They were both 23 and perhaps I was too cocky, but they were just interns. They looked fresh faced and dewy-eyed. When I was 23 I was running the publicity of a magazine. In two years, times have changed.
They were both 23 and both incredibly hopefully. They practically sweat anticipation.
“What’s your dream?” asked the smaller one. “What do you want to do?”
I shrugged. “I want to do something big in the media, something executive and important. And I also want to write a novel.”
Their eyes glowed. Their beers got warm.
“So I guess you could say I’m currently working my way toward both of those goals.”
“What about you?”
The small one wiped some foam off of his upper lip. “Well, my dream job is to write for the New Yorker. I studied writing at Harvard and I knew that was my goal the second I got there. I just knew.”
“And I’d also like to publish books. But first—definitely first—I want to write for the New Yorker.”
“Good luck.” I turned to the bigger one. “What’s your dream job?”
“An assistant director.”
“An assistant?” I almost choked on my drink.
“Lots of stuff gets in the way of a director making a good movie—like contracts and paperwork and managing all sorts of issues. I want to be the guy that handles all of those contracts so the director can make an awesome film.”
The smaller one was smiling. I was laughing.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“Oh nothing. I hope you get your dream job.”