I felt completely lost. I was at home in obscure rooms discussing the words of unknown poets, comfortable as an impractical idealist. Here, suddenly, I was surrounded by the representatives of the Real World, flashing the smiles and the golden baubles that it had to offer. One man cheerfully called: "Hey, are you interested in investment banking?"

Investment banking. The phrase conjured up images of the roaring `80s, "Bonfire of the Vanities," Michael Douglas with his hair slicked back in "Wall Street." All I knew was that investment bankers bought and sold things and made obscene amounts of money doing it. Who could ask for anything more?

In the end, my endeavor was less than a success. The representatives I talked to rolled their eyes and told me I was the millionth sophomore to ask about summer jobs. Comp culture had struck again: we all wanted to be the first ones into the boardroom, even if it was only to sweep the floor. In any case, most of the companies had no formal programs (translation: come back in two years, kid). If I really tried--tracked down recruiters, wrote a hundred resumes, grovelled and begged--I might be able to find something. Is it really worth it to kill myself so that I can make photocopies for the Disney Vacation Club? Well, if I don't, I'll come back in the fall to find out that someone I know was personal assistant to Mickey Mouse.

I tell myself I haven't changed; I just think more realistically. You can be different and be successful, I say. Then I realize that I picked that phrase up from the Procter & Gamble flyer.

The Career Forum wasn't all bad, I suppose. I did get a great pencil from the Disney table, one whose end was shaped like Mickey's head. If I can enjoy that, maybe there's some hope for the kid in me after all.

But I think the guy before me got two.