The Devil Wears Prada

When I was still an intern, I went to a place called Beauty Bar that offers a $10 martini and manicure special. I ordered some girly drink that tasted like Kool-Aid and sat down at the station of a manicurist whose Princess Honeybuns hairdo matched the color of the liquid in my fancy plastic glass.

Like any professional esthetician, she asked me generic questions about my life. But when it came up that I worked for a record label, she became animated.

"Do they pay you anything?"

"Well, I'm an unpaid intern, but they're going to offer me a job soon," said I, youthfully optimistic.

"Listen, working in the music business will make you hate music. My friend is in artist manager. It's like adult babysitting. And it pays nothing. I worked for a record label when I was your age, and they paid me so little that I almost never went out. And when I did go out, it was because the bar down the street had a $2 Budweiser special. And I would sneak in $1.50 Budweisers from the corner store, because I needed the fifty cents."

I was highly incredulous. What better deal could I have landed than to work for an indie record label? "What do you do now?" I condescended.

Smiling proudly and satisfied, she boasted, "I'm a freelance photographer and I have my own accessories line. Plus I do this at Beauty Bar for extra cash."

At the time I thought she was a loser. She must've been terrible at her job to have had such a bad experience. I was going to work my ass off to excel. My work would be greatly appreciated. Poverty was not going to happen to me. But for some reason, that conversation was burned into my memory.

Six months later, I am in her position.

Every now and then, I get an idea for a novel/story/screenplay because my life sometimes lends itself to the cinematic. This conversation is a great example of foreshadowing.

Because I need the fifty cents.