The suburb of Baldwin Park, bastard stepchild of Los Angeles, was the antithesis of Hollywood. Nevertheless, it was where I began my morning commute and returned home after a day of work at the public relations company in the entertainment world where I interned.

It was a short walk down a dusty road to the bus that left at 45-minute intervals. I always arrived early to make sure I caught the one that would get me to the office of Levine/Schneider by 8 in the morning when it officially opened. I was tired, of course, at 5 in the morning, but resting on the bus stop bench was not an option. The seat was suspended above a series of bizarrely massive anthills. Even if I raised my feet and let them dangle off the ground, somehow, the ants would crawl up my legs.

It was such a long journey to Hollywood. I read between bus arrivals. I always feared taking the wrong bus, so I could never really focus on my books. I had stolen my sister’s library card at the beginning of the summer. I don’t think she would have minded if she had known what I had done; she was working all the time and wouldn’t have made much use of it anyway.

I lived with her for free because I had no income. My internship was unpaid, which meant I was genuinely poor. It was a strange existence. I lived below the poverty line and, at the same time, was an intern for some of the wealthiest people in the world, living a glamorous lifestyle. Being a Hollywood celebrity wasn’t the phenomenon it is today, but it was still quite dazzling for someone not part of that world.

I was practically too poor to eat. The bus fare was more important to me than groceries. I had a specific "diet." I bought a croissant from the bakery down the street from the office. I ate small portions during the day, and that had to last me 24 hours. Maybe I was malnourished, but at least I was thin. This was L.A., after all. I had to adapt as best I could.

In the office, everything was always a bit over the top. A bit too big. A bit too flashy. When you walked into the reception area, the walls filled from floor to ceiling with hundreds of client portraits already made an impression. The photos continued down the main hallway and beyond to the heart of the company, the executives’ offices.

David Bowie. Demi Moore. Janet Jackson. Prince. Sound Garden. George Carlin. Ozzy Osbourne. Most clients were at the height of their careers, and we were there to protect them and make them “shine.” The spotlight was business, and it was our daily routine.

The executives paired me with publicist Luisa Farina. She had just returned from medical leave. Apparently, she contracted hepatitis C while on vacation in Cancun.

She had “met” a guy, and, you know, shit happens.

Luisa was happy to be back at work and looking for a partner-in-crime, and I was an eager candidate. She was the head of the “Break Out” division, whose clients were those who had just started making their mark in the entertainment industry, with few credits to their name.

Life in the office revolved around keeping the clients happy. No surprises there. We fine-tuned their magazine and television exposure. As publicists, we were one cog in a client’s machine, composed of agents, managers, lawyers, and others.

There was synergy in how everything worked. Let’s say a client had a job as an actor on a TV show: the better their profile, the more publicity they received. Publicists were tasked with creating press kits and pitching stories to "news" outlets. With better articles, the Hollywood community paid more attention to the actor. More work came about for our client. Managers and agents negotiated new deals. Lawyers finalized contracts. And so on and so forth.

My office was a closet. You could touch the walls by stretching your arms. I had a phone and a desk with a chair, and that was it. I remember my first assignment was to talk to the three twenty-something founders of the production company, Camden Film Group. I had to write a biography for the press kit because Luisa was not a writer. Neither was I, but I would do anything to set foot in that office. I lied about my writing skills during the interview.

One of the guys, Josh Telowitz, wanted to become the next Woody Allen. I remember him telling me about participating in a famous art show at LACMA. He sat on a bench in front of a large painting, typing on his laptop, and he was mistaken for part of the exhibit. I don’t know if that really happened. I could say that he distorted the truth quite a bit to feel creative. He believed he was more fascinating than I think he actually was, but I liked him anyway.

Josh told me stories about socializing with pop culture icons. I was envious. You see, Levine/Schneider interns were known for making appearances at Hollywood parties, but I never took advantage of the invitations because of my finances. In hindsight, I probably saved myself from developing a drug and alcohol addiction. The industry fueled such temptations.

There was always a lot of drama in the office.

Take, for instance, the case of Jenine Jennings. Just like the Camden guys, she was new to the Hollywood scene, having previously worked as a cruise ship dancer since leaving home as a teenager. She was the dancer for Kim Basinger’s voice in the partly live-action, partly animated film “Cool World” and Brad Pitt’s on-screen partner in one of his least-known roles. Luisa and I suspected that Jenine got the job because she slept with the director. No judgment. That’s just how things worked; I suppose.

When production ended, Kim wanted to erase any reference of Jenine’s contribution to the project. She wanted to take credit for Jenine’s body and movement. I think Luisa worked for free because she felt sorry for her. Jenine was a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown. We gave her a little respite on the evening of the film’s premiere. We dressed her up as Marilyn Monroe, in a dress just like the one she wore in “The Seven Year Itch.” Successfully overshadowing a star like Kim Basinger, as Jenine did, was a triumph. The National Enquirer briefly mentioned the animation dance controversy due to the hype. We were all excited.

Neither Camden Film Group, nor Jenine Jennings, nor any other client I worked with at Levine/Schneider became “big,” but I still had a lot of fun working with them. Fame was fun. They were all so confident about their chances of making it. I experienced the same thing because I was essentially living my secret dreams of fame through them.

I left the industry as soon as my savings could no longer support my lifestyle. Probably for the best. Few clients emerged from obscurity to become celebrities. I didn’t stay long enough to experience the crumbling of their careers. My memories of Hollywood were not tainted by their disappointments.