Perhaps the biggest occupational hazard is the temptation to live beyond one's means while off-duty. On a business trip to London, Rich Whalen, a Web producer, got to fly first-class -- which costs $2,800 each way. "There's this room," he whispers. "They throw drinks at you even before you get on the plane. They have these phones you can call wherever you want and leather couches. If you don't know about it, it's good -- you can never go back."

A guy could get used to that kind of treatment -- and many do. "The last restaurant I went to with a rep was Gotham Bar and Grill," says Foreman. "It was phenomenal. So when I went out this weekend, I found myself saying, 'Let's go to a nice dinner -- I'll pick up this round, no problem!' You get acclimated to consuming and not worrying about the money, but when there's no rep around, you're fucked."

It can be hard to keep things in perspective -- not to mention stay out of debt. "I keep saying I can't do this forever," says a television editor. "That's why I have delusions of grandeur. My plan is screenwriting, but it's pretty slim."

In the end, the Poverty Elite is its own kind of aristocracy. It's a rite of passage -- living a glammed-up vie bohème for a few years before getting promoted out of it. "I thought about changing jobs," says Foreman, "but I decided not to. Even if they'd pay me $40,000, if you add up the costs of the tickets, trips, and everything, it's still more than that." There's a feeling of superiority, too. "When you pass by a line at a screening because you're on the list," says Barlin. "You do get that ego boost. You're thinking, Ha, ha! I'm not a chump."

On a recent Thursday evening, Sardinas and Jankowski wait for the elevator to FHM's launch party. Tommy Hilfiger steps out as they get in. Once upstairs, they plop down on the leather chairs as if in their own living room. "That's Mark Ronson," says Jankowski, pointing to the D.J. whom they know from their side gig as party promoters. "Now I got to go dance, warm up the legs."

Sardinas sips his vodka and scans the celebrity-spattered crowd for co-workers, pausing to admire actress Jennifer Esposito's python heels. "Half my group got invited to dinner at the Russian Tea Room," he says. "But I wasn't real into the menu." An overzealous friend they've brought along feverishly picks through the five gift bags she's collected. When she drops them to bolt for LL Cool J's autograph, they laugh and shake their heads. "This is like two years running for us: We get in, get drinks, eats," Sardinas says, checking his watch. "Then we move on to the next."

Related:

• Archive: “Features”
• Articles by Sarah Bernard
• Table of Contents: Mar 20, 2000 issue of New York | Subscribe!