she remarked, half truthfully.
“Got on the new shoes, haven’t you? Stick ’em out. George, they look fine. Put on your jacket.”
Carrie obeyed.
“Say, that fits like a T, don’t it?” he remarked, feeling the set of it at the waist and eyeing it from a few paces with real pleasure. “What you need now is a new skirt. Let’s go to breakfast.”
Carrie put on her hat.
“Where are the gloves?” he inquired.
“Here,” she said, taking them out of the bureau drawer.
“Now, come on,” he said.
Thus the first hour of misgiving was swept away. I will never understand humans’ preoccupation with clothing. Maybe it’s because I have a permanent quill coat of badassery and everything pales in comparison. Or you’re all just materialistic bastards.
It went this way on every occasion. Drouet did not leave her much alone. She had time for some lone wanderings, but mostly he filled her hours with sight-seeing. At Carson, Pirie’s he bought her a nice skirt and shirt waist. Fun Fact: This was one of Chicago’s oldest department stores. Most of its inventory was destroyed in The Great Chicago Fire of 1871. In 1991, they filed for bankruptcy and it is now a soulless, corporate Target chain. With his money she purchased the little necessaries of toilet, until at last she looked quite another maiden. The mirror convinced her of a few things which she had long believed. She was pretty, yes, indeed! How nice her hat set, and weren’t her eyes pretty. She caught her little red lip with her teeth and felt her first thrill of power. Drouet was so good.
They went to see “The Mikado” one evening, an opera which was hilariously popular at that time. Before going, they made off for the Windsor dining-room, which was in Dearborn Street, a considerable distance from Carrie’s room. It was blowing up cold, and out of her window Carrie could see the western sky, still pink with the fading light, but steely blue at the top where it met the darkness. A long, thin cloud of pink hung in midair, shaped like some island in a far-off sea. Somehow the swaying of some dead branches of trees across the way brought back the picture with which she was familiar when she looked from their front window in December days at home. She paused and wrung her little hands.
“What’s the matter?” said Drouet.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, her lip trembling.
He sensed something, and slipped his arm over her shoulder, patting her arm.
“Come on,” he said gently, “you’re all right.”
She turned to slip on her jacket.
“Better wear that boa about your throat tonight.” Nothing warms you up like a Miss Piggy-esque feather boa.
They walked north on Wabash to Adams Street and then west. The lights in the stores were already shining out in gushes of golden hue. The arc lights were sputtering overhead, and high up were the lighted windows of the tall office buildings. The chill wind whipped in and out in gusty breaths. Homeward bound, the six o’clock throng bumped and jostled. Light overcoats were turned up about the ears, hats were pulled down. Little shop-girls went fluttering by in pairs and fours, chattering, laughing. It was a spectacle of warm-blooded humanity. I can’t even begin to comprehend this concept.
Suddenly a pair of eyes met Carrie’s in recognition. They were looking out from a group of poorly dressed girls. Their clothes were faded and loose-hanging, their jackets old, their general make-up shabby.
Carrie recognized the glance and the girl. She was one of those who worked at the machines in the shoe factory. The latter looked, not quite sure, and then turned her head and looked. Carrie felt as if some great tide had rolled between them. The old dress and the old machine came back. She actually started. Drouet didn’t notice until Carrie bumped into a pedestrian.
“You must be thinking,” he said.
They dined and went to the theatre. That spectacle pleased Carrie immensely. The color and grace of it caught her eye. She had vain imaginings about place and power, about far-off lands and magnificent people. When it was over, the clatter of coaches and the throng of fine ladies made her stare.
“Wait a minute,” said Drouet, holding her back in the showy foyer where ladies and gentlemen were moving in a social crush, skirts rustling, lace-covered heads nodding, white teeth showing through parted lips. In 1890, though it had fallen out of use with most reputable practitioners, cocaine was still used by dentists as an anesthetic. So pearly whites were usually a result of the pearly white. “Let’s see.”
“Sixty-seven,” the coach-caller was saying, his voice lifted in a sort of euphonious cry. “Sixty-seven.”
“Isn’t it fine?” said Carrie.
“Great,” said Drouet. He was as much affected by this show of finery and gaiety as she. He pressed her arm warmly. Once she looked up, her even teeth glistening through her smiling lips, her eyes alight. As they were moving out he whispered down to her, “You look lovely!” They were right where the coach-caller was swinging open a coach-door and ushering in two ladies.
“You stick to me and we’ll have a coach,” laughed Drouet.
Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. I’d have this checked out if I were her. Last time my head was full of “the swirl of life” I woke up passed out in my litterbox with an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie’s head, but there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. I’ll give Sister Carrie the prick of conscience with a quill or two. Homegirl should know nothing comes for free. Especially from an asshole who sincerely carries a roll of greenbacks. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. “Now, bless me,” says such a mind, “I have done my duty,” when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.
Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. That’s some freaky ass pheromones. The only other time you see that in the animal kingdom is with ants, who lay trails of the shit when they’re wooing. She was again the victim of the city’s hypnotic influence.
“Well,” said Drouet at last, “we had better be going.”
They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. Romance novels always put so much fucking drama into eye contact. Thank God I’m half-blind because it’s all a load of bullshit. If every gaze had a “vibration of force,” sex shops would’ve been out of business
