“I don’t think I want to work in that unit,” I declared. “Where’s Jerrianne?” I was already trying to go over this person’s head, looking for the bosslady in charge of the internship program.
“She’s not in today,” Pencil Skirt said matter-of-factly. “Consumer’s your unit. Give it a shot. If you don’t like it, then we’ll have a discussion.” Even in my agitated, unreasonable state, I recognized the tone of menace in that sentence. Pencil Skirt’s big strong hand hadn’t lifted me to a higher ground; it had smacked me down, hard.
It took all of an hour for me to decide that the other interns at CBS This Morning were utter dumbshits, and as time went on they did nothing to disabuse me of this notion. I remember walking into the newsroom on that first day and hearing a girl from Westchester ask our supervisor what three channels the TVs were on. That line killed me, and it also pissed me off. Why hadn’t that dummy been assigned to the freaking consumer unit? My superior attitude was a result, no doubt, of the experience I had in my many previous internships. I viewed my CBS internship as something of a graduate course—but I was the only one who saw it that way. To this day, when I look at a crop of interns, I always try to pinpoint which ones are desperate to be there and which ones are just collecting a college credit, and proceed accordingly.
My disgruntlement over not being immediately recognized as the heir apparent to Dan Rather dissipated when I realized that an internship at a network, even in the worst unit on the worst-rated morning show, beat all hell out of a summer internship at KSDK in St. Louis. Turns out we booked names as big as anybody. Henry Kissinger came on to do the weather that year! And even better, Erin Moriarty, the reporter I’d been assigned to work with, was a real journalist, not a Barbie doll with a teleprompter. She researched stories herself, spent hours on the phone chasing down leads, and was a lawyer. Plus, she had this gravelly voice and wore sexy skirts and, I would find out soon enough, did not suffer fools or cocky interns gladly.
My ’fro was gone at this point, and instead I was working my ponytail hard. My internship look also included a shirt and tie with clip-on suspenders. Occasionally, when feeling especially bold, I wore Bermuda shorts with a tie. It was my idea of dressing like a dandy, when what I probably looked like was a Dexy, or one of his Midnight Runners, or a douchebag. Oh, and I was Andrew. That’s what I wrote on my application, even though everyone had always called me Andy. (Be careful what you write on your internship application. My name became Andrew for twelve years and I almost had to go to court to change it back. My name in the credits of our shows still reads Andrew, which I guess still feels grown-up to me.)
Another advantage of working on a national show was the abundance of free food, which to a starving student (and a Jewish person) was an incredibly big deal. I think it was when I was stuffing my face with gratis carbs at the welcome lunch for interns that I began to view the actual staff—not the other interns—as my colleagues. They all seemed to be living the life that I wanted: urban, well traveled, well dressed, and well compensated. I took note of a few gayish guys on staff, only to find out later that they were in the closet. Being freshly out myself, I understood why someone might make that choice, but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine being in the closet in my thirties. I was surprised there even were closeted people in New York in 1989, and deeply relieved I wasn’t going to be one of them. I had no plans to advertise my sexuality in the workplace, but if anyone asked, I’d promised myself I’d simply tell the truth. That decision proved to be one that would guide my entire life: I’ve never hidden who I am, and being gay doesn’t define me. It is one of the things I happen to be. I’m also a Gemini, an asthmatic, and a lover of disco balls. And long walks on the beach. Call me!
Bring your college roommate to your internship day!
* * *
Of the two producers I worked for in the consumer unit, I was quickly electrified by, and quite possibly obsessed with, Lynn Redmond, a gorgeous black woman with style and a magnetic personality. I constantly stopped by her cubicle, asking her to tell me about the celebrity profiles she’d produced at Essence TV. Lynn had met everyone from Gladys Knight to Oprah, and I couldn’t get enough of her stories. (Example: Lynn had produced the Janet Jackson interview in which she revealed her secret marriage to El DeBarge, the singer of “Who’s Johnny?” from the movie Short Circuit, and a vocal dead ringer for one Michael Joseph Jackson. Which I just put together now, writing this. Ew.) One day, Lynn and I chemically bonded like atoms over a mutual love of Whitney Houston, but, as was typical when she thought she’d given me enough of her time, she said, “Okay, kid, get back to work.” I lingered in the door of her cubicle and waited a few beats.
“Can we be friends?” I asked. Subtlety was not my strong suit, and I was nervous. I wanted to be her friend so badly I could taste it.
“Friends!?!” I can still hear her incredulous, high-pitched response, as
