For a brief moment, Thomas Watson Kennedy was my intern.

I didn’t need an intern, but when I saw Thomas Kennedy’s application, I couldn’t resist the opportunity. For one, I really liked the idea because it’s my theory that when you have an intern, you have officially “made it.” So, when I saw the application, which I later found was sent to the wrong address, I immediately gave Thomas a call. I would be lying if his last name wasn’t part of his allure. I made up a list of all the people he could know or could be related to and, with each name I added, I became more excited. I, Seth Reiss, would have a Kennedy as my intern, and it would change my life forever … for a year … for a small portion of a month.

When I called the Kennedy boy, I was so nervous I actually had several heart palpitations. I dialed the number about a dozen times, only to get to its last digit and hang up. What would I say? How would I address him? Mr. President?

“Hello?” said a voice from the other line. I must have dialed unconsciously.

“Um … hello. Uh, could you please put Thomas on the phone, please?”

“This is Tom.” The voice didn’t sound like a Kennedy’s.

“Could you please put on the other Thomas in your room then? Thanks.”

“Nope, it’s just me. Tom Kennedy.”

I immediately hung up the phone. His résumé was so deceiving. It just oozed Kennedy. Now, I could have done either one of two things: One, I could have forgotten that I had ever received Thomas Kennedy’s résumé via Quaaludes; Or two, I could pretend that Thomas Kennedy was, in fact, a real Kennedy and use him as my intern anyway.

I dialed him up again and told Thomas that I wanted him to intern for me – an “Accomplished author.” I stressed “accomplished” so much and said it so many times that I finally understood why there were two “c”s in the word. He was a bit confused as to how I had received a résumé from someone who was in his third year of law school at the University of Pennsylvania, and I explained to him that the name “Thomas Kennedy” was at the top of everyone’s list – even the lists of accomplished authors like myself.

Before Kennedy arrived at my office, everything was in place. I positioned three stuffed moose heads on the wall, letting him know that I was a sportsman, while psychologically letting him know that I was a man who handled large guns. I made sure my desk was stacked high on one side with 13 copies of Faulkner’s “The Sound and the Fury,” while the other side was equally as high, consisting of three copies of James Joyce’s “Ulysses.” On the wall behind me was my diploma from Connellsville High School, but under the right lighting, and from where Thomas Kennedy would be sitting, it looked like it was from Cornell. The capper was the small glass of bourbon on my desk, which was actually coke diluted with water. To think, all this completed 20 minutes after Mayor Menino left his office.

Thomas Kennedy was six feet tall with striking black hair and equally striking brown eyes. His black suit had a hint of a pin stripe, which was brought out even more by the silver in his tie. I wasn’t wearing pants. “Would you like some bourbon?” I offered. “No Thank you,” he said. Close one. God, he was handsome. Was he a Kennedy after all?

“You look kind of young,” Kennedy said.

“These eyes have seen more than my face shows,” I responded. “Bourbon?”

“Uh, no. Spent some time at Cornell, huh?”

“Yes.” I loved the way he just glazed over my degree, acting as if my time at Cornell was just another “thing” in a whole mess of things. “I think we should get started right away,” I said. Thomas Kennedy then took out his notepad and pen, like he was about to take a dictation, which, in turn, gave me chills. I didn’t even have a dictation planned, but I made one up anyhow. I had officially “made it.”

Throughout the week, Thomas met me at select locations because I was “way too busy to get back to the office.” I gave him menial tasks, often handing him sheets of paper while saying, “Fax these somewhere.” The aloofness in my demands only aided to my “accomplished author” persona. Kennedy believed I was constantly testing him and thought that when he eventually passed the tests, I would give him something amazing to do. I was slightly attracted to his tenacity … and that’s all. I swear.

Thomas Kennedy left me after one week, not because he found out who I was, but because he thought the internship was paid. He probably thought that because I said it was. I pleaded with him to stay, not because I had fallen in love with having an intern, but because I had fallen in love with Thomas Kennedy. I had become entranced by his charisma, his charm, the way he entered a room and controlled it, his panache with the ladies.

“Well are you one, or not?” I asked before he left.

“Are you a Reiss?” He asked.

I told him I was.

“Then that should be good enough, right?”

I realized he answered my question with another question and made me feel good in the process. I didn’t even have a clue what he meant. So politically savvy they are.

Seth Reiss, a junior in the

College of Communication, is a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.