The Fortunate Pilgrim - Mario Puzo [39]
Octavia’s mind was spinning with pleasure at his praise. She was a real teacher after all. She had been right all the time.
“But, Octavia,” the boss went on gently, “the Melody Sewing Machine Company is not in business to give sewing lessons. Or even to sell those inferior machines we advertise to make people come into the store. We want to sell the good machines. The best. Now that is what your job really is. I’m promoting you to saleslady, with a two-dollar raise. But you still do the same thing. Only be sociable.” Her eyes suddenly flashed and he smiled. “No, not with me. Be sociable and go out with these ladies you teach. Have coffee with them, get to be real friendly. You speak Italian, and that helps. Now, we don’t make money on the machines we advertise. Your job is to make these people switch to the better models. Understand? Just go on as you do now. Only be their friend, maybe even go out at night with them. Come to work a little late the next morning. If you sell good you make your own hours.” He started to pat her arm again, stopped and gave her an amused, fatherly smile.
Octavia left the office impressed, happy, tremendously flattered. Now she had a good job, a job with a future. That afternoon she went out with some of the young married women when they had their coffee break, and they talked with her so respectfully and with such deference that she felt very important, just like a real teacher. When she asked one of them how the machine worked, the woman said it was fine, adding, “Your boss tried to make me change to that fancy expensive one. But why should I? I’m just making dresses for my kids and myself and saving a little money.” Then Octavia saw clearly what her boss had asked her to do.
Once started on her job of selling, she had for the first time in her life to make a moral and intellectual decision that had nothing to do with her own personal relationships, her body, her sex, her family. She learned that to get ahead in the world meant despoiling her fellow human beings. She thought of her mother, a greenhorn, being cheated in such a fashion. If it had been a case of padding bills, overcharging to keep her job, she might have done so. But she still was so naÏve that she felt that to use her personality, her smiles, her words of friendship, was like using her body for material gain. Sometimes she tried, but she was not capable of the final bullying that was needed to clinch a sale.
In two weeks she was fired. The boss stood near the door as she went out. He shook his head at her, smiling with gentle pity, and said, “You’re a nice girl, Octavia.” But she did not smile in return. Her black eyes flashed angrily and she gave him a look of contempt. He could afford to understand her. He had lost nothing, his way of life had conquered. His was the easy amiability of the victor over the vanquished. She could not afford such tolerance.
Octavia began to lose her dreams. Now it seemed that the teachers she had loved had really tricked her with their compliments, with their urgings to find a better life, a life she could not afford to seek. They had sold her an ideal too expensive for her world.
Octavia went back to the garment shops. When she had a new job she told her mother the whole story; the mother listened silently. She was combing little Sal’s hair, holding the boy between her knees. She merely said, “People like you will never be rich.”
Octavia said angrily, “I wouldn’t do it to poor people. You wouldn’t do it, either. Put money in those lousy bastards’ pockets.”
Lucia Santa said wearily, “I’m too old for such tricks. And I have no talent. I don’t like people well enough to be nice to them, not even for money. But you, you’re young, you can learn. It’s not so hard. But no. My family, they read books, they go to movies, they think they can act like rich people. Have pride. Be poor. It’s nothing to me. I was poor, my children can be poor.” She pushed Sal toward the door.