_In a Dress Factory_
Fingers poke through cold holes in the wool mittens; the old coat with
two buttons gone flaps and blows about the knees; dirt, old papers,
spiral upward on the chill gusts of a raw winter day. Close your eyes,
duck your head, and hurry on. Under one arm is clutched the paper bag
with lunch and the blue-checked apron. Under the other the old
brown-leather bag. In the old brown-leather bag is an old black purse.
In the old black purse are fifty-five cents, a key, and a safety pin.
In the old brown bag are also two sticks of Black Jack chewing gum, a
frayed handkerchief, and the crumpled list of possibilities. If you
should lose the list!
That list was copied from the Sunday _World_--from the "Female Help
Wanted, Miscellaneous." The future looked bright Sunday. Now after
four attempts to land jobs had ended in being turned down cold, the
future did not look bright at all. Because, you understand, we are
going on the assumption that the old black purse in the old brown bag
with fifty-five cents and a key and a safety pin were all that stood
between us and--well, a number of dismal things. Which was fifty-five
cents and a key and a safety pin more than some folk had that Monday
morning in New York.
You must know in days of unemployment that it is something of a
catastrophe if you do not land the first job you apply for Monday
morning. For by the time you reach the second place on the list, no
matter how fast you go, it is apt to be filled up from the group who
were waiting there from 7.30 on, as you had waited at your first hope.
The third chance is slimmer still by far, and if you keep on until 10
or 11 it is mostly just plain useless.
And if you do not land a job Monday, that whole week is as good as
lost. Of course, there is always a chance--the smallest sort of
hopeless chance--that something can be found later on in the week. The
general happening is that you stake your all on the 7.30 to 8.30 wait
Monday morning. Often it is 9 before the firm sees fit to announce it
wants no more help, and there you are with fifty-five cents and a key
and a safety pin--or less--to do till Monday next.
Strange the cruel comfort to be felt from the sight of the countless
others hurrying about hopelessly, hopefully, that raw Monday morning.
On every block where a firm had advertised were girls scanning their
already worn-looking lists, making sure of the address, hastening on.
Nor were they deterred by the procession marching away--even if some
one called, "No use goin' up there--they don't want no more." Perhaps,
after all, thought each girl to herself, the boss would want _her_.
The boss did not.
First, early in the morning and full of anticipation I made for the
bindery on West Eighteenth Street. That sounded the likeliest of the
possibilities. No need to get out the paper to make sure again of the
number. It must be where that crowd was on the sidewalk ahead, some
thirty girls and as many men and boys. Everyone was pretty
cheerful--it was twenty minutes to eight and most of us were young.
Rather too many wanted the same job, but there were no worries to
speak of. Others might be unlucky--not we. So our little group talked.
Bright girls they were, full of giggles and "gee's." Finally the
prettiest and the brightest of the lot peered in through the street
doors. "Say, w'at d'ye know? I see a bunch inside! Come on!"
In we shoved our way, and there in the dismal basement-like first
floor waited as many girls and men as on the sidewalk. "Good night! A
fat show those dead ones outside stand!" And we passed the time of day
a bit longer. The pretty and smart one was not for such tactics long.
"W'at d'ye say we go up to where the firm is and beat the rest of 'em
to it!" "You said it!" And we tore up the iron stairs. On the second
flight we passed a janitor. "Where's the bindery?"
"Eighth floor."
"My Gawd!" And up seven flights we puffed in single file, conversation
impossible for lack of wind.
The bright one opened the door and our group of nine surged in. There
stood as many girls and men as were down on the first floor and out on
the sidewalk.
"My Gawd!" There was nothing else to say.
We edged our way through till we stood by the time clock. The bright
one was right,--that was the strategic point. For at 8.30 a forelady
appeared at that very spot, just suddenly was--and in a pleasant tone
of voice announced, "We don't need any more help, male or female, this
morning!" Two scared-looking girls just in front of me screwed up
their courage and said, pleadingly, "But you told us Saturday we
should come back this morning and you promised us work!"
"Oh, all right! Then you two go to the coat room."
Everyone looked a bit dazed. At least one hundred girls and over that
many men had hopes of landing a job at that bindery--and they took on
two girls from Saturday.
We said a few things we thought, and dashed for the iron stairs. We
rushed down pell-mell, calling all the way. By this time a steady
procession was filing up. "No use. Save your breath." Some kept on,
regardless.
From the bindery I rushed to a factory making muslin underwear. By the
time I got there--only six blocks uptown--the boss looked incredulous
that I should even be applying at such an advanced hour, although it
was not yet 9. No, he needed no more. From there to the address of an
"ad" for "light factory work," whatever it might turn out to be. A
steady stream of girls coming and going. Upstairs a young woman,
without turning her head, her finger tracing down a column of
figures, called out, "No more help wanted!"
A rush to a wholesale millinery just off Fifth Avenue--the only
millinery advertising for learners. The elevator was packed going up,
the hallway was packed where we got out. The girls already there told
us newcomers we must write our names on certain cards. Also we must
state our last position, what sort of millinery jobs we expected to
get, and what salary. The girl ahead of me wrote twenty-eight dollars.
I wrote fourteen dollars. She must have been experienced in some
branch of the trade. All the rest of us at our crowded end of the
entry hall were learners. The "ad" here had read "apply after 9.30."
It was not yet 9.30. A few moments after I got there, my card just
filled out, the boss called from a little window: "No more learners.
All I want is one experienced copyist." There was apparently but one
experienced copyist in the whole lot. Everyone was indignant. Several
girls spoke up: "What made you advertise learners if you don't want
none?" "I did want some, but I got all I want." We stuffed the
elevator and went on down.
As a last try, my lunch and apron and I tore for the Subway and Park
Place, down by the Woolworth Building. By the time I reached that
bindery there were only two girls ahead of me. A man interviewed the
younger. She had had a good bit of bindery experience. The man was
noncommittal. The very refined middle-aged woman had had years of
experience. She no sooner spoke of it than the man squinted his eyes
at her and said: "You belong to the union then, don't you?" "Yes," the
woman admitted, with no hesitation, "I do, but that makes no
difference. I'm perfectly willing to work with nonunion girls. I'm a
good worker and I don't see what difference it should make." The man
turned abruptly to me. "What bindery experience have you had?" I had
to admit I had had no bindery experience, but I made it clear I was a
very experienced person in many other fields--oh, many other--and so
willing I was, and quick to learn.
"Nothing doing for you."
But he had advertised for learners.
"Yes, but why should I use learners when I turned away over seventy
experienced girls this morning, ready to do any work for any old
price?"
I was hoping to hear what else he might say to the union member, but
the man left me no excuse for standing around.