Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

hands began to ache at the wrists and then in the fingers, and towards the last she seemed one mass of dull, complaining muscles, fixed in an eternal position and performing a single mechanical movement which became more and more distasteful, until as last it was absolutely nauseating. You humans need too much stimulation. It sickens me. Hedgehogs get their kicks by running around a wheel a couple hundred times a night, but you people would never be satisfied with that. It’s all bright lights and distractions for you assholes. When she was wondering whether the strain would ever cease, a dull-sounding bell clanged somewhere down an elevator shaft, and the end came. In an instant there was a buzz of action and conversation. All the girls instantly left their stools and hurried away in an adjoining room, men passed through, coming from some department which opened on the right. The whirling wheels began to sing in a steadily modifying key, until at last they died away in a low buzz. There was an audible stillness, in which the common voice sounded strange.

      Carrie got up and sought her lunch box. She was stiff, a little dizzy, and very thirsty. On the way to the small space portioned off by wood, where all the wraps and lunches were kept, she encountered the foreman, who stared at her hard.

      “Well,” he said, “did you get along all right?”

      “I think so,” she replied, very respectfully.

      “Um,” he replied, for want of something better, and walked on. Theodore Dreiser, everyone—the great American novelist!

      Under better material conditions, this kind of work would not have been so bad, but the new socialism which involves pleasant working conditions for employees had not then taken hold upon manufacturing companies.

      The place smelled of the oil of the machines and the new leather—a combination which, added to the stale odors of the building, was not pleasant even in cold weather. The floor, though regularly swept every evening, presented a littered surface. Not the slightest provision had been made for the comfort of the employees, the idea being that something was gained by giving them as little and making the work as hard and unremunerative as possible. What we know of foot-rests, swivel-back chairs, dining-rooms for the girls, clean aprons and curling irons supplied free, and a decent cloak room, were unthought of. The washrooms were disagreeable, crude, if not foul places, and the whole atmosphere was sordid. Tough luck doing anything about this. You can get all the foot rests and swivel chairs you want, but humans can never improve a public bathroom. Once you humans can figure out how to use a litter box, you’ll know what I mean.

      Carrie looked about her, after she had drunk a tinful of water from a bucket in one corner, for a place to sit and eat. The other girls had ranged themselves about the windows or the work-benches of those of the men who had gone out. She saw no place which did not hold a couple or a group of girls, and being too timid to think of intruding herself, she sought out her machine and, seated upon her stool, opened her lunch on her lap. There she sat listening to the chatter and comment about her. It was, for the most part, silly and graced by the current slang. Several of the men in the room exchanged compliments with the girls at long range.

      “Say, Kitty,” called one to a girl who was doing a waltz step in a few feet of space near one of the windows, “are you going to the ball with me?”

      “Look out, Kitty,” called another, “you’ll jar your back hair.” No fucking clue. Back hair? I’m guessing homegirl has hirsutism.

      “Go on, Rubber,” was her only comment.

      As Carrie listened to this and much more of similar familiar badinage among the men and girls, she instinctively withdrew into herself. She was not used to this type, and felt that there was something hard and low about it all. She feared that the young boys about would address such remarks to her—boys who, beside Drouet, seemed uncouth and ridiculous. Carrie needs some uncouthness in her fancy now and then. As a character, she’s boring as shit and I’m waiting any minute for the corruption to start, Dreiser. She made the average feminine distinction between clothes, putting worth, goodness, and distinction in a dress suit, and leaving all the unlovely qualities and those beneath notice in overalls and jumper.

      She was glad when the short half hour was over and the wheels began to whirr again. Though wearied, she would be inconspicuous. This illusion ended when another young man passed along the aisle and poked her indifferently in the ribs with his thumb. I take that back. If the motherfucker did that to me, he’d be nursing a quill-covered crotch area right now. She turned about, indignation leaping to her eyes, but he had gone on and only once turned to grin. She found it difficult to conquer an inclination to cry.

      The girl next her noticed her state of mind. “Don’t you mind,” she said. “He’s too fresh.”

      Carrie said nothing, but bent over her work. She felt as though she could hardly endure such a life. Her idea of work had been so entirely different. All during the long afternoon she thought of the city outside and its imposing show, crowds, and fine buildings. Columbia City and the better side of her home life came back. By three o’clock she was sure it must be six, and by four it seemed as if they had forgotten to note the hour and were letting all work overtime. The foreman became a true ogre, prowling constantly about, keeping her tied down to her miserable task. What she heard of the conversation about her only made her feel sure that she did not want to make friends with any of these. When six o’clock came she hurried eagerly away, her arms aching and her limbs stiff from sitting in one position.

      As she passed out along the hall after getting her hat, a young machine hand, attracted by her looks, made bold to jest with her.

      “Say, Maggie,” he called, “if you wait, I’ll walk with you.” Smooth. Call her any damn name you please and she’ll swoon. This is a proto-version of “negging,” if you will.

      It was thrown so straight in her direction that she knew who was meant, but never turned to look.

      In the crowded elevator, another dusty, toil-stained youth tried to make an impression on her by leering in her face. This would’ve been okay if he were wearing gold-plated suspenders and waving a roll of greenbacks.

      One young man, waiting on the walk outside for the appearance of another, grinned at her as she passed.

      “Ain’t going my way, are you?” he called jocosely. “Jokingly” too plebeian for you, Dreiser?

      Carrie turned her face to the west with a subdued heart. As she turned the corner, she saw through the great shiny window the small desk at which she had applied. There were the crowds, hurrying with the same buzz and energy-yielding enthusiasm. She felt a slight relief, but it was only at her escape. She felt ashamed in the face of better dressed girls who went by. She felt as though she should be better served, and her heart revolted.

Chapter 5

       A GLITTERING NIGHT FLOWER —THE USE OF A NAME

      Drouet did not call that evening. After receiving the letter, he had laid aside all thought of Carrie for the time being and was floating around having what he considered a gay time. On this particular evening he dined at “Rector’s,” a restaurant of some local fame, which occupied a basement at Clark and Monroe Streets. Thereafter he visited the resort of Fitzgerald and Moy’s in Adams Street, opposite the imposing Federal Building. There he leaned over the splendid bar and swallowed a glass of plain whiskey and purchased a couple of cigars, one of which he lighted. This to him represented in part high life—a fair sample of what the whole must be. Drouet was not a drinker in excess. He was not a moneyed man. He only craved the best, as his mind conceived it, and such doings seemed to him a part of the best. He and Carrie sound like a match in financially stupid heaven. Mazel tov, babies. Now for God’s sake, open a Roth IRA or something. Rector’s, with its polished marble walls and floor, its profusion of lights, its show of china and silverware, and, above all, its reputation as a resort for actors and professional men, seemed to him the proper place for a successful man to go. He loved fine clothes, good eating, and particularly the company and acquaintanceship