Here’s the first in what I hope will be a continuing series of entries about my job as a tour guide at Universal Studios. Maybe it’s just me, but I think this job is really fascinating. As a Universal tour guide, you are witness to both the wide-eyed optimism of young tourists dreaming the Hollywood dream, and the crushing depression of adults who have long since given up on said dream.

First of all, there’s somebody with a parking space on the lot named Ambrose Wolfinger. This is officially the coolest name I’ve ever heard. In fact, I haven’t really been able to shut up about Ambrose Wolfinger. I should look him/her up, but it might ruin the illusion. I picture this crazy warlord, or a sexy seductress who will snap your neck back during foreplay so she can steal the code. Maybe I don’t want to find out that she’s actually just an associate producer. Maybe I want to dream. Is that so wrong, to dream?

Being a tour guide is about the stupidest way to make money. Not that you make much of it, but I’m not sure we deserve more. Half the day is spent watching TV in the break room. The other half is spent talking to an audience of 170 people, unsupervised, with the power to state that Whoopi Goldberg starred in “The Color Purple 2: Back in the Habit”, or that Universal Studios has its own private sun. Which isn’t to say that both halves of the day are not harrowing. Just the “watching TV” part can be rough. I’ve seen co-workers argue that “Ruthless People” is a funny movie, and that Kathy Griffin isn’t a terrifying cunt.

And having to entertain people can be difficult as well. Today, as we pulled out of Jaws, a young kid was crying up a storm, asking me if anything scary was left. Of course, the Mummy’s Tomb was approaching, so I couldn’t tell him we were in the clear, so I explained that something only slightly scary was coming up. He started screaming at me, asking why we had to do it. I explained to him that I didn’t create the them park, or build the robots. But it was no use. As the Mummy’s Tomb reached its height of PG-rated fright, he started screaming, “GO THROUGH IT! JUST GO THROUGH!” In his eyes, this was all my fault. I was not just a 20-something with a summer job, I was a harbinger of nightmares.

And if that weren’t enough, the third time I pulled out of Jaws for the day, the tram broke down, leaving me stranded, telling awkward jokes about Angela Lansbury being mauled by a shark, as many impatient eyes stared back at me, waiting to be entertained. At such times, I wonder if I wouldn’t be happier behind a desk, without the pressure of entertaining strangers who have very little in common with me. But when the crowd is with me and they’re down for some craziness and I’m improvising and they’re laughing, I couldn’t imagine a better way to spend 45 minutes to an hour.