Picture this: it’s Friday night and it’s been a hell of a week. Something has just been aggravating you. No other way to say it. Irritation coming at you from all sides. Is it the current political climate?
Well, it’s perpetually that, but this time it’s something else, too. Is it the city air, polluted, that’s finally got you spent? Not that either. It’s the effing bus, the wait time for Ubers, the crowds. Has the city been more crowded? At night, you walk up to your favorite bar—it’s a good bar. Perhaps on Polk, perhaps Chestnut. Somewhere in North Beach. A nondescript joint in FiDi. But the line is positively out the door. Everyone looks seven years younger than you - easily. And there’s a cover charge? We don’t effing do covers here, didn’t you know? What changed overnight? Then you overhear a conversation from a group of goobers standing behind you. They’re referring to the state as “Cali” and talking about Facebook’s headquarters, amazed that it has Kombucha on tap. It hits you. It all makes sense now. God forbid.
It’s intern season.
Intern season starts in mid-to-late June when colleges across the country open the floodgates of bright-eyed, loud, supposedly intelligent students and let them out into the world. City folk like us have to deal with them for awhile. And more often than not, the interaction is NOT fun.
Most of the time, they’re just loud. For no particular reason. Maybe it’s the overconfidence or the fact that they’re used to projecting in order to be heard over the din of a DJ in a frat party basement; I swear no one is louder than a junior in college.
They spit serious game. That dude you were trying to hit on across the bar? Yeah, an intern hooked him. That girl you thought you had a chance with on MUNI this morning? She’s dating a summer MBA Associate at BlackRock.
They’re clueless. They’re big supporters of the monikers “Frisco” and “San Fran.” They love wearing flip flops. They’re the reason the cold brew is always tapped at work.
Now, I don’t mean to rag on all of them. For example, our interns at Bob Cut are some pretty rad people. Maybe you’ve got an intern that always has the best playlists, always grabs you a coffee, and is maybe a little bit in love with you? We all need one of those. We all deserve one of those. So as much as I struggle to admit it, there are a few but fundamental reasons to grin and bear them:
They’re committed (sometimes). They grind out on that project right there with you (sometimes later than you) and all for much, much less pay.
You’ve just got to admire their stamina. They somehow manage to turn a casual company happy hour into a seven-stop bar crawl, and yet also make it to All Hands earlier and more chipper than anyone else on the team.
So love them or hate them, pour one out for the interns. It’s you and Summer Friday’s that are the salt on our margarita rim.
// Photography courtesy of Unsplash.
Isabella Welch is a graduate of UCLA with a degree in history. Her writing has been featured in history journals, travel blogs, arts & culture magazines, and more. Director of Editorial & Creative Development at Bob Cut Mag, lover of stories and tinto de verano, she’s usually found wandering the Headlands.