When we moved to Knoxville, the memories I had of the place were mostly positive. I remembered going to the 1984World Fair, riding to the top of the Sun Sphere, and feeling like I was looking out and down at the entire world. I was 10. So when I found myself back there right before my 30th birthday, I felt like I had some kind of handle on the place. Plus, there wasn’t any work where we were living, and I had just graduated from college. Knoxville, in addition to being the home of the Sun Sphere, is also home to the University of Tennessee’s main campus. Surely, I figured, I could find work there. I had my CV prepared and my letters of recommendation lined up. All I needed was to get a teaching gig and we would be set. We were waiting to get married until we both had jobs and were relatively settled. This, we told ourselves, was a sign that we were actually mature. Mostly. We found a decent apartment off one of the main strips that led straight into the UT campus. We didn’t have much in the way of furniture. But that didn’t matter. Things would look up soon enough.
She found work almost immediately. This, we told ourselves, was a good sign. I wasn’t at all confident I would get hired simply by my CV because I WAS fresh out of school and I had very little teaching experience. I figured my best shot was to get dressed up and just walk into the English Department myself. I was my own best resume, after all. She thought this was a fantastic idea.
“It makes you look assertive,” she said. “Ambitious. Employers like that sort of thing.”
“But I don’t want to LOOK assertive,” I said. “I want to BE assertive.”
She looked over the outfit I had chosen. “Pick another tie,” she said.
I went on a Tuesday. I figured no one would be in a good mood on Monday, and by Wednesday most everyone would be focusing on Friday. I found the correct bus schedule, got dressed up, put my Curriculum Vitae, a copy of my college transcripts, and my recommendation letters into a slick blue folder I had bought for the occasion. Before she went to work that morning, she wrote me a note: GOOD LUCK. I LOVE YOU! She drew a big heart with an arrow through the center.
I made my way to the bus without any problem. Looking around on the bus, I noticed I was best dressed one there – which made me feel good.
I am a professional, I told myself. I found myself in the heart of UT’s campus in less than an hour. I felt a rush of confidence. My shoes were uncomfortable and pinched my toes. My tie seemed to be tied a little too tight. But I needed to stay focused. I had done a little research and found out where the English offices were. The map of the campus I was using was old, and some of the buildings I was seeing weren’t on the map. But growth was good, right? If they were growing that meant they’d need more teachers.
I found right building. It was one of the taller buildings on campus. Most of the humanities departments were in that building. I rode the elevator up to the correct floor.
Just breathe, I told myself.
Just breathe and sound confident. You’re doing them a favor by offering your services to the. They’re not doing you a favor. The elevator stopped and I stepped off. The hallway was small and crowded with boxes, desks, and tables with piles of used books on them. There weren’t any windows, of course, and the overhead lights were dim. I followed the trail of discarded materials straight to the English Department office. The lighting was much better. But I was temporarily blinded because my eyes had adjusted to the dungeon quality light in the hall.
“Can I help you?” I was greeted by the nasally voice of a woman. It took me a minute to focus on her. When she first spoke, all I could see was the blinding light of the sun pouring in through the wall to wall windows behind her.
“Can I help you?” Her tone wasn’t pleasant. She clearly was not accustomed to having to repeat herself. I told her who I was and why I was there. I tried to smile. I had my blue folder in my hand, ready to give to her so she could run it in to the department chair, who at that very moment was probably sitting and silently bemoaning the lack of qualified instructors. I was the answer to his problem, and there I was, just standing in the office.
The secretary wasn’t impressed. She looked over at a woman who was standing next to the copy machine. “Did we put out a call for an open position?”
“No. No, we didn’t,” the automaton bitch answered.
“What do you want to teach?”
“Writing.”
“What degree do you have?”
I told her.
“What makes you think you can teach writing?”
“Because,” I answered in a deliberate tone, “I am a writer.”
“You’re a writer?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been published?”
“Not widely, no.”
She sighed. It wasn’t going well. “Have you ever read James Agee?”
I went through the card catalog in my head. “A Death in the Desert,” I answered. “Fun little story.”
“Well, he went to school here,” she continued.
“Really?”
“Yes. They named the journalism school after him.”
“I didn’t know he was a journalist. I thought he wrote stories and novels and screen plays.”
She glared at me. “HE was a writer. HE was published. How do you know you’re a writer if you’ve never been published?”
“I have been published,” I answered, pointing to my CV. “Just not widely.”
She snorted. “You need to go to human resources,” she said. “If we need anybody, we’ll go through them anyway.”
“Ok,” I said. “But if I could only…”
“Go to human resources.”
I thanked her, turned around on my heels, and walked back into the dark hall. I nearly ran into a large box full of old composition textbooks. The tiles were loose under my feet. When I got down to the ground floor, I was again blinded by the wave of light coming in from the outside. I made my way outand looked at the map of campus. Human Resources is usually in the admin building, I thought. On my way to the administration building I passed a brand new looking brick building. The sign in front of it read THE JAMES AGEE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM. I tried to remember what I knew about him. He was one of those southern writers – though not so long and whiny like Wolfe or Faulkner. Drank and smoked himself to into a heart attack, maybe. The story I had read of his started out good – but then he felt the need to explain everything at the end.
That must have been why he ended up a journalist, I thought.
I found the administration building and looked on the board in the lobby for the Human Resources office. Second floor. My feet were hurting more with each step and I had already loosened my tie so that I could breathe. I didn’t think I could respect myself, though, if I took the elevator to the second floor. What kind of message did that send? That I was lazy? I found the stairwell and forced myself up the two flights of stairs. When I got to the second floor, the door was locked. I peeked out through the small square window in the heavy metal door. The hallway was well lit. I could knock on the door and hope that somebody let me in, or I could just go back downstairs and use the elevator. My feet had their own opinion. I hobbled back down the stairs anyway and found the elevator.
The Office of Human Resources was well lit. The carpet was new. The furniture was new. The chairs in the waiting area looked comfortable. But I was on a mission. I walked up to the desk, trying not to look like my feet were killing me.
“May I help you?” The woman there seemed friendlier, at least.
I explained why I was there.
“Just moment.” She typed on the computer keyboard and looked at the screen. “We don’t have any current openings for English Faculty.”
“Can’t I put my CV on file?”
“No,” she said. “But when we do put out a call, we’ll be happy to accept your application.”
“Listen,” I continued, “What about in the journalism school? Do you have any positions open there?”
“Your degree is in English, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re not qualified to teach in the School of Journalism.”
“James Agee was a journalist,” I said. “And he also wrote poems and short stories and novels. Just like me.”
“That may be true, sir,” she answered. “But you’re NOT James Agee.”
You’re right, I thought. I’m not
dead.
I turned and left without answering her and took the short elevator ride down to the ground floor. I looked at my watch. Almost noon. I hobbled back towards where I knew I had to meet the bus to get home. On the way I again passed The James Agee School of Journalism. The front steps looked clean, like freshly pour cement. The bricks were in perfect condition. With the mid-day sun reflected off of them, the windows sparkled. I looked down at my feet, bent down, and picked up a rock about the size of my palm. Then I studied the windows, and took a look around. There weren’t that many people. I got a little closer to the building. From that vantage point, I could see into some of the first floor classrooms. All the desks looked brand new. The grease board had never been written on. The walls were all soft white or yellow. I was about to throw the rock at one of the second story windows when it occurred to me that there was no way I could run if I had to. My feet were beyond sore. I had managed to develop a few blisters and I could tell they had already popped from the sticky feel of blood soaking into my one pair of decent socks. I dropped the rock and hobbled off to catch my bus.
