“Musta got a job,” somebody commented. “It’s about time,” came from someone else, “he said he’d been sittin’ here a week.”
The rear door opened again and a lady with a youthful brown face and iron-gray hair sauntered in and sat down in the swivel chair before the desk. Immediately all talk in the outer office ceased. An air of anticipation seemed to pervade the room. All eyes were turned toward her.
For a moment she fingered a pack of red index cards, then, as if remembering something, turned around in her chair and called out:
“Mrs. Blake says for all elevator men to stick around.”
There was a shuffling of feet and a settling back into chairs. Noticing this, Emma Lou counted six elevator men and wondered if she was right. Again the brown aristocrat with the tired voice spoke up:
“Day workers come back at one-thirty. Won’t be nothing doin’ ’til then.”
Four women, all carrying newspaper packages, got out of their chairs, and edged their way toward the door, murmuring to one another as they went, “I ain’t fixin’ to come back.”
“Ah, she keeps you hyar.”
They were gone.
Two of the people standing in line sat down, the third approached the desk, Emma Lou close behind.
“I wantsa—”
“What kind of job do you want?”
Couldn’t people ever finish what they had to say?
“Porter or dishwashing, lady.”
“Are you registered with us?”
“No’m.”
“Have a seat. I’ll call you in a moment.”
The boy looked frightened, but he found a seat and slid into it gratefully. Emma Lou approached the desk. The woman’s cold eyes appraised her. She must have been pleased with what she saw for her eyes softened and her smile reappeared. Emma Lou smiled, too. Maybe she was “pert” after all. The tailored blue suit—
“What can I do for you?”
The voice with the smile wins. Emma Lou was encouraged.
“I would like stenographic work.”
“Experienced?”
“Yes.” It was so much easier to say than “no.”
“Good.”
Emma Lou held tightly to her underarm bag.
“We have something that would just about suit you. Just a minute, and I’ll let you see Mrs. Blake.”
The chair squeaked and was eased of its burden. Emma Lou thought she heard a telephone ringing somewhere in the distance, or perhaps it was the clang of the streetcar that had just passed, heading for Seventh Avenue. The people in the room began talking again.
“Dat last job.” “Boy, she was dressed right down to the bricks.”
“And I told him. …” “Yeah, we went to see ‘Flesh and the Devil.’ ” “Some parteee.” “I just been here a week.”
Emma Lou’s mind became jumbled with incoherent wisps of thought. Her left foot beat a nervous tattoo upon a sagging floorboard. The door opened. The gray-haired lady with the smile in her voice beckoned, and Emma Lou walked into the private office of Mrs. Blake.
Four people in the room. The only window facing a brick wall on the outside. Two telephones, both busy. A good-looking young man, fingering papers in a filing cabinet, while he talked over one of the telephones. The lady from the outer office. Another lady, short and brown, like butterscotch, talking over a desk telephone and motioning for Emma Lou to sit down. Blur of high powered electric lights, brighter than daylight. The butterscotch lady hanging up the receiver.
“I’m through with you young man.” Crisp tones. Metal, warm in spite of itself.
“Well, I ain’t through with you.” The fourth person was speaking. Emma Lou had hardly noticed him before. Sullen face. Dull black eyes in watery sockets. The nose flat, the lips thick and pouting. One hand clutching a derby, the other clenched, bearing down on the corner of the desk.
“I have no intention of arguing with you. I’ve said my say. Go on outside. When a cook’s job comes in, you can have it. That’s all I can do.”
“No, it ain’t all you can do.”
“Well, I’m not going to give you your fee back.”
The lady from the outside office returns to her post. The good-looking young man is at the telephone again.
“Why not, I’m entitled to it.”
“No, you’re not. I send you on a job, the man asks you to do something, you walk out, Mister Big I-am. Then, show up here two days later and want your fee back. No siree.”
“I didn’t walk out.”
“The man says you did.”
“Aw, sure, he’d say anything. I told him I came there to be a cook, not a waiter. I—”
“It was your place to do as he said, then, if not satisfied, to come here and tell me so.”
“I am here.”
“All right now. I’m tired of this. Take either of two courses—go on outside and wait until a job comes in or else go down to the license bureau and tell them your story. They’ll investigate. If I’m right—”
“You know you ain’t right.”
“Not according to you, no, but by law, yes. That’s all.”
Telephone ringing. Warm metal whipping words into it. The good-looking young man yawning. He looks like a Y.M.C.A. secretary. The butterscotch woman speaking to Emma Lou:
“You’re a stenographer?”
“Yes.”
“I have a job in a real estate office, nice firm, nice people. Fill out this card. Here’s a pen.”
“Mrs. Blake, you know you ain’t doin’ right.”
Why didn’t this man either shut up or get out?
“I told you what to do. Now please do one or the other. You’ve taken up enough of my time. The license bureau—”
“You know I ain’t goin’ down there. I’d rather you keep the fee, if you think it will do you any good.”
“I only keep what belongs to me. I’ve found out that’s the best policy.”
Why should they want three people for reference? Where had she worked before? Lies. Los Angeles was far away.
“Then, if a job comes in you’ll give it to
