An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

as being not only worldly, but sinful, he could occasionally

go to one or another of those—in the gallery—a form of

diversion which he had to conceal from his parents. Yet that

did not deter him. He felt that he had a right to go with his

own money; also to take his younger brother Frank, who

was glad enough to go with him and say nothing.

Later in the same year, wishing to get out of school

because he already felt himself very much belated in the

race, he secured a place as an assistant to a soda water

clerk in one of the cheaper drug stores of the city, which

adjoined a theater and enjoyed not a little patronage of this

sort. A sign—“Boy Wanted”—since it was directly on his

way to school, first interested him. Later, in conversation

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42

with the young man whose assistant he was to be, and

from whom he was to learn the trade, assuming that he

was sufficiently willing and facile, he gathered that if he

mastered this art, he might make as much as fifteen and

even eighteen dollars a week. It was rumored that Stroud’s

at the corner of 14th and Baltimore streets paid that much

to two of their clerks. The particular store to which he was

applying paid only twelve, the standard salary of most

places.

But to acquire this art, as he was now informed, required

time and the friendly help of an expert. If he wished to come

here and work for five to begin with—well, six, then, since

his face fell—he might soon expect to know a great deal

about the art of mixing sweet drinks and decorating a large

variety of ice creams with liquid sweets, thus turning them

into sundaes. For the time being apprenticeship meant

washing and polishing all the machinery and implements of

this particular counter, to say nothing of opening and

sweeping out the store at so early an hour as seven-thirty,

dusting, and delivering such orders as the owner of this

drug store chose to send out by him. At such idle moments

as his immediate superior—a Mr. Sieberling—twenty,

dashing, self-confident, talkative, was too busy to fill all the

orders, he might be called upon to mix such minor drinks—

lemonades, Coca-Colas and the like—as the trade

demanded.

Yet this interesting position, after due consultation with his

mother, he decided to take. For one thing, it would provide

him, as he suspected, with all the ice-cream sodas he

desired, free—an advantage not to be disregarded. In the

next place, as he saw it at the time, it was an open door to

a trade—something which he lacked. Further, and not at all

disadvantageously as he saw it, this store required his

presence at night as late as twelve o’clock, with certain

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hours off during the day to compensate for this. And this

took him out of his home at night—out of the ten-o’clock-

boy class at last. They could not ask him to attend any

meetings save on Sunday, and not even then, since he was

supposed to work Sunday afternoons and evenings.

Next, the clerk who manipulated this particular soda

fountain, quite regularly received passes from the manager

of the theater next door, and into the lobby of which one

door to the drug store gave—a most fascinating connection

to Clyde. It seemed so interesting to be working for a drug

store thus intimately connected with a theater.

And best of all, as Clyde now found to his pleasure, and yet

despair at times, the place was visited, just before and after

the show on matinee days, by bevies of girls, single and en

suite, who sat at the counter and giggled and chattered and

gave their hair and their complexions last perfecting

touches before the mirror. And Clyde, callow and

inexperienced in the ways of the world, and those of the

opposite sex, was never weary of observing the beauty, the

daring, the self-sufficiency and the sweetness of these, as

he saw them. For the first time in his life, while he busied

himself with washing glasses, filling the ice-cream and

syrup containers, arranging the lemons and oranges in the

trays, he had an almost uninterrupted opportunity of

studying these girls at close range. The wonder of them!

For the most part, they were so well-dressed and smart-

looking—the rings, pins, furs, delightful hats, pretty shoes

they wore. And so often he overheard them discussing

such interesting things—parties, dances, dinners, the

shows they had seen, the places in or near Kansas City to

which they were soon going, the difference between the

styles of this year and last, the fascination of certain actors

and actresses—principally actors—who were now playing

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44

or soon coming to the city. And to this day, in his own home

he had heard nothing of all this.

And very often one or another of these young beauties was

accompanied by some male in evening suit, dress shirt,

high hat, bow tie, white kid gloves and patent leather shoes,

a costume which at that time Clyde felt to be the last word

in all true distinction, beauty, gallantry and bliss. To be able

to wear such a suit with such ease and air! To be able to

talk to a girl after the manner and with the sang-froid of

some of these gallants! What a true measure of

achievement! No good-looking girl, as it then appeared to

him, would have anything to do with him if he did not

possess this standard of equipment. It was plainly

necessary—the thing. And once he did attain it—was able

to wear such clothes as these—well, then was he not well

set upon the path that leads to all the blisses? All the joys of

life would then most certainly be spread before him. The

friendly smiles! The secret handclasps, maybe—an arm

about the waist of some one or another—a kiss—a promise

of marriage—and then, and then!

And all this as a revealing flash after all the years of walking

through the streets with his father and mother to public

prayer meeting, the sitting in chapel and listening to queer

and nondescript individuals—depressing and disconcerting

people—telling how Christ had saved them and what God

had done for them. You bet he would get out of that now.

He would work and save his money and be somebody.

Decidedly this simple and yet idyllic compound of the

commonplace had all the luster and wonder of a spiritual

transfiguration, the true mirage of the lost and thirsting and

seeking victim of the desert.

However, the trouble with this particular position, as time

speedily proved, was that much as it might teach him of

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mixing drinks and how to eventually earn twelve dollars a

week, it was no immediate solvent for the yearnings and

ambitions that were already gnawing at his vitals. For Albert

Sieberling, his immediate superior, was determined to keep

as much of his knowledge, as well as the most pleasant

parts of the tasks, to himself. And further he was quite at

one with the druggist for whom they worked in thinking that

Clyde, in addition to assisting him about the fountain,

should run such errands as the druggist desired, which kept

Clyde industriously employed for nearly all the hours he

was on duty.

Consequently there was no immediate result to all this.

Clyde could see no way to dressing better than he did.

Worse, he was haunted by the fact that he had very little

money and very few contacts and connections—so few

that, outside his own home, he was lonely and not so very

much less than lonely there. The flight of Esta had thrown a

chill over the religious work there, and because, as yet, she

had not returned—the family, as he now heard, was

thinking of breaking up here and moving, for want of a

better idea, to Denver, Colorado. But Clyde, by now, was

convinced that he did not wish to accompany them. What

was the good of it, he asked himself? There would be just

another mission there, the same as this one.

He had always lived at home—in the rooms at the rear of

the mission in Bickel Street, but he hated it. And since his

eleventh year, during all of which time his family had been

residing in Kansas City, he had been ashamed to bring boy

friends to or near it. For that reason he had always avoided

boy friends, and had walked and played very much alone—

or with his brother and sisters.

But now that he was sixteen and old enough to make his

own way, he ought to be getting out of this. And yet he was

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earning almost nothing—not enough to live on, if he were

alone—and he had not as yet developed sufficient skill or

courage to get anything better.