little bit. I was supposed to be across the city in 15 minutes, but I figured I’d at least go in for a drink. We went over to a table full of girls and he introduced me to them all. I was still figuring out the whole NYC cheek kiss thing, which I had been told WAS NOT for use on the first meeting. Nevertheless, I leaned in and gave the first girl a kiss on the cheek. While doing so, my drink leaned with me and I poured my vodka cranberry on this girl’s leg.
I think Tony saw this happen, and he immediately saved the situation with “Yeah, he is working for Dj Chachi!” All the girls (even the one with her sticky knee covered in my drink) were immediately intrigued.
Chachi and I arrived at tenjune to see a huge line outside. As we were walking away from the cab, Chachi realized he left his iPhone in the cab. Luckily he managed to get the cab driver’s attention and get his phone back, otherwise I would have probably had to spend the night chasing down his phone instead of partying at tenjune. In retrospect, that may have worked out better considering the night that ensued:
Alex, the infamous doorman at tenjune, opened the rope for us and we descended down the stairs into tenjune, which is below the steakhouse STK (all part of EMM Group conglomerate of clubs and restaurant venues).
Chachi introduced me to all of security and the bartenders, which I thought was cool. The bartender later claimed she had no idea who I was, so I had to pay for a drink. I opened my wallet to see that I only had three 1-dollar bills left. Where did all my money go? I had a momentary sobering moment (keyword momentary) because I knew that if I paid with a credit card, I’d have to show my ID too. At that point, I did what I knew always gets anyone out of awkward situations: played really dumb. I handed her my credit card and pretended not to be able to understand her when she said “Need your ID!” (Thanks Chachi for drowning her out with The Ting Tings) I kept shrugging my shoulders and playing stupid and finally she lost patience and swiped my card. She handed me the receipt for my cranberry and vodka – $18.38. Seriously?!
My buddy Tony had apparently gotten bored of Forum and texted me about tenjune. I had my Patron tequila wings on and for some reason I thought I could get him in.
“YEAHH dude get over here it’s WILDD I’ll get u in,” I said via text message.
Tony shows up (wearing white loafers) with a friend. and I run up the stairs like I own the place. Alex the door guy is quick to say “nope,” with no explanation.
I probably should have called it a night right there and told Tony I couldn’t make it work. But I had the brilliant idea to text Chachi, during his set, about Alex not letting me bring friends in.
“Yoo alex isn’t letting my friends in,” I sent via text.
Alex had already texted Chachi about my friends and seeing what was up.
I quickly got a response from Chachi: MATT GET BACK IN HERE.
Shit. So now I look like the rogue intern that takes the liberty to invite friends to an exclusive club on my FIRST night on the job.
After about ten minutes of back and forth outside arguing with the doorguy, I get back down to the deejay booth and Chachi says one thing to me: “I’m going to kill you.”
By then, my buzz was completely gone and the night was pretty much soured. Chachi’s friend, Sam, asked me for my phone and then tapped this out in the Notes section:
And that’s advice I’ve 100% absorbed. Now when friends ask if I can get them in to clubs, I respond “NOO what makes you think I can do that” Hopefully this was a mini-incident that won’t repeat itself in my life.
Right before leaving, Chachi told me to be at his place tomorrow at 1pm for a meeting. It was supposed to be my day off, but turned into somewhat of a low point. I was hungover with a throbbing headache, it was balls-to-the-wall hot in the City, and I was walking over to my boss’s apartment to either get scolded or fired. I looked like a dog that had just pooed on the carpet.
I had a 2-month lease on my apartment, what was I going to do if I got fired?? My mind was skimming every bad outcome. After a brief (but effective) meeting with Chachi and a “WTF were u thinking?!” I realized that I still had my job. It was basically punishment day though; I had to assemble a new 30-pair shoe rack and bring tons of packages to the post office. A small price to pay for acting like a complete idiot outside one of Meatpacking’s trendiest clubs.
