The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself — John Shaqi
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by HerselfRichardson, Dorothy
History
The Long Day: The Story of a New York Working Girl, as Told by Herself
Richardson, Dorothy
Women -- Employment -- New York (State) -- New York -- History -- Sources
Meanwhile, however, I did not allow the sentiment of an interrupted
acquaintance to interfere with my quest for a job, nor did I sit idle in
Miss Jamison's boarding-house waiting for replies. I had only a few
dollars in the world, and on the other side of those few dollars I saw
starvation staring me in the face unless I found work very soon. I
planned my search for work as systematically as I might have conducted a
house-cleaning. As soon as each day's grist of "wants" was sifted and a
certain quota disposed of by letter, I set out to make personal
applications to such as required it. This I found to be an even more
discouraging business than the epistolary process, as it was bitterly
cold and the streets were filled with slush and snow. The distances were
interminable, and each day found my little hoard dwindling away with
frightful rapidity into innumerable car-fares and frequent cups of
coffee at wayside lunch-counters. I traveled over miles and miles of
territory, by trolley-car, by elevated train and ferry-boat, to
Brooklyn, to Harlem, to Jersey City and Newark, only to reach my
destination cold and hungry, and to be interviewed by a seedy man with
a patent stove-lifter, a shirt-waist belt, a contrivance for holding up
a lady's train, or a new-fangled mop--anything, everything that a
persistent agent might sell to the spendthrift wife of an American
workingman.
By the end of the week I was obliged to hunt for another boarding-house
as well as continue the search for work. My little bedroom under the
skylight, and three meals per day of none too plentiful and wretchedly
cooked food, required the deposit of five dollars a week in advance.
With but a few dollars left in my purse, and the prospect of work still
far off, nothing in the world seemed so desirable as that I might be
able to pass the remainder of my days in Miss Jamison's house, and that
I might be able to breakfast indefinitely in her dark basement
dining-room.
Sunday morning came around again. I had been a week in the city, and was
apparently no nearer to earning a livelihood than the day I started out.
I had gained a little experience, but it had been at the cost of nearly
five precious dollars, all spent in street-car fare and postage-stamps;
of miles and miles of walking through muddy, slushy streets; and at the
sacrifice of my noon lunch, which I could have had done up for me at the
boarding-house without extra charge, but which my silly vanity did not
allow me to carry around under my arm.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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