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24
I found a job as a shipping clerk in a ladies' dresswear shop. Even during World War II when there was supposed to be a manpower shortage there were four or five applicants for each job. (At least for the menial jobs.) We waited with our application forms filled out. Born? Single? Married? Draft status? Last job? Last jobs? Why did you leave? I had filled out so many job forms that long ago I had memorized the right answers. Having gotten out of bed quite late that morning I was the last to be called. A bald man with strange tufts of hair over each ear interviewed me.
"Yes?" he asked, looking at me over the sheet.
"I'm a writer temporarily down on my inspirations."
"Oh, a writer, eh?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"No, I'm not."
"What do you write?"
"Short stories mostly. And I'm halfway through a novel."
"A novel, eh?"
"Yes."
"What's the name of it?"
"'The Leaky Faucet of My Doom."'
"Oh, I like that. What's it about?"
"Everything."
"Everything? You mean, for instance, it's about cancer?"
"Yes.
"How about my wife?"
"She's in there too."
"You don't say. Why do you want to work in a ladies' dress shop?"
"I've always liked ladies in ladies' dresses."
"Are you 4-F?"
"Yes. "
"Let me see your draft card."
I showed him my draft card. He handed it back.
"You're hired."
28
I kept hand-printing my short stories. I sent most of them to Clay Gladmore, whose New York mag Frontfire I admired. They only paid $25 a story but Gladmore had discovered William Saroyan and many others, had been Sherwood Anderson's buddy. Gladmore returned many of my things with personal rejections. True, most of them weren't very long but they did seem kind and they were encouraging. The larger magazines used printed rejection slips. Even Gladmore's printed slips seemed to have some warmth to them: "We regret, alas, that this is a rejection slip but . . . "
So I kept Gladmore busy with four or five stories a week. Meanwhile I was in ladies's dresswear, down in the cellar. Klein still hadn't ousted Larabee; Cox, the other shipping clerk, didn't care who was ousted as long as he could sneak his smoke on the stairway every twenty-five minutes.
Overtime became automatic. I drank more and more in my off hours. The eight hour day was gone forever. In the morning when you walked in you might as well settle for at least eleven hours. This included Saturdays, which used to be half-days, but which had turned into full days. The war was on but the ladies were buying the hell out of dresses . . .
It was after one twelve hour day. I had gotten into my coat, had come up out of the cellar, had lighted a cigarette and was walking along the hallway toward the exit when I heard the boss's voice: "Chinaski!"
" Yes? "
"Step in here."
My boss was smoking a long expensive cigar. He looked well-rested.
"This is my friend, Carson Gentry."
Carson Gentry was also smoking a long expensive cigar.
"Mr Gentry is a writer too. He is very interested in writing. I told him that you were a writer and he wanted to meet you. You don't mind, do you?"
"No I don't mind."
They both sat there looking at me and smoking their cigars. Several minutes passed. They inhaled, exhaled, looked at me.
"Do you mind if I leave?" I asked.
"It's all right," said my boss.