Just before leaving for my first Modern Language Association Convention, I chanced to read Kurt Spellmeyer quoting Marshall Gregory in College English: 

As a student deeply immersed in [my] studies . . . I certainly expected at the end of my doctoral labors to be effortlessly translated, like Enoch, into a higher kind of academic heaven-haven, levitated up and out of my library carrel at Chicago . . . and gently lowered into another library carrel at good old Research U, presumably in a beautiful city with a good symphony and affordable housing. (903) 

And while I had both heard and read about the dismal state of the academic job market and so had no such expectations for myself, what I did have were seven interviews, some modest hopes, a plane ticket to Washington, and a confirmed hotel reservation for when I got there.   

Now I am back; I survived the convention, and among my many experiences is an image that remains foremost in my mind: a man in his late twenties or early thirties. We are in the elevator at one of the convention hotels, and he is wearing a blue blazer and gray slacks and a conservative tie with some quiet red in it.  

He has pushed the button for the sixth floor. I am going to the seventh floor. He is a little taller than I am, and his dark hair is cut short. He is wearing gold-rimmed glasses and carrying a soft, portfolio-style attaché. The oversized MLA badge attached to his lapel reads John _________, University of _________.    

John is standing ramrod straight. I can see the pulse in a large artery in his neck, and I can smell the fear on him. I can almost feel the sweat trickling down his back and under his arms, along his ribs.