Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

      “Sister Carrie has gone to live somewhere else.”

      Hanson jumped out of bed with more celerity than he usually displayed and looked at the note. The only indication of his thoughts came in the form of a little clicking sound made by his tongue; the sound some people make when they wish to urge on a horse. Nice to get a peek into Sven and Minnie’s bedroom life every now and then. Those Swedes are stallions.

      “Where do you suppose she’s gone to?” said Minnie, thoroughly aroused.

      “I don’t know,” a touch of cynicism lighting his eye. “Now she has gone and done it.”

      Minnie moved her head in a puzzled way.

      “Oh, oh,” she said, “she doesn’t know what she has done.”

      “Well,” said Hanson, after a while, sticking his hands out before him, “what can you do?”

      Minnie’s womanly nature was higher than this. She figured the possibilities in such cases. “Oh,” she said at last, “poor Sister Carrie!” At the very least, “poor Sister Carrie” won’t have to walk through life with an asshole infant permanently attached to her teat.

      At the time of this particular conversation, which occurred at 5 A.M., that little soldier of fortune was sleeping a rather troubled sleep in her new room, alone.

      Carrie’s new state was remarkable in that she saw possibilities in it. She was no sensualist, longing to drowse sleepily in the lap of luxury. She turned about, troubled by her daring, glad of her release, wondering whether she would get something to do, wondering what Drouet would do. That worthy had his future fixed for him beyond a peradventure. He could not help what he was going to do. He could not see clearly enough to wish to do differently. He was drawn by his innate desire to act the old pursuing part. He would need to delight himself with Carrie as surely as he would need to eat his heavy breakfast. Dreiser’s thought process: Women are like . . . breakfast! They’re necessary to your day . . . and they’re full of carbs . . . He might suffer the least rudimentary twinge of conscience in whatever he did, and in just so far he was evil and sinning. But whatever twinges of conscience he might have would be rudimentary, you may be sure.

      The next day he called upon Carrie, and she saw him in her chamber. He was the same jolly, enlivening soul. “Aw,” he said, “what are you looking so blue about? Come on out to breakfast. You want to get your other clothes today.”

      Carrie looked at him with the hue of shifting thought in her large eyes. “I wish I could get something to do,” she said.

      “You’ll get that all right,” said Drouet. “What’s the use worrying right now? Get yourself fixed up. See the city. I won’t hurt you.” This would be the part where Chris Hansen steps out with the rest of the To Catch a Predator crew to sit down Drouet and have a little chat about the ways of the world.

      “I know you won’t,” 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