which filled the sidewalks passed about her as she paused, hesitating. She looked helplessly around, and then, seeing herself observed, retreated. It was too difficult a task. She could not go past them.
So severe a defeat told sadly upon her nerves. Her feet carried her mechanically forward, every foot of her progress being a satisfactory portion of a flight which she gladly made. Block after block passed by. Upon streetlamps at the various corners she read names such as Madison, Monroe, La Salle, Clark, Dearborn, State, and still she went, her feet beginning to tire upon the broad stone flagging. She was pleased in part that the streets were bright and clean. The morning sun, shining down with steadily increasing warmth, made the shady side of the streets pleasantly cool. She looked at the blue sky overhead with more realization of its charm than had ever come to her before.
Her cowardice began to trouble her in a way. She turned back, resolving to hunt up Storm and King and enter. On the way, she encountered a great wholesale shoe company, through the broad plate windows of which she saw an enclosed executive department, hidden by frosted glass. Without this enclosure, but just within the street entrance, sat a gray-haired gentleman at a small table, with a large open ledger before him. She walked by this institution several times hesitating, but, finding herself unobserved, faltered past the screen door and stood humble waiting. She humbly went inside! This is the 19th-century female equivalent to adjusting your nutsack and striding in like you own the place!
“Well, young lady,” observed the old gentleman, looking at her somewhat kindly, “what is it you wish?”
“I am, that is, do you—I mean, do you need any help?” she stammered.
“Not just at present,” he answered smiling. “Not just at present. Come in some time next week. Occasionally we need someone.”
She received the answer in silence and backed awkwardly out. The pleasant nature of her reception rather astonished her. She had expected that it would be more difficult, that something cold and harsh would be said—she knew not what. That she had not been put to shame and made to feel her unfortunate position, seemed remarkable. Somewhat encouraged, she ventured into another large structure. It was a clothing company, and more people were in evidence—well-dressed men of forty and more, surrounded by brass railings.
An office boy approached her. “Who is it you wish to see?” he asked.
“I want to see the manager,” she said. He ran away and spoke to one of a group of three men who were conferring together. One of these came towards her.
“Well?” he said coldly. The greeting drove all courage from her at once.
“Do you need any help?” she stammered.
“No,” he replied abruptly, and turned upon his heel.
She went foolishly out, the office boy deferentially swinging the door for her, and gladly sank into the obscuring crowd. It was a severe setback to her recently pleased mental state. Them’s the breaks. You could always visit our old contemporary, Upton Sinclair, and he could hook you up with a job fitting sausages into Bubonic Plague-infested casings.
Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there, seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger. She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. This is Chicago, bitch. Your $4 will get you that bowl of soup and a case of scurvy. A bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly eaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the search.
In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get in. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at one of the many desks within the nearby railing.
“Who is it you wish to see?” he required.
“Why, anyone, if you please,” she answered. “I am looking for something to do.”
“Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus,” he returned. “Sit down,” and he pointed to a chair against the neighboring wall. He went on leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from the street. In the early 1900s, being plump was the bee’s knees. If you were a stout gentleman, you were Burt Reynolds to the ladies. I like to subscribe to this aesthetic, especially during the winter, when hedgehogs tend to double their weight. Don’t judge me. By 1900 standards, I’m fucking sexy.
“Mr. McManus,” called the man at the desk, “this young woman wants to see you.” The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and came forward. “What can I do for you, miss?” he inquired, surveying her curiously.
“I want to know if I can get a position,” she inquired. “As what?” he asked.
“Not as anything in particular,” she faltered.
“Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods business?” he questioned.
“No, sir,” she replied.
“Are you a stenographer or typewriter?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, we haven’t anything here,” he said. “We employ only experienced help.”
She began to step backward toward the door, when something about her plaintive face attracted him. “Have you ever worked at anything before?” he inquired.
“No, sir,” she said.
“Well, now, it’s hardly possible that you would get anything to do in a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department stores?” Lie, Carrie, lie! If you’re a yokel from the suburbs, you have to at least pretend that you’re a fucking prodigy. Goddamn. Even Milli Vanilli had enough street smarts to know that.
She acknowledged that she had not.
“Well, if I were you,” he said, looking at her rather genially, “I would try the department stores. They often need young women as clerks.”
Thank you,” she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of friendly interest. Carrie’s self esteem suffers more ups and downs than the gold standard. That’s a 19th-century joke, in case you missed it.
“Yes,” he said, as she moved toward the door, “you try the department stores,” and off he went.
At that time the department store was in its earliest form of successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the “Daily News,” and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something. Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of search, without the reality, gives. This is Dreiser-speak for: “She was fucking lost.” At last she inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed “two blocks up,” where she would find “The
