no idea of the general character of the place, and Carrie could form no opinion of the nature of the work.
“So you want something to do,” said Mr. Brown, after he inquired concerning the nature of her errand. “Have you ever been employed in a shoe factory before?”
“No, sir,” said Carrie.
“What is your name?” he inquired, and being informed, “Well, I don’t know as I have anything for you. Would you work for four and a half a week?”
Carrie was too worn by defeat not to feel that it was considerable. She had not expected that he would offer her less than six. She acquiesced, however, and he took her name and address.
“Well,” he said, finally, “you report here at eight o’clock Monday morning. I think I can find something for you to do.”
He left her revived by the possibilities, sure that she had found something at last. Instantly the blood crept warmly over her body. Her nervous tension relaxed. She walked out into the busy street and discovered a new atmosphere. Behold, the throng was moving with a lightsome step. 1900, Dreiser is sitting at his desk, pounding on his typewriter thinking, “Goddammit. This will be the next great American novel, and I will use every word in my thesaurus to make it so.” She noticed that men and women were smiling. Scraps of conversation and notes of laughter floated to her. The air was light. People were already pouring out of the buildings, their labor ended for the day. She noticed that they were pleased, and thoughts of her sister’s home and the meal that would be awaiting her quickened her steps. She hurried on, tired perhaps, but no longer weary of foot. What would not Minnie say! Ah, the long winter in Chicago—the lights, the crowd, the amusement! This was a great, pleasing metropolis after all. Her new firm was a goodly institution. Its windows were of huge plate glass. She could probably do well there. Thoughts of Drouet returned—of the things he had told her. She now felt that life was better, that it was livelier, sprightlier. She boarded a car in the best of spirits, feeling her blood still flowing pleasantly. She would live in Chicago, her mind kept saying to itself. She would have a better time than she had ever had before—she would be happy.
THE SPENDINGS OF FANCY—FACTS ANSWER WITH SNEERS
For the next two days Carrie indulged in the most high-flown speculations.
Her fancy plunged recklessly into privileges and amusements which would have been much more becoming had she been cradled a child of fortune. Quick question, Dreiser: do men have fancies? If not, then the word sure as hell means ovaries. As in weak, stupid ovaries. With ready will and quick mental selection she scattered her meager four-fifty per week with a swift and graceful hand. Indeed, as she sat in her rocking-chair these several evenings before going to bed and looked out upon the pleasantly lighted street, this money cleared for its prospective possessor the way to every joy and every bauble which the heart of woman may desire. “I will have a fine time,” she thought. She does realize she’s going to work in a shoe factory, right? If by “fine,” she means crippling carpal tunnel syndrome, weakening eyesight, and possible scoliosis, then I hope she’s ready to party.
Her sister Minnie knew nothing of these rather wild cerebrations, though they exhausted the markets of delight. She was too busy scrubbing the kitchen woodwork and calculating the purchasing power of eighty cents for Sunday’s dinner. When Carrie had returned home, flushed with her first success and ready, for all her weariness, to discuss the now interesting events which led up to her achievement, the former had merely smiled approvingly and inquired whether she would have to spend any of it for car fare. This consideration had not entered in before, and it did not now for long affect the glow of Carrie’s enthusiasm. Disposed as she then was to calculate upon that vague basis which allows the subtraction of one sum from another without any perceptible diminution, she was happy.
When Hanson came home at seven o’clock, he was inclined to be a little crusty—his usual demeanour before supper. Are we sure this man is not a hedgehog? Cover him in quills, and I’d pounce on him like a bowl of dry cat food. This never showed so much in anything he said as in a certain solemnity of countenance and the silent manner in which he slopped about. He had a pair of yellow carpet slippers which he enjoyed wearing, and these he would immediately substitute for his solid pair of shoes. This, and washing his face with the aid of common washing soap until it glowed a shiny red, constituted his only preparation for his evening meal. He would then get his evening paper and read in silence.
For a young man, this was rather a morbid turn of character, and so affected Carrie. You humans place far too much importance on a friendly disposition. Just let the man wear his yellow carpet slippers in peace and calm the fuck down. Indeed, it affected the entire atmosphere of the flat, as such things are inclined to do, and gave to his wife’s mind its subdued and tactful turn, anxious to avoid taciturn replies. Under the influence of Carrie’s announcement he brightened up somewhat.
“You didn’t lose any time, did you?” he remarked, smiling a little.
“No,” returned Carrie with a touch of pride.
He asked her one or two more questions and then turned to play with the baby, leaving the subject until it was brought up again by Minnie at the table.
Carrie, however, was not to be reduced to the common level of observation which prevailed in the flat.
“It seems to be such a large company,” she said, at one place.
“Great big plate-glass windows and lots of clerks. The man I saw said they hired ever so many people.” Again with the windows. I’m nocturnal, so I couldn’t give a fuck, but hey, small victories.
“It’s not very hard to get work now,” put in Hanson, “if you look right.”
Minnie, under the warming influence of Carrie’s good spirits and her husband’s somewhat conversational mood, began to tell Carrie of some of the well-known things to see—things the enjoyment of which cost nothing.
“You’d like to see Michigan Avenue. There are such fine houses. It is such a fine street.”
“Where is H. R. Jacob’s?” interrupted Carrie, mentioning one of the theatres devoted to melodrama which went by that name at the time.
“Oh, it’s not very far from here,” answered Minnie. “It’s in Halstead Street, right up here.”
“How I’d like to go there. I crossed Halstead Street today, didn’t I?”
At this there was a slight halt in the natural reply. Thoughts are a strangely permeating factor. At her suggestion of going to the theatre, the unspoken shade of disapproval to the doing of those things which involved the expenditure of money—shades of feeling which arose in the mind of Hanson and then in Minnie—slightly affected the atmosphere of the table. I’m guessing Hanson and Minnie do not have “fancies.” What’s the poverty cutoff for a fancy, Dreiser? Minnie answered “yes,” but Carrie could feel that going to the theatre was poorly advocated here. The subject was put off for a little while until Hanson, through with his meal, took his paper and went into the front room.
When they were alone, the two sisters began a somewhat freer conversation, Carrie interrupting it to hum a little, as they worked at the dishes.
“I should like to walk up and see Halstead Street, if it isn’t too far,” said Carrie, after a time. “Why don’t we go to the theatre tonight?”
“Oh, I don’t think Sven would want to go tonight,” returned Minnie. “He has to get up so early.”
“He wouldn’t mind—he’d enjoy it,” said Carrie.
“No, he doesn’t go very often,” returned Minnie.
“Well, I’d like to go,” rejoined Carrie. “Let’s you and me go.”
Minnie pondered