A brief moment with Diddy.

I can’t even remember where I found the listing for the production assistant gig. It must have been Craigslist. The ad was blunt and unimpressive: Production Assistant needed for music video. Location: Manhattan. $X per day. (It wasn’t much. Quite laughable if I remember.)

I applied, got a call, and was told to show up one morning in the Meatpacking District. I should have realized then and there that it would be a shit show. No one gets hired for anything important without a vet, an interview.

The call time was painfully early. I remember taking multiple subways, still half asleep, trying to convince myself this was how careers began.

I wore all black. That's what a PA wears, right?

When I arrived, I was told to find the person in charge of the PAs. He was a man in his thirties, maybe. It was hard to tell. All I really registered was that it was very early, and he was already stressed. His exact title? Pretty sure he was the Assistant to the Assistant Producer. Something like that.

The video was for a new artist recently signed to Bad Boy Entertainment, Cheri Dennis. The song was titled “I Love You.” (Original, I know.)

What surprised me most was how bare bones the whole thing felt. There was no spectacle, no glamour. The setup was minimal. Cheri wasn’t dripping in costumes. Nothing looked expensive. Was the budget $100?

Onlookers gathered along the cobblestone streets where we were shooting. They stared, confused. What exactly was happening here?

The shopping scenes in the Meatpacking District were among the film’s only exterior locations; everything else would be shot inside a nearby rental house.

For me, there was almost nothing to do. Not yet.

We filmed Cheri walking up and down the street. Up and down, up and down. Over and over. My job was to stay alert, pay attention, and be available. Did I zone out? Absolutely. I was bored almost immediately.

Once they had the footage they wanted, we packed up and moved to the rental house. That’s when I got my first real assignment.

“Take this bus and pick up some of the extras at X and X,” the AP said. (Again, poor memory here, but we were within the Chelsea area now.)

I took the keys without hesitation. It wasn’t until I stood in front of the vehicle that I realized what I’d agreed to. The “bus” was a massive van, a ten-plus seater. I don’t think it required a special license, but I had never driven anything like it. I was twenty-four and drove a hatchback roughly the size of a roller skate.

I was too embarrassed to admit I couldn’t do it. It was my first task of the day. I climbed in, started the engine, and headed out.

I was nervous as fuck. I drove slowly, or at least I think I did. My nerves took hold. I became more worried about getting lost than about driving correctly. At one tight turn, I thought I heard metal scraping on metal. I didn’t feel anything, though. I didn’t see anything in the side view either. Shrug.

I picked up the extras, who looked at me with thinly veiled confusion. The collective expression of the day seemed to be: Is this it?

When we returned to the house, I silently hoped I’d be reassigned. I did not want to get back behind the wheel of that van. The fact that I hadn’t crashed already felt miraculous.

The day dragged on. After hours of hearing the song on repeat, you didn’t just dislike it; you hated it. Truly hated it.

The AP had nothing for me to do. It was disappointing. I’d been hired as an assistant who barely assisted. I was just there, occupying space. I never realized how profoundly unexciting music videos could be.

Then Jim Jones arrived.

I didn’t know who he was at the time. Just another rapper, I thought. He entered the house like he owned it, already coming in hot with an attitude. A blunt hung from his mouth.

“You really can’t smoke that in here,” the AP said, cautiously.

Jones removed the blunt and blew smoke directly in the AP’s face, then toward the ceiling. It was rude and deliberate. No one challenged him. His entourage quickly claimed the space as their own. Jones came and went as he pleased.

Then, finally.

“I have something for you to do,” the AP said, turning to me. “Go to the nearest cell phone store and pick up two Bluetooth earpieces for these guys.”

I looked over his shoulder at Jones’ crew — his emotional support friends. If Jim Jones meant nothing to me, they meant even less.

I was there to serve his posse now, to make sure they were comfortable, which, at that moment, meant shopping for them. I was basically assigned as their bitch.

I walked to the nearest store — AT&T, I think. Bluetooth was all the rage at the time, and there were so many options: cheap ones, expensive ones. I grabbed whatever, if I’m being honest. It took me a while to get back. When I did, I went upstairs to show them what I’d bought.

They looked at the earpieces. Then at me. Then back at the earpieces. Then at me again.

The look said, what the fuck is this shit?

They didn’t like them. I was told to go back out and get something else.

Back to AT&T.

I was furious. Who do they think they are? When am I going to be involved in the actual production?

Back at the store, I grabbed a different model, whatever seemed better, and headed back. I made sure to disappear as soon as I handed them over. I think they accepted them. Either that, or they sent someone else out for a third attempt.

I spent the rest of the time stalking the AP, or even the producer.

“Can I do anything? Can I do anything?”

No. Just wait. Stay close.

It was eye-opening to see how many different rooms we used to make it look like we were all over NYC. The rental house had three or four floors, each styled a little differently — enough for every mood.

The “club scene” was shot in the basement with a few flashing lights. No real music playing. Just “I Love You” on repeat.

It was around midnight. I was barely hanging on when people started stirring, whispering, looking around. Word spread that Puff Daddy was in the building.

This was 2007, so Diddy — as we knew him then — was at the top of his game. Practically hip-hop royalty.

He really was there. I saw him. I pulled out my LG flip phone and took the most pixelated picture imaginable. He was wearing an all-white jumpsuit and shades (because of course he was). Everyone was excited to be in his presence, but no one lost their composure. Everyone stayed cool, whether it was out of respect or fear. After all, he was the boss.

He wasn’t there long, if I remember correctly. He popped in, offered a few suggestions, inserted himself into a shot, and then disappeared. The set tightened while he was there, so I was brushed off — I couldn’t have gotten close even if I’d tried.

Fuck this. The shoot was clocking in at nearly twenty-four hours, and all I had done so far was pick up extras and run errands for Jones’ crew.

I wandered the house looking for someone to latch onto and share my frustration with. Lo and behold, I stumbled upon the props team. “Props.” A few outfits. Some throw pillows. I swear. Just a guy and a girl. I chatted with them for a bit and ended up hiding in that room until the shoot wrapped. And it did soon after. Yep. Just like that. All shot in one day. The longest day in the world.

Before we were released, sometime around 3 or 4 a.m., the AP gathered all the PAs.

“Which one of you sideswiped three cars this morning?” he asked. There had been a call. A police report.

There were only a few of us, and we had all taken turns driving the vans for errands and pickups. It had to be me. I just knew it. That was the sound I’d heard.

But immature and naive, terrified this would tank my tiny career, I said nothing. The other PAs said nothing either. Of course, they didn’t! They hadn’t done it. We all stared at our shoes. The AP looked at each of us, long, waiting for someone to crack.

Not me, I kept repeating in my head, until it almost sounded believable.

When no one came forward, he threw his hands up. I guess Bad Boy Entertainment took care of it. I felt terrible. I really did. But I was more afraid than sorry.

I got on the train back to the Bronx. The car was empty, which felt unsettling until I realized it was because it was so early. People were waking up to go to work, and I was heading home from a complete disaster.

Would I ever hear from that producer or casting guy again? Would they figure out it was me, Mr. Magoo, who drove the van into other cars?

I didn’t know.

You can watch the music video here: Cheri Dennis, I love you.