Shut Up Im Talking

"We don't offer internships," the ambassador told me. Oh, wonderful, I thought. Then what exactly am I doing here? Why had I been put through their intense security procedures? And why did some disembodied voice named Yaron now know the names of most of my childhood friends, my opinions on the different law school classes I was taking, my sexual preferences, and the nationality of my roommate? I fought the urge to start yelling incoherently out of sheer frustration. The ambassador asked, "Do you want a job instead?" "Pardon me?" I replied, thinking I had misheard him. "The chances of you getting a job here were exactly zero," he told me, which I thought was strange after he'd seemingly just offered me a job. "There is generally no chance for a resume to reach me, and if it does, I usually just throw it away." He paused to gauge my reaction. I must have looked like someone trying hallucinogenic drugs for the first time. "I don't know how it got to me in the first place, or how you got in the door," he continued. "It just so happens, though, that our speechwriter is leaving soon. Would you like to come on as a sort of deputy speechwriter on a part-time basis, and then if everything goes well, this summer you will become the actual speechwriter and take over?" Slightly frazzled and more than a little bit shocked, I didn't know what to say. The ambassador smiled in obvious amusement, and repeated, "Because we don't offer internships." Book jacket.