Working as an intern means getting the weirdest errands possible daily
As the newest intern at a sprawling, impersonal marketing firm, I have quickly learned that my official job description is mostly a suggestion. My actual role is to be the human equivalent of a Swiss Army knife, but one that is constantly being jammed into situations it was never designed for. I start every morning at 8:00 AM with a neat, typed list of tasks—mostly data entry and filing—but by 9:30 AM, that list is usually discarded, replaced by the chaotic whims of Mr. Henderson, my direct supervisor. Mr. Henderson is the type of person who treats his own minor inconveniences like global crises. He is incredibly picky, possessive of his time, and entirely oblivious to the fact that I am a human being with a pulse. recently, the absurdity of my position reached a peak I did not think was possible. I was sitting at my desk, carefully inputting client names into a spreadsheet, when Mr. Henderson marched over. He did not say hello. He did not ask how I was doing. He simply dropped a small, sticky note on my keyboard with the name of a boutique grocery store located on the complete other side of the city. He told me he needed a specific brand of organic, raw honey. Not just any honey, but a specific harvest from a tiny shop that was notoriously difficult to find. He spoke to me with the gravity of a general sending a soldier into a war zone. He insisted that his entire three o'clock client presentation depended on this honey. He claimed it was for his throat, or perhaps for his nerves, but he spoke as if the success of our firm rested on this one golden jar. I did not want to argue because I desperately needed this internship on my resume. I grabbed my keys, apologized to the receptionist for leaving my station, and headed out to my car. Driving into the city at mid-morning is a special kind of hell. I sat in my sedan, staring at a sea of red brake lights, feeling the temperature in the car rise as the AC struggled against the sweltering heat. The commute, which usually took thirty minutes, ballooned into a ninety-minute odyssey. Every time I looked at the clock on the dashboard, my anxiety spiked. I was sweating through my shirt, clutching the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. By the time I finally pulled up to the curb, I was exhausted and frazzled. I parked illegally, sprinted to the sidewalk, and froze. The shop was dark. The door was locked. A small sign flipped to 'Closed' hung in the window. I felt my stomach drop into my shoes. I tapped on the glass, then knocked harder, feeling like a fool. I knew if I returned to the office empty-handed, Mr. Henderson would make my life a living nightmare. He had a way of looking at people that made you feel about an inch tall, and I was not ready to be crushed by his disappointment today. I saw a woman moving in the back, cleaning jars. I started waving my arms. I tapped on the glass again, and when she looked over, I put on my best 'please help me' face. I pleaded with her through the glass for what felt like an eternity, though it was probably about forty minutes. I felt ridiculous. There I was, a college student with a degree in progress, begging for honey like a child who had lost a toy. I explained the situation, told her about my demanding boss, and promised I would never bother her again if she just helped me out. She looked annoyed, then tired, and finally, she sighed and walked toward the door. She unlocked it just enough to slide the jar through the gap. I did not even look at the price tag; I just shoved my card into the machine, took the jar, and ran back to my car. I drove back with a level of intensity that was probably unsafe, weaving through traffic and ignoring the hunger pangs in my stomach. When I finally pulled into our office lobby, I checked my phone. It was 2:57 PM. I dashed through the revolving doors, ignored the confused look from the security guard, and sprinted to the elevator. I arrived at the conference room breathless and disheveled. I opened the door, and the room went quiet. I walked to the head of the table and placed the jar of honey in front of Mr. Henderson. He looked at me for a long, silent moment. He didn't thank me. He didn't ask if I was okay after being stuck in that traffic for hours. He simply checked his watch, nodded once, and opened the jar. He took a single spoonful, stirred it into his tea, and took a sip, looking satisfied. He then stood up, adjusted his tie, and began his presentation as if I were a ghost who had just appeared to deliver a prop. I quietly retreated to the back of the room, standing against the wall for the next hour as he talked about strategy and efficiency. My feet hurt, my head was throbbing from the stress, and my uniform shirt was still damp with sweat. It was one of those long, hard days that makes you stare at the ceiling at night and ask, 'Why am I doing this?' But as I stood there watching him, I realized that this is just the reality of the internship world. You are not there to be a partner or a peer; you are there to be the solution to someone else's inconveniences. You do not get a prize for the extra miles you run or the errands you complete. You just get the privilege of coming back tomorrow to do it all over again. I took a deep breath and decided that I would keep going. Maybe the experience would teach me what I never want to be like when I am finally the one in charge. For now, the honey was delivered, the meeting was saved, and I had managed to keep my job for at least one more week.