Clementine Classics: Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser. Theodore Dreiser

Plague-infested casings.

      Now she walked quite aimlessly for a time, turning here and there, seeing one great company after another, but finding no courage to prosecute her single inquiry. High noon came, and with it hunger. She hunted out an unassuming restaurant and entered, but was disturbed to find that the prices were exorbitant for the size of her purse. This is Chicago, bitch. Your $4 will get you that bowl of soup and a case of scurvy. A bowl of soup was all that she could afford, and, with this quickly eaten, she went out again. It restored her strength somewhat and made her moderately bold to pursue the search.

      In walking a few blocks to fix upon some probable place, she again encountered the firm of Storm and King, and this time managed to get in. Some gentlemen were conferring close at hand, but took no notice of her. She was left standing, gazing nervously upon the floor. When the limit of her distress had been nearly reached, she was beckoned to by a man at one of the many desks within the nearby railing.

      “Who is it you wish to see?” he required.

      “Why, anyone, if you please,” she answered. “I am looking for something to do.”

      “Oh, you want to see Mr. McManus,” he returned. “Sit down,” and he pointed to a chair against the neighboring wall. He went on leisurely writing, until after a time a short, stout gentleman came in from the street. In the early 1900s, being plump was the bee’s knees. If you were a stout gentleman, you were Burt Reynolds to the ladies. I like to subscribe to this aesthetic, especially during the winter, when hedgehogs tend to double their weight. Don’t judge me. By 1900 standards, I’m fucking sexy.

      “Mr. McManus,” called the man at the desk, “this young woman wants to see you.” The short gentleman turned about towards Carrie, and she arose and came forward. “What can I do for you, miss?” he inquired, surveying her curiously.

      “I want to know if I can get a position,” she inquired. “As what?” he asked.

      “Not as anything in particular,” she faltered.

      “Have you ever had any experience in the wholesale dry goods business?” he questioned.

      “No, sir,” she replied.

      “Are you a stenographer or typewriter?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Well, we haven’t anything here,” he said. “We employ only experienced help.”

      She began to step backward toward the door, when something about her plaintive face attracted him. “Have you ever worked at anything before?” he inquired.

      “No, sir,” she said.

      “Well, now, it’s hardly possible that you would get anything to do in a wholesale house of this kind. Have you tried the department stores?” Lie, Carrie, lie! If you’re a yokel from the suburbs, you have to at least pretend that you’re a fucking prodigy. Goddamn. Even Milli Vanilli had enough street smarts to know that.

      She acknowledged that she had not.

      “Well, if I were you,” he said, looking at her rather genially, “I would try the department stores. They often need young women as clerks.”

      Thank you,” she said, her whole nature relieved by this spark of friendly interest. Carrie’s self esteem suffers more ups and downs than the gold standard. That’s a 19th-century joke, in case you missed it.

      “Yes,” he said, as she moved toward the door, “you try the department stores,” and off he went.

      At that time the department store was in its earliest form of successful operation, and there were not many. The first three in the United States, established about 1884, were in Chicago. Carrie was familiar with the names of several through the advertisements in the “Daily News,” and now proceeded to seek them. The words of Mr. McManus had somehow managed to restore her courage, which had fallen low, and she dared to hope that this new line would offer her something. Some time she spent in wandering up and down, thinking to encounter the buildings by chance, so readily is the mind, bent upon prosecuting a hard but needful errand, eased by that self-deception which the semblance of search, without the reality, gives. This is Dreiser-speak for: “She was fucking lost.” At last she inquired of a police officer, and was directed to proceed “two blocks up,” where she would find “The Fair.”

      The nature of these vast retail combinations, should they ever permanently disappear, will form an interesting chapter in the commercial history of our nation. Such a flowering out of a modest trade principle the world had never witnessed up to that time. They were along the line of the most effective retail organization, with hundreds of stores coordinated into one and laid out upon the most imposing and economic basis. “Great American novel” alert. Interestingly enough, some asshat named Arnold Bennett famously claimed, “Dreiser simply does not know how to write, never did know, never wanted to know.” No wonder Dreiser shacked up with his cousin. They were handsome, bustling, successful affairs, with a host of clerks and a swarm of patrons. Carrie passed along the busy aisles, much affected by the remarkable displays of trinkets, dress goods, stationery, and jewelry. Each separate counter was a show place of dazzling interest and attraction. She could not help feeling the claim of each trinket and valuable upon her personally, and yet she did not stop. There was nothing there which she could not have used—nothing which she did not long to own. The dainty slippers and stockings, the delicately frilled skirts and petticoats, the laces, ribbons, hair-combs, purses, all touched her with individual desire, and she felt keenly the fact that not any of these things were in the range of her purchase. She was a work-seeker, an outcast without employment, one whom the average employee could tell at a glance was poor and in need of a situation.

      It must not be thought that anyone could have mistaken her for a nervous, sensitive, high-strung nature, cast unduly upon a cold, calculating, and unpoetic world. Such certainly she was not. But women are peculiarly sensitive to their adornment. Dreiser’s particular brand of man-splaining is fucking great. He makes no attempt at all to defend himself. He’s got pretty big balls for someone who shares a name with a chipmunk.

      Not only did Carrie feel the drag of desire for all which was new and pleasing in apparel for women, but she noticed too, with a touch at the heart, the fine ladies who elbowed and ignored her, brushing past in utter disregard of her presence, themselves eagerly enlisted in the materials which the store contained. Carrie was not familiar with the appearance of her more fortunate sisters of the city. Neither had she before known the nature and appearance of the shop girls with whom she now compared poorly. They were pretty in the main, some even handsome, with an air of independence and indifference which added, in the case of the more favored, a certain piquancy. There isn’t a more back-handed compliment than the word “handsome” used on a woman. Just be honest and call her “equine.” Their clothes were neat, in many instances fine, and wherever she encountered the eye of one it was only to recognize in it a keen analysis of her own position—her individual shortcomings of dress and that shadow of manner which she thought must hang about her and make clear to all who and what she was. A flame of envy lighted in her heart. She realized in a dim way how much the city held—wealth, fashion, ease—every adornment for women, and she longed for dress and beauty with a whole heart. If this book has a makeover montage, I swear to God I will quill Dreiser in the eyeballs from beyond the grave.

      On the second floor were the managerial offices, to which, after some inquiry, she was now directed. There she found other girls ahead of her, applicants like herself, but with more of that self-satisfied and independent air which experience of the city lends; girls who scrutinized her in a painful manner. After a wait of perhaps three-quarters of an hour, she was called in turn.

      “Now,” said a sharp, quick-mannered Jew, who was sitting at a roll-top desk near the window, “have you ever worked in any other store?” Gotta hand it to Dreiser. He’s an equal-opportunity offender. I can’t wait to see what the prick has to say about Aborigines.

      “No, sir,” said Carrie.

      “Oh, you haven’t,” he said, eyeing her keenly. “No,