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By Scott Gac

"Congratulations." "That's amazing." "What an opportunity!"

The scene: my wedding. The topic: my new job.

To be honest, I didn't want to talk about it. Back then, I knew that I was going to end up here. And here is where we begin:

I am looking for a job again. Each morning I wake to scour academic Web sites for new openings. Some look promising. Others ... well, my wife informed me that Kuwait University -- the fruit of one such search -- is not an option.

It's no surprise that I'm on the market for a tenure-track job. I knew going in that my two-year postdoctoral position at Yale University would end this spring. But none of the guests at our wedding seemed to comprehend that.

Our September wedding in 2003 went as planned. There was something quite right about an American historian marrying in a garage stuffed with historic automobiles. Old cars are my father-in-law's passion. The 1953 American LaFrance fire truck may have lacked dalmatians, the 1954 Packard ambulance wasn't needed, and the 1947 International seltzer truck no longer delivers, but the fact that they still exist in one place in Brooklyn lent an enduring aura to the event.

Only a few weeks before the wedding I'd landed the postdoc at Yale, saving me from what would have been, factoring in travel, a year of money-losing adjuncting.

At the wedding, my new job was not foremost in my mind. I thought it more appropriate to focus on the long-term affair at hand. Don't get me wrong. I was thrilled about the chance to do research and teach at Yale. Who wouldn't be? My friends and relatives, though, were delirious about my new appointment.

Dread. It is a feeling that often creeps into marriage ceremonies, yet I was not your typical terrified groom. I was scared to death of the professional expectations being heaped upon me.

Despite my repeated efforts to explain the nature of a postdoc position, my guests' presumptions about the job were more appropriate for a tenured professor. Perhaps they were confused. Getting tenure, after all, is like getting married. There is the possibility of a divorce (and the subsequent moving on to another partner), but, occasionally, a tenured post is one you keep for life.

So when, for what seemed the millionth time, an old family acquaintance came over, squeezed my cheek, and congratulated me on my new job ("So you're in New Haven now -- are you buying a house?"), a primal scream lodged in my chest and petitioned for release.

At the time, I was standing in line for a make-your-own sundae in front of a 1965 Ford Good Humor truck. My mood didn't fit the locale. Quickly, I looked around for a hearse, but alas, I was forced to retreat and think things over with my ice cream in a classic silver camper, a 1958 Airstream.

Here, I recalled my first academic job search -- a mainly unsuccessful venture which led me to apply for postdoctoral positions -- where only one of the 12 institutions to which I applied brought me in for an interview.

Earlier in my life, I had been on a completely different career path. As a professional double bassist, I enjoyed the secrecy of musical "interviews." Orchestral auditions often proceed "blind," with the performer, or interviewer, behind a screen. Hearing is believing in those situations. You don't have to smile and, according to one of my friends, a nervous stomach is fine if you can be sick somewhat silently.

Auditioning for a major urban orchestra, I once played wonderfully to the large black rectangle sitting in the audience. From behind a screen, the committee demanded that I play excerpts of Beethoven, Bach, and Berlioz. When it was over, I walked offstage, and a simple "thank you" emitted from the void. That day I hung in there as the committee narrowed down the pool from 300 players to 16. Sixteen would be as far as I got.

The numbers for jobs in history are just as frightening. But it is the process that makes the task far more daunting. Having to send packets of credentials and writing samples is bad enough. But a victory in the paper cross-examination gains you nothing more than a real, live interview.

Two years ago, I discovered that historians don't use screens in those interviews. They should. Dressed in a suit, I immediately felt uncomfortable at the table where the questioners, who came from a much warmer clime, apparently thought shorts suitable for a Chicago winter.

Differences in attire spiraled into differences over research and teaching, which meant that I was stuck, again, in the pool of 16, or 10, or however many interviewees received the call.

Last year I was fortunate to take a different approach to the job market. Safely ensconced in my postdoc for another year, I applied only for my "dream jobs" -- positions that would open up once in a lifetime.

It was as stress free as a job search can be. I was confident and calm. When I was told by the search committees to keep dreaming, I wistfully saved my tenure-track fantasy for another day.

Now is most certainly the time for me to unpack the fantasy once more. My passion isn't old cars, it is American history, a calling that is more easily satisfied with a job than without.

This job hunt has complications, too. My wife changed careers when we moved to New Haven. She really enjoys her new profession and the people with whom she works. I am thrilled, of course, even though it makes my search for employment more interesting.

For this search, I'd prefer our family to be utterly mobile, able to go anywhere in the world on a moment's notice; my wife wants to stay in Connecticut. There is hope -- I think that my mention of Kuwait has bolstered her view of the other 49 states.

The truth is that there is no reason to unhinge her career for mine. Striking a balance between our two professions will -- if recent speculative banter about universities and geography proves anything -- be difficult.

Things will be different this time. From doctoral student at a city university to Ivy-league postdoc, from single student to married professor, and from dissertation to book contract, my life has changed.

I hope I won't disappoint all of those friends and relatives who were so thrilled for me last year. But they need to understand a simple fact: I'm looking for a new job.