LITMIR.BIZ

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stick to me and we’ll have a coach,” laughed Drouet.

      Carrie scarcely heard, her head was so full of the swirl of life. I’d have this checked out if I were her. Last time my head was full of “the swirl of life” I woke up passed out in my litterbox with an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. They stopped in at a restaurant for a little after-theatre lunch. Just a shade of a thought of the hour entered Carrie’s head, but there was no household law to govern her now. If any habits ever had time to fix upon her, they would have operated here. Habits are peculiar things. They will drive the really non-religious mind out of bed to say prayers that are only a custom and not a devotion. The victim of habit, when he has neglected the thing which it was his custom to do, feels a little scratching in the brain, a little irritating something which comes of being out of the rut, and imagines it to be the prick of conscience, the still, small voice that is urging him ever to righteousness. I’ll give Sister Carrie the prick of conscience with a quill or two. Homegirl should know nothing comes for free. Especially from an asshole who sincerely carries a roll of greenbacks. If the digression is unusual enough, the drag of habit will be heavy enough to cause the unreasoning victim to return and perform the perfunctory thing. “Now, bless me,” says such a mind, “I have done my duty,” when, as a matter of fact, it has merely done its old, unbreakable trick once again.

      Carrie had no excellent home principles fixed upon her. If she had, she would have been more consciously distressed. Now the lunch went off with considerable warmth. Under the influence of the varied occurrences, the fine, invisible passion which was emanating from Drouet, the food, the still unusual luxury, she relaxed and heard with open ears. That’s some freaky ass pheromones. The only other time you see that in the animal kingdom is with ants, who lay trails of the shit when they’re wooing. She was again the victim of the city’s hypnotic influence.

      “Well,” said Drouet at last, “we had better be going.”

      They had been dawdling over the dishes, and their eyes had frequently met. Carrie could not help but feel the vibration of force which followed, which, indeed, was his gaze. Romance novels always put so much fucking drama into eye contact. Thank God I’m half-blind because it’s all a load of bullshit. If every gaze had a “vibration of force,” sex shops would’ve been out of business long ago. He had a way of touching her hand in explanation, as if to impress a fact upon her. He touched it now as he spoke of going.

      They arose and went out into the street. The downtown section was now bare, save for a few whistling strollers, a few owl cars, a few open resorts whose windows were still bright. Out Wabash Avenue they strolled, Drouet still pouring forth his volume of small information. By now, this motherfucker is probably sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher to poor Sister Carrie. He had Carrie’s arm in his, and held it closely as he explained. Once in a while, after some witticism, he would look down, and his eyes would meet hers. At last they came to the steps, and Carrie stood up on the first one, her head now coming even with his own. He took her hand and held it genially. He looked steadily at her as she glanced about, warmly musing.

      At about that hour, Minnie was soundly sleeping, after a long evening of troubled thought. She had her elbow in an awkward position under her side. The muscles so held irritated a few nerves, and now a vague scene floated in on the drowsy mind. She fancied she and Carrie were somewhere beside an old coal-mine. She could see the tall runway and the heap of earth and coal cast out. There was a deep pit, into which they were looking; they could see the curious wet stones far down where the wall disappeared in vague shadows. An old basket, used for descending, was hanging there, fastened by a worn rope.

      “Let’s get in,” said Carrie.

      “Oh, no,” said Minnie.

      “Yes, come on,” said Carrie.

      She began to pull the basket over, and now, in spite of all protest, she had swung over and was going down.

      “Carrie,” she called, “Carrie, come back”; but Carrie was far down now and the shadow had swallowed her completely.

      She moved her arm.

      Now the mystic scenery merged queerly and the place was by waters she had never seen. They were upon some board or ground or something that reached far out, and at the end of this was Carrie. They looked about, and now the thing was sinking, and Minnie heard the low sip of the encroaching water.

      “Come on, Carrie,” she called, but Carrie was reaching farther out. She seemed to recede, and now it was difficult to call to her.

      “Carrie,” she called, “Carrie,” but her own voice sounded far away, and the strange waters were blurring everything. She came away suffering as though she had lost something. She was more inexpressibly sad than she had ever been in life.

      It was this way through many shifts of the tired brain, those curious phantoms of the spirit slipping in, blurring strange scenes, one with the other. The last one made her cry out, for Carrie was slipping away somewhere over a rock, and her fingers had let loose and she had seen her falling. Jesus fucking Christ. If there’s one thing I absolutely hate it’s descriptions of dreams. No one gives a fuck about the inner workings of your subconscious! I skip over parts like this on principle, which is probably why I finished In Search of Lost Time in an afternoon.

      “Minnie! What’s the matter? Here, wake up,” said Hanson, disturbed, and shaking her by the shoulder.

      “Wha—what’s the matter?” said Minnie, drowsily.

      “Wake up,” he said, “and turn over. You’re talking in your sleep.”

      A week or so later Drouet strolled into Fitzgerald and Moy’s, spruce in dress and manner.

      “Hello, Charley,” said Hurstwood, looking out from his office door.

      Drouet strolled over and looked in upon the manager at his desk. “When do you go out on the road again?” he inquired.

      “Pretty soon,” said Drouet.

      “Haven’t seen much of you this trip,” said Hurstwood.

      “Well, I’ve been busy,” said Drouet.

      They talked some few minutes on general topics.

      “Say,” said Drouet, as if struck by a sudden idea, “I want you to come out some evening.” “Out where?” inquired Hurstwood.

      “Out to my house, of course,” said Drouet, smiling.

      Hurstwood looked up quizzically, the least suggestion of a smile hovering about his lips. He studied the face of Drouet in his wise way, and then with the demeanor of a gentleman, said: “Certainly; glad to.” Any time two scumbags get together, my quills start to itch. It’s like I get mites just by association.

      “We’ll have a nice game of euchre.”

      “May I bring a nice little bottle of Sec?” asked Hurstwood. “Certainly,” said Drouet. “I’ll introduce you.” Sister Carrie better run now. I don’t know where Dreiser is hiding the gun in this story, but it’s bound to come out soon. There’s a reason this story is set in gangster-land Chicago. I apologize. I tend to get emotionally invested in this shit.

Chapter 9

       CONVENTION’S OWN TINDER-BOX—THE EYE THAT IS GREEN

      Hurstwood’s residence on the North Side, near Lincoln Park, was a brick building of a very popular type then, a three-story affair with the first floor sunk a very little below the level of the street. It had a large bay window bulging out from the second floor, and was graced in front by a small grassy plot, twenty- five feet wide and ten feet deep. There was also a small rear yard, walled in by the fences of the neighbours and holding a stable where he kept his horse and trap.

      The ten rooms of the house were occupied by himself, his wife Julia, and his son and daughter, George, Jr.,

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