American Intern

I live in the Milano building in Crescent Village in North San Jose. As Silicon Valley apartment complexes go, the Crescent Village is fairly normal. It’s got swimming pools, tennis courts, a fitness center, a gaming room, a 23-seat movie theater, and roughly 1,750 apartments spread over five buildings.

Since I moved in last month, I have had loud parties, late-night hot-tubbing sessions, and generally involved myself in other, nefarious, un-neighborly behavior. I’ve even jaywalked.

Hundreds of other Google interns live here, but my business card reigns supreme over theirs. I’ve checked.

We Google interns are the young princes of the Valley. We earn hefty salaries, are shuttled between our private quarters in Crescent Village and the Google campus in lavish corporate buses, and are given free laundry services, gym memberships and dancing lessons. Don’t even get me started on the food at the Google cafes.

But I digress — back to my Crescent Village home. My fellow interns and I frequently commandeer the hot tubs at night for parties, even in the middle of the night. Security is powerless to stop us.

The neighbors frequently complain about the loud music and screams coming from my apartment late at night.

But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself. No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.

This confession has meant nothing.