An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

he had a glimpse of the appealing scene. Only now one of

the couples was dancing to a tune sung and whistled by the

other two.

But what interested him as much as the visits to and

glimpses of individuals in the different rooms, was the

moving panorama of the main lobby—the character of the

clerks behind the main desk—room clerk, key clerk, mail

clerk, cashier and assistant cashier. And the various stands

about the place—flower stand, news stand, cigar stand,

telegraph office, taxicab office, and all manned by

individuals who seemed to him curiously filled with the

atmopshere of this place. And then around and between all

these walking or sitting were such imposing men and

women, young men and girls all so fashionably dressed, all

so ruddy and contented looking. And the cars or other

vehicles in which some of them appeared about dinner time

and later. It was possible for him to see them in the flare of

the lights outside. The wraps, furs, and other belongings in

which they appeared, or which were often carried by these

other boys and himself across the great lobby and into the

cars or the dining-room or the several elevators. And they

were always of such gorgeous textures, as Clyde saw

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them. Such grandeur. This, then, most certainly was what it

meant to be rich, to be a person of consequence in the

world—to have money. It meant that you did what you

pleased. That other people, like himself, waited upon you.

That you possessed all of these luxuries. That you went

how, where and when you pleased.

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Chapter 7

AND so, of all the influences which might have come to

Clyde at this time, either as an aid or an injury to his

development, perhaps the most dangerous for him,

considering his temperament, was this same Green-

Davidson, than which no more materially affected or gaudy

a realm could have been found anywhere between the two

great American mountain ranges. Its darkened and

cushioned tea-room, so somber and yet tinted so gayly with

colored lights, was an ideal rendezvous, not only for such

inexperienced and eager flappers of the period who were to

be taken by a show of luxury, but also for those more

experienced and perhaps a little faded beauties, who had a

thought for their complexions and the advantages of dim

and uncertain lights. Also, like most hotels of its kind, it was

frequented by a certain type of eager and ambitious male of

not certain age or station in life, who counted upon his

appearance here at least once, if not twice a day, at certain

brisk and interesting hours, to establish for himself the

reputation of man-about-town, or rounder, or man of wealth,

or taste, or attractiveness, or all.

And it was not long after Clyde had begun to work here that

he was informed by these peculiar boys with whom he was

associated, one or more of whom was constantly seated

with him upon the “hop-bench,” as they called it, as to the

evidence and presence even here—it was not long before

various examples of the phenomena were pointed out to

him—of a certain type of social pervert, morally disarranged

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and socially taboo, who sought to arrest and interest boys

of their type, in order to come into some form of illicit

relationship with them, which at first Clyde could not grasp.

The mere thought of it made him ill. And yet some of these

boys, as he was now informed—a certain youth in

particular, who was not on the same watch with him at this

time—were supposed to be of the mind that “fell for it,” as

one of the other youths phrased it

And the talk and the palaver that went on in the lobby and

the grill, to say nothing of the restaurants and rooms, were

sufficient to convince any inexperienced and none-too-

discerning mind that the chief business of life for any one

with a little money or social position was to attend a theater,

a ball-game in season, or to dance, motor, entertain friends

at dinner, or to travel to New York, Europe, Chicago,

California. And there had been in the lives of most of these

boys such a lack of anything that approached comfort or

taste, let alone luxury, that not unlike Clyde, they were

inclined to not only exaggerate the import of all that they

saw, but to see in this sudden transition an opportunity to

partake of it all. Who were these people with money, and

what had they done that they should enjoy so much luxury,

where others as good seemingly as themselves had

nothing? And wherein did these latter differ so greatly from

the successful? Clyde could not see. Yet these thoughts

flashed through the minds of every one of these boys.

At the same time the admiration, to say nothing of the

private overtures of a certain type of woman or girl, who

inhibited perhaps by the social milieu in which she found

herself, but having means, could invade such a region as

this, and by wiles and smiles and the money she

possessed, ingratiate herself into the favor of some of the

more attractive of these young men here, was much

commented upon.

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Thus a youth named Ratterer—a hall-boy here—sitting

beside him the very next afternoon, seeing a trim, well-

formed blonde woman of about thirty enter with a small dog

upon her arm, and much bedecked with furs, first nudged

him and, with a faint motion of the head indicating her

vicinity, whispered, “See her? There’s a swift one. I’ll tell

you about her sometime when I have time. Gee, the things

she don’t do!”

“What about her?” asked Clyde, keenly curious, for to him

she seemed exceedingly beautiful, most fascinating.

“Oh, nothing, except she’s been in with about eight different

men around here since I’ve been here. She fell for Doyle”—

another hall-boy whom by this time Clyde had already

observed as being the quintessence of Chesterfieldian

grace and airs and looks, a youth to imitate—“for a while,

but now she’s got some one else.”

“Really?” inquired Clyde, very much astonished and

wondering if such luck would ever come to him.

“Surest thing you know,” went on Ratterer. “She’s a bird

that way—never gets enough. Her husband, they tell me,

has a big lumber business somewhere over in Kansas, but

they don’t live together no more. She has one of the best

suites on the sixth, but she ain’t in it half the time. The maid

told me.”

This same Ratterer, who was short and stocky but good-

looking and smiling, was so smooth and bland and

generally agreeable that Clyde was instantly drawn to him

and wished to know him better. And Ratterer reciprocated

that feeling, for he had the notion that Clyde was innocent

and inexperienced and that he would like to do some little

thing for him if he could.

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The conversation was interrupted by a service call, and

never resumed about this particular woman, but the effect

on Clyde was sharp. The woman was pleasing to look

upon, and exceedingly well-groomed, her skin clear, her

eyes bright. Could what Ratterer had been telling him really

be true? She was so pretty. He sat and gazed, a vision of

something which he did not care to acknowledge even to

himself tingling the roots of his hair.

And then the temperaments and the philosophy of these

boys—Kinsella, short and thick and smooth-faced and a

little dull, as Clyde saw it, but good-looking and virile, and

reported to be a wizard at gambling, who, throughout the

first three days at such times as other matters were not

taking his attention, had been good enough to continue

Hegglund’s instructions in part. He was a more suave,

better spoken youth than Hegglund, though not so

attractive as Ratterer, Clyde thought, without the latter’s

sympathetic outlook, as Clyde saw it.

And again, there was Doyle—Eddie—whom Clyde found

intensely interesting from the first, and of whom he was not

a little jealous, because he was so very good-looking, so

trim of figure, easy and graceful of gesture, and with so soft

and pleasing a voice. He went about with an indescribable

air which seemed to ingratiate him instantly with all with

whom he came in contact—the clerks behind the counter

no less than the strangers who entered and asked this or

that question of him. His shoes and collar were so clean

and trim, and his hair cut and brushed and oiled after a

fashion which would have become a moving-picture actor.

From the first Clyde was utterly fascinated by his taste in

the matter of dress—the neatest of brown suits, caps, with

ties and socks to match. He should wear a brown-belted

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coat just like that. He should have a brown cap. And a suit