think I’ll go down and stand at the foot of the stairs,” she said, after a time. An early alternative to television or radio. My whole life consists of staring at the empty void around my cage, so for once, I can relate to homegirl.
Minnie made no objection to this, and Carrie put on her hat and went below.
“Where has Carrie gone?” asked Hanson, coming back into the dining-room when he heard the door close.
“She said she was going down to the foot of the stairs,” answered Minnie. “I guess she just wants to look out a while.”
“She oughtn’t to be thinking about spending her money on theatres already, do you think?” he said.
“She just feels a little curious, I guess,” ventured Minnie. “Everything is so new.”
“I don’t know,” said Hanson, and went over to the baby, his forehead slightly wrinkled.
He was thinking of a full career of vanity and wastefulness which a young girl might indulge in, and wondering how Carrie could contemplate such a course when she had so little, as yet, with which to do. Hanson was never a boy. He came out of his mother with a shag carpet of chest hair and a stoic Scandinavian frown under his beard.
On Saturday Carrie went out by herself—first toward the river, which interested her, and then back along Jackson Street, which was then lined by the pretty houses and fine lawns which subsequently caused it to be made into a boulevard. She was struck with the evidences of wealth, although there was, perhaps, not a person on the street worth more than a hundred thousand dollars. She was glad to be out of the flat, because already she felt that it was a narrow, humdrum place, and that interest and joy lay elsewhere. Her thoughts now were of a more liberal character, and she punctuated them with speculations as to the whereabouts of Drouet. She was not sure but that he might call anyhow Monday night, and, while she felt a little disturbed at the possibility, there was, nevertheless, just the shade of a wish that he would.
On Monday she arose early and prepared to go to work. She dressed herself in a worn shirt-waist of dotted blue percale, a skirt of light-brown serge rather faded, and a small straw hat which she had worn all summer at Columbia City. Her shoes were old, and her necktie was in that crumpled, flattened state which time and much wearing impart. She made a very average looking shop-girl with the exception of her features. These were slightly more even than common, and gave her a sweet, reserved, and pleasing appearance. Surprise, surprise: our girl is a looker. I would’ve preferred that she was average looking or even a troll. Then she’d really be an underdog. The world has enough attractive heroes. Even Sonic the fucking Hedgehog was photoshopped into oblivion. Where does it end, people?
It is no easy thing to get up early in the morning when one is used to sleeping until seven and eight, as Carrie had been at home. She gained some inkling of the character of Hanson’s life when, half asleep, she looked out into the dining-room at six o’clock and saw him silently finishing his breakfast. By the time she was dressed he was gone, and she, Minnie, and the baby ate together, the latter being just old enough to sit in a high chair and disturb the dishes with a spoon. Her spirits were greatly subdued now when the fact of entering upon strange and untried duties confronted her. Only the ashes of all her fine fancies were remaining—ashes still concealing, nevertheless, a few red embers of hope. So subdued was she by her weakening nerves, that she ate quite in silence going over imaginary conceptions of the character of the shoe company, the nature of the work, her employer’s attitude. She was vaguely feeling that she would come in contact with the great owners, that her work would be where grave, stylishly dressed men occasionally look on.
“Well, good luck,” said Minnie, when she was ready to go. They had agreed it was best to walk, that morning at least, to see if she could do it every day—sixty cents a week for car fare being quite an item under the circumstances. Duh doy. I’m surprised they’re not doing more to save a few bucks. Child labor laws were still pretty lax around this time, so you could totally get away with hocking an infant at the rubber tire plant.
“I’ll tell you how it goes tonight,” said Carrie.
Once in the sunlit street, with laborers tramping by in either direction, the horse-cars passing crowded to the rails with the small clerks and floor help in the great wholesale houses, and men and women generally coming out of doors and passing about the neighborhood, Carrie felt slightly reassured. In the sunshine of the morning, beneath the wide, blue heavens, with a fresh wind astir, what fears, except the most desperate, can find a harborage? In the night, or the gloomy chambers of the day, fears and misgivings wax strong, but out in the sunlight there is, for a time, cessation even of the terror of death. British publisher Rupert Hart-Davis once said, “If [Dreiser] is the great American novelist, give me the Marx Brothers every time.” Dreiser was in dire need of a Gordon Lish to cut him down to size. Passages like this make me nod in agreement while simultaneously barfing my brains out.
Carrie went straight forward until she crossed the river, and then turned into Fifth Avenue. The thoroughfare, in this part, was like a walled canon of brown stone and dark red brick. The big windows looked shiny and clean. Trucks were rumbling in increasing numbers; men and women, girls and boys were moving onward in all directions. She met girls of her own age, who looked at her as if with contempt for her diffidence. She wondered at the magnitude of this life and at the importance of knowing much in order to do anything in it at all. Dread at her own inefficiency crept upon her. She would not know how, she would not be quick enough. Had not all the other places refused her because she did not know something or other? She would be scolded, abused, ignominiously discharged.
It was with weak knees and a slight catch in her breathing that she came up to the great shoe company at Adams and Fifth Avenue and entered the elevator. When she stepped out on the fourth floor there was no one at hand, only great aisles of boxes piled to the ceiling. She stood, very much frightened, awaiting some one.
Presently Mr. Brown came up. He did not seem to recognize her.
“What is it you want?” he inquired.
Carrie’s heart sank.
“You said I should come this morning to see about work —”
“Oh,” he interrupted. “Um —yes. What is your name?”
“Carrie Meeber.”
“Yes,” said he. “You come with me.”
He led the way through dark, box-lined aisles which had the smell of new shoes, until they came to an iron door which opened into the factory proper. There was a large, low-ceiled room, with clacking, rattling machines at which men in white shirt sleeves and blue gingham aprons were working. This is a very stylish look among current Brooklynite assholes. In fact, I could see girls today emulating Sister Carrie’s peasant threads to a tee, right down to chic malnourished physique. She followed him diffidently through the clattering automatons, keeping her eyes straight before her, and flushing slightly. They crossed to a far corner and took an elevator to the sixth floor. Out of the array of machines and benches, Mr. Brown signalled a foreman.
“This is the girl,” he said, and turning to Carrie, “You go with him.” He then returned, and Carrie followed her new superior to a little desk in a corner, which he used as a kind of official center.
“You’ve never worked at anything like this before, have you?” he questioned, rather sternly.
“No, sir,” she answered.
He seemed rather annoyed at having to bother with such help,
