Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

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, but put down her name and then led her across to where a line of girls occupied stools in front of clacking machines. On the shoulder of one of the girls who was punching eye-holes in one piece of the upper, by the aid of the machine, he put his hand.

      “You,” he said, “show this girl how to do what you’re doing. When you get through, come to me.”

      The girl so addressed rose promptly and gave Carrie her place.

      “It isn’t hard to do,” she said, bending over. “You just take this so, fasten it with this clamp, and start the machine.”

      She suited action to word, fastened the piece of leather, which was eventually to form the right half of the upper of a man’s shoe, by little adjustable clamps, and pushed a small steel rod at the side of the machine. The latter jumped to the task of punching, with sharp, snapping clicks, cutting circular bits of leather out of the side of the upper, leaving the holes which were to hold the laces. After observing a few times, the girl let her work at it alone. Seeing that it was fairly well done, she went away. This would’ve made a swell Reading Rainbow segment, rivaling the episode with the Crayola factory. But again, child labor laws and the common occurrence of freak factory fires ruin everyone’s fun.

      The pieces of leather came from the girl at the machine to her right, and were passed on to the girl at her left. Carrie saw at once that an average speed was necessary or the work would pile up on her and all those below would be delayed. She had no time to look about, and bent anxiously to her task. The girls at her left and right realized her predicament and feelings, and, in a way, tried to aid her, as much as they dared, by working slower.

      At this task she labored incessantly for some time, finding relief from her own nervous fears and imaginings in the humdrum, mechanical movement of the machine. She felt, as the minutes passed, that the room was not very light. It had a thick odor of fresh leather, but that did not worry her. Hedgehogs have a deadly sense of smell, and this would kill us. You may equate fresh leather with new car smell, but to us, it’s a fucking miasma of cheap mob bosses with leather gloves getting together to bury a body. She felt the eyes of the other help upon her, and troubled lest she was not working fast enough.

      Once, when she was fumbling at the little clamp, having made a slight error in setting in the leather, a great hand appeared before her eyes and fastened the clamp for her. It was the foreman. Her heart thumped so that she could scarcely see to go on.

      “Start your machine,” he said, “start your machine. Don’t keep the line waiting.”

      This recovered her sufficiently and she went excitedly on, hardly breathing until the shadow moved away from behind her. Then she heaved a great breath.

      As the morning wore on the room became hotter. She felt the need of a breath of fresh air and a drink of water, but did not venture to stir. The stool she sat on was without a back or foot-rest, and she began to feel uncomfortable. She found, after a time, that her back was beginning to ache. Poor humans. Your spines are so weak it would be hilarious if it wasn’t so pathetic. Seriously, get on our level and get an evolutionary curved spine. They’re fucking miracle workers. She twisted and turned from one position to another slightly different, but it did not ease her for long. She was beginning to weary.

      “Stand up, why don’t you?” said the girl at her right, without any form of introduction. “They won’t care.”

      Carrie looked at her gratefully. “I guess I will,” she said.

      She stood up from her stool and worked that way for a while, but it was a more difficult position. Her neck and shoulders ached in bending over.

      The spirit of the place impressed itself on her in a rough way. She did not venture to look around, but above the clack of the machine she could hear an occasional remark. She could also note a thing or two out of the side of her eye.

      “Did you see Harry last night?” said the girl at her left, addressing her neighbor.

      “No.”

      “You ought to have seen the tie he had on. Gee, but he was a mark.” A “mark” means “loser” or a “general ass hat.” Early slang was so much more forgiving. Did they even have an 1890 equivalent for “fuckballs”?

      “S-s-t,” said the other girl, bending over her work. The first, silenced, instantly assumed a solemn face. The foreman passed slowly along, eyeing each worker distinctly. The moment he was gone, the conversation was resumed again.

      “Say,” began the girl at her left, “what jeh think he said?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “He said he saw us with Eddie Harris at Martin’s last night.”

      “No!” They both giggled.

      A youth with tan-colored hair, that needed clipping very badly, came shuffling along between the machines, bearing a basket of leather findings under his left arm, and pressed against his stomach. When near Carrie, he stretched out his right hand and gripped one girl under the arm.

      “Aw, let me go,” she exclaimed angrily. “Duffer.” Apparently this means “petty swindler” or “inferior prostitute.” You can guess which one I’m going to use.

      He only grinned broadly in return.

      “Rubber!” he called back as she looked after him. Definitions for this one were hazy, but I’m guessing he’s not calling her a condom. There was nothing of the gallant in him.

      Carrie at last could scarcely sit still. Her legs began to tire and she wanted to get up and stretch. Would noon never come? It seemed as if she had worked an entire day. She was not hungry at all, but weak, and her eyes were tired, straining at the one point where the eye-punch came down. The girl at the right noticed her squirmings and felt sorry for her. She was concentrating herself too thoroughly—what she did really required less mental