A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [185]
After that, everything went to pieces. The boss was afraid to take in new accounts no matter how innocent they seemed. The theatrical season was running out and actor accounts fell off. The deluge of spring-published books which brought in hundreds of seasonal five-dollar author clients and dozens of hundred-dollar publisher clients, had not been a deluge but a mere trickle. Houses were holding off important publications until things settled down a bit. Many research workers canceled their accounts in expectation of being called up in the draft. Even if business had been normal the Bureau couldn’t have handled it because the workers began to go.
The government, anticipating a man shortage, threw open Civil Service examinations for women workers in the big Thirty-fourth Street post office. Many of the readers took and passed the examination and were called to work immediately. The manual workers, The Club, left almost in a body to work in war projects plants. They not only tripled their earnings but they received much praise for their unselfish patriotism. The boss’s wife came back to read and he fired all the remaining readers except Francie.
The huge loft echoed with emptiness as the three of them tried to carry on the business alone. Francie and the wife read, filed, and attended to the office work. The boss slashed impotently at newspapers, printed blurry slips and pasted items askew.
In the middle of June, he gave up. He made arrangements for the sale of his office equipment, broke his lease, and settled the matter of refunds to clients very simply by saying, “Let ’em sue me.”
Francie phoned the only other clipping bureau she knew of in New York and asked whether they needed a reader. She was told that they never hired new readers. “We treat our readers right,” said an argumentative voice, “and never have to make replacements.” Francie thought that was very nice, said so, and hung up.
She spent her last morning at the Bureau marking Help Wanted ads. She skipped the office jobs knowing she’d have to start as a file clerk again. You didn’t stand a chance in an office unless you were a stenographer and typist. Anyhow she preferred factory work. She liked factory people better and she liked keeping her mind free while she worked with her hands. But of course Mama wouldn’t let her work in a factory again.
She found an ad that seemed a happy combination of factory and office; operating a machine in office surroundings. A Communications Corporation offered to teach girls teletype machine operating and to pay them twelve-fifty a week while they were learning. The hours were five P.M. to one A.M. At least that would give her something to do with her evenings—if she got the job.
When she went to say good-bye to the boss, he told her that he’d have to owe her the last week’s salary. He had her address, he said, and would send it. Francie said good-bye to the boss, to his wife, and to her final week’s pay.
The Communications Corporation had a skyscraper office overlooking the East River in downtown New York. Along with a dozen other girls, Francie filled out an application after presenting a fervent letter of recommendation from her ex-boss. She took an aptitude test in which she answered questions which seemed silly—which weighs the most, a pound of lead or a pound of feathers, was an example. Evidently she passed the test for she was given a number, a locker key for which she had to pay a quarter deposit, and told to report the next day at five o’clock.
It wasn’t quite four when Francie got home. Katie was cleaning in their house and she looked upset when she saw Francie come up the stairs.
“Don’t look so worried, Mama. I’m not sick or anything.”
“Oh,” said Katie relieved. “For a moment I thought you had lost your job.”
“I have.”
“Oh, my!”
“And I won’t get my last week’s pay either. But I got another job…start tomorrow…twelve and a half a week. I’ll get a raise in time, I expect.” Katie started to ask questions.