files empty, but, as yet, this is no concern.rnAs is indicated bv the mere handfulrnof pink slips pinned to a large bulletinrnlioard, representatives from most of thernuniversities that will be conducting interviewsrnhave vet to arrive. T’he’ will be doingrnso later tonight or tomorrow. UnlikernEmmitt, I have no prearranged interviews.rnBut since I was visiting Englandrnduring the two-week period when recruitingrndepartments were phoning candidates,rnI assume, as docs Emmitt, thatrnthose who are interested in talking to mernw ill simplv contact me here bv lea ing arnnote in mv file.rnAfter a bottle of Pete’s Wicked Ale atrna bar on Boylston Street, I return to myrnroom and watch a preview of holidavrnbowl games on ESPN, the last halfrnof “NYPD Blue,” and the local news.rnMy head is pounding. I scribble a postcardrnto my girlfriend in England. Thernprospects of her joining me in NorthrnAmerica, at least in the foreseeable future,rndepend in large part on my fortunesrnhere. At this stage, I figure, no news isrngood news.rnDecember 28th, morning: We get ourrnwake-up call at 7:30 ,.M., stretch, wash,rnand dress, then head out for breakfast.rnAs we stand around waiting for the elevator,rnEmmitt, a veteran of these conferences,rntells me that if my file in thernPlacement Centre has no recjucsts for interviewsrnin it by late this afternoon, myrnprospects don’t look good. It soundsrnominous and almost callously matter-offact,rnbut I appreciate his seasoned assessment.rnFor the first time, 1 feel vaguchrndespondent. “God,” I wheeze absentlvrnto Emmitt, “I wonder if I’ll attract anyrnnotice at all.” A moment passes beforernwe look at each other and chuckle. Inadvertently,rnmy remark has at once capturedrnand caricatured the nature of thernrelationship between desperate job-seekerrnand disdainfully persnicketv institution,rnas if the one were a tart by the roadside,rnshowing a bit of leg to the other,rnhoping to hitchhike her way to tenuretrackrnbliss.rnAfter breakfast in the hotel restaurant,rnwe leave for the Placement Centre. It’srn11:00 A.M., when the APA is at its mostrnhideous. Anxious, milling academics,rntired of life in Ijubbock, Dubuque, orrnKalamazoo, frustrated by years of taxingrndoctoral work and thankless part-timernlecturing, check their numbered filesrnwith damp, fretting fingers, their rovingrneyes comparing fortunes. Like me.rn”Nothing in mine,” says Emmitt.rnNor mine, I find.rnI check the message board, now full ofrnpink slips. All have a check next to thernline, “prearranged interviews only.” iMnmittrnhas one such interview with a Midwestrncollege. I shake his hand and wi.shrnhim good luck.rnAlthough the possibility remains thatrnI’ll be contacted later in the day, I am notrnhopeful. And however much I preparedrnmyself for the possibilit of having no interviews,rnI cannot help but feci disappointed.rnSince this is also the APA at itsrnmost voyeuristic, I tell mself not to giverntoo much away, not to appear too flustered,rnnot to gulp too drvK, not to avoidrnmaking eve contact too unnaturally. Afterrnall, I tell mself, it’s a ferociously competitivernmarket. Times arc tough, politicalrnshenanigans abound. It’s not me.rnStill, what am I going to do? Like allrnthe otlier luckless ones, I make a sort ofrnstammering retreat, trxing pitifully tornmaintain an air of defiant pride as I makernmy way back out into the crowded foyerrnand down the escalatf)r.rnDecember 2Hth, early afternoon: In arnchair by the windrm-, I sit moroscK pondering.rnA cleaning lad arrives. She is arnSalvadoran named Rosa who, though arnresident in the United States for fivernyears, has trouble with English. After arnmoment or two of tortured conversation,rnI leave to take in the Publishers’ E.xhibitrnon the third floor. Wandering fromrnbookstall to bookstall will provide solace,rnI figure. Here, I can forget about all thernignored applications, unrequited interest,rnand phantom intcrlews.rnI collect catalogues at the displayrnbooths of arious university presses, lingeringrnin particular at Penn State andrnCornell. At the latter, I half hope thatrnthe press rep will approach me, sensing arnsale. I imagine casually mentioning tornhim that two of my friends have recentlyrnpublished books with Cornell and arernprominently featured in their glossy catalogue,rnto which he replies snideh’, “Iley,rnthat almost makes vou famous.” But herndoesn’t approach and I’m relieved.rnAt the Ilaekett booth, the press reprnasks if he can be of service. I ask him thernprice of one of the displayed books. Hernsavs, “$12.95 ordinariK, but only 59.50 atrnthe professional rate.” I find this mildlyrnreassuring. I am, in spite of everything, arnpro.rnDecember 28th, mid-afternoon: Atrn3:15 P.M., it’s time to return to the PlacementrnCentre. I approach file #213. Stillrnnothing. I can’t get over it, although I’mrnnot quite sure what it is that I can’t getrnover: the lack of response to mv applicationsrnor my naivcK having expected anyrnresponse at all. Self-consciously, I headrnback out as quickh as I came in. A gagglernof crumpled tweed and designerrnstubble huddles in earnest conversationrnwhile others scribble information froiurnnotes posted on a large bulletin boardrnbefore racing headlong back to theirrnfiles. This contrast between near-masonicrnetiquette and creepmg anxiety isrncurious. One might say symptomatic.rnAt the top of the escalator, I notice thernfamiliar face of Ra, another friend fromrnCambridge. W’e have not seen each otherrnsince he lent me his chilly flat on PortugalrnPlace while he went off to dornresearch in Germany. I landsome in hisrnshirt, tie, and brown tweed jacket, hernseems flustered. He has an interview, hernsays, with a small teaching college inrnMichigan. Since he has yet to register, Irnwalk back with him to the registrationrndesk on the fourth floor of the Marriott.rnWe agree to meet near the hotel restaurantrnat 5:00 P.M. and grab a coffee. Butrnwhen he shows u]5 he looks shattered.rn”Horrible,” he savs in a parchedrnmonotone. “Thev spent most of therntime telling me how ugh’ tfie campus is,rnhow congested the area is, how big myrnclasses would be, how bad the studentsrnarc, and how little thev pay.” Rather absently,rnhe introduces me to a womanrnnamed Phoebe who has a sabbaticalreplacementrnappointment in Winnipeg.rnShe asks mc, “Anv luck?” I say, “Not atrnall. Not a single interview. How ’boutrnyou?”rn”I’ive,” she answers brightlv.rnI have always been told that applicantsrndo extrcmelv well at the APA if thev getrntwo or three interview s. Eyebrows raised,rnI grudgingly rcplv, “That’s something,”rnbefore adding, more gcnerouslv, “Goodrnfor vou.”rn”This isn’t for me,” Ray laments, hisrneves fixed on some indistinct point onrnthe mezzanine wall. “You know,” hernsays, addressing me more firmlv, “I’vernbeen thinking of leaving this behindrncompletely. Mavbc teach at a privaternschool or something.”rn”‘^’cah,” I re|)lv, unsurprised, havingrnthought similar thoughts.rnDecember 28th, evening: Back in thernroom, Emmitt tells me he will be meetingrna couple of department mates forrnsupper at the Atlantic Eish Companv onrnBoylston and invites me along. I’d lovernto, but decline. I have friends to visit.rn42/CHRONICLESrnrnrn