will form an interesting chapter in the commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. They were along the line of the most effective retail organization, with hundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and economic basis. “Great American novel” alert. Interestingly enough, some asshat named Arnold Bennett famously claimed, “Dreiser simply does not know how to write, never did know, never wanted to know.” No wonder Dreiser shacked up with his cousin. They were handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons. Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there which she could not have used—nothing which she did not long to own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. She was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation.
It must not be thought that anyone could have mistaken her for a nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold, calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment. Dreiser’s particular brand of man-splaining is fucking great. He makes no attempt at all to defend himself. He’s got pretty big balls for someone who shares a name with a chipmunk.
Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main, some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which added, in the case of the more favored, a certain piquancy. There isn’t a more back-handed compliment than the word “handsome” used on a woman. Just be honest and call her “equine.” Their clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one it was only to recognize in it a keen analysis of her own position—her individual shortcomings of dress and that shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make clear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in her heart. She realized in a dim way how much the city held—wealth, fashion, ease—every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and beauty with a whole heart. If this book has a makeover montage, I swear to God I will quill Dreiser in the eyeballs from beyond the grave.
On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends; girls who scrutinized her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn.
“Now,” said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a roll-top desk near the window, “have you ever worked in any other store?” Gotta hand it to Dreiser. He’s an equal-opportunity offender. I can’t wait to see what the prick has to say about Aborigines.
“No, sir,” said Carrie.
“Oh, you haven’t,” he said, eyeing her keenly. “No, sir,” she replied.
“Well, we prefer young women just now with some experience. I guess we can’t use you.” Carrie stood waiting a moment, hardly certain whether the interview had terminated. “Don’t wait!” he exclaimed. “Remember we are very busy here.”
Carrie began to move quickly to the door.
“Hold on,” he said, calling her back. “Give me your name and address. We want girls occasionally.”
When she had gotten safely into the street, she could scarcely restrain the tears. It was not so much the particular rebuff which she had just experienced, but the whole abashing trend of the day. She was tired and nervous. She abandoned the thought of appealing to the other department stores and now wandered on, feeling a certain safety and relief in mingling with the crowd.
In her indifferent wandering she turned into Jackson Street, not far from the river, and was keeping her way along the south side of that imposing thoroughfare, when a piece of wrapping paper, written on with marking ink and tacked up on the door, attracted her attention. It read, “Girls wanted—wrappers & stitchers.” She hesitated a moment, then entered. Another street, another fucking terrible president. Andrew Jackson, aka “Old Hickory,” loved slavery and chasing out Native Americans. His forehead was also so large it was technically a five-head.
The firm of Speigelheim & Co., makers of boys’ caps, occupied one floor of the building, fifty feet in width and some eighty feet in depth. It was a place rather dingily lighted, the darkest portions having incandescent lights, filled with machines and work benches. At the latter laboured quite a company of girls and some men. The former were drabby-looking creatures, stained in face with oil and dust, clad in thin, shapeless, cotton dresses and shod with more or less worn shoes. Many of them had their sleeves rolled up, revealing bare arms, and in some cases, owing to the heat, their dresses were open at the neck. Whores—they’re whores! What next, Dreiser? You’re going to tell us they’re exposing some nubile young ankles? They were a fair type of nearly the lowest order of shop-girls—careless, slouchy, and more or less pale from confinement. They were not timid, however; were rich in curiosity, and strong in daring and slang. These sound like my kind of broads. Hedgehogs are purely solitary creatures, but if I were to run with a girl gang, I’d probably choose these bitches.
Carrie looked about her, very much disturbed and quite sure that she did not want to work here. Aside from making her uncomfortable by sidelong glances, no one paid her the least attention. She waited until the whole department was aware of her presence. Then some word was sent around, and a foreman, in an apron and shirt sleeves, the latter rolled up to his shoulders, approached.
“Do you want to see me?” he asked.
“Do you need any help?” said Carrie, already learning directness of address.
“Do you know how to stitch caps?” he returned.
“No, sir,” she replied.
“Have you ever had any experience at this kind of work?” he inquired. She answered that she had not.
“Well,” said the foreman, scratching his ear meditatively, Dear God, please don’t let this foreshadow that this factory has some sort of plague. I was just joking about all that Upton Sinclair bullshit, but I do not want this novel to turn into The Jungle. Hedgehogs are fucking terrified of mites — I can not handle any disease books. This is why I am not a fucking doctor. “we do need a stitcher. We like experienced help, though. We’ve hardly got time to break people in.” He paused and looked away out of the window. “We might, though, put you at finishing,” he concluded reflectively.
“How much do you pay a week?” ventured Carrie, emboldened by a certain softness in the man’s manner and his simplicity of address.
“Three and a half,” he answered.
“Oh,” she was about to exclaim, but checked herself and allowed her thoughts to die without expression. Historical tidbit: The phrase “Check yourself and allow your thoughts
