Mildred Pierce - James M. Cain [18]
"And what is the job?"
Mildred's mind was leaping wildly from cashier to hostess to dietician: she didn't quite know what a dietician was, but she felt she could fill the bill. Mrs. Boole answered at once: "Oh, nothing very exciting. One of his waitresses got married, and he wants somebody to take her place. Just a job— but those girls do very well for a four-hour day; they're only busy at lunch, of course—and it would give you plenty of time with your own children, and home—and at least it's a job."
The idea of putting on a uniform, carrying a tray, and making her living from tips made Mildred positively ill. Her lips wanted to flutter, and she ran her tongue around inside them to keep them under control. "Why, thanks ever so much, Mrs. Boole. I realize, of course, that it's quite a nice opening—but I doubt if I'm really fitted for it."
Mrs. Boole suddenly got red, and began to talk as though she didn't quite know what she was saying. "Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Pierce, if I got you down here about something that-perhaps you don't feel you could accept. But I somehow got the idea that you wanted work—"
"I do, Mrs. Boole, but—"
"But it's perfectly all right, my dear-" Mrs. Boole was standing now, and Mildred was edging toward the door, her face feeling hot. Then she was in the elevator again, and when she got out on the street she hated herself, and felt that Mrs. Boole must hate her, and despise her, and regard her as a fool.
Shortly after this, she registered with an employment agency. To decide which agency, she consulted the phone book, and decided on Alice Brooks Turner, mainly on account of the crisp succinctness of her advertisement:
ACCOUNTANTS
CASHIERS
SALESMEN
SALESWOMEN
OFFICE MANAGERS
Alice Brooks Turner
Skilled Personnel Only
Miss Turner, who had a small suite in one of the downtown office buildings, turned out to be a trim little person, not much older than Mildred, and a little on the hardboiled side. She smOked her cigarette in a long holder, with which she waved Mildred to a small desk, and without looking up, told her to fill out a card. Mildred, remembering to write neatly, furnished what seemed to her an absurd amount of information about herself, from her age, weight, height, and nationality, to her religion, education, and exact marital status. Most of these questions struck her as irrelevant, and some of them as impertinent. However, she answered them. When she came to the question: What type of work desired?—she hesitated. What type of work did she desire? Any work that would pay her something, but obviously she couldn't say that. She wrote: Receptionist. As in the case of Dietician, she wasn't quite sure what it meant, but it had caught her ear these last few weeks, and at least it had an authoritative sound to it.
Then she came to the great yawning spaces in which she was to fill in the names and addresses of her former employers. Regretfully she wrote: Not previously employed. Then she signed the card, walked over, and handed it in. Miss Turner waved her to a chair, studied the card, shook her head, and pitched it on the desk. "You haven't got a chance."
"Why not?"
"Do you know what a receptionist is?"
"I'm not sure, but—"
"A receptionist is a lazy dame that can't do anything on earth, and wants to sit out front where everybody can watch her do it. She's the one in the black silk dress, cut low in the neck and high in the legs, just inside the gate, in front o-f that little one-position switc'hboard, that she gets a right number out of now and then, mostly then. You know, the one that tells you to have a seat, Mr. Doakes will see you in just a few minutes. Then she goes on showing her legs and polishing her nails. If she sleeps with Doakes she gets twenty bucks a week, if -not she gets twelve. In other words, nothing personal about it and I don't want to hurt your feelings, but by the looks of this card