Years ago, I was on my first PA job on a narrative drama TV show when, one day, I got a call from the bakery that the delivery for the morning craft service would be late because of an accident along the route. A set runs on craft service and catering. People get grumpy really fast if they don’t eat. The show’s production manager seemed to live for that delivery, because when I knocked on her office door and told her about the delay, she called me a c%#$, asked, “Can you not do one goddamn f%$#@ing thing right?” and chucked a large stoneware mug at me. It missed my head by centimeters and shattered against the door frame. I dropped to the floor so the shards wouldn’t hit my eyes, but then immediately stood up and walked out of the office, because I was not about to work for a crazy person who thought I was responsible for her not getting her danish when she wanted it. Right before I went into the subway station, her husband, an editor on the show, stopped me and convinced me to come back, saying that’s she’d forgotten to take her anti-anxiety meds that morning.