White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

Now she looked at each price tag and added commentary.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “That’s a bit much.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  With each new dress our spirits sagged a bit more. It was like a balloon steadily losing air until it reached the point where we looked at the dozens of buttons on one dress and decided that was too much work and moved on. But even as I pulled the next gown over my head, I knew I wouldn’t like it. The moment had passed, and now my mother and I were only going through the motions. We were like cutouts of ourselves, a mother-daughter duo looking for that perfect dress. But finding it just wasn’t all that important to us, and by the time the salesgirl brought in another round, we were done. We felt burdened and put-upon and we were still dragging even as we left the flowing, glittering bridal department and made our way to the escalators.

  We didn’t begin to feel like ourselves again until we reached the first floor and my mother suggested we look at the handbags.

  “We should find you something that’s big enough for all your newspapers so you don’t keep ruining your clothes.”

  I agreed and so we revived ourselves while looking at the Korets, the Wilardys and, of course, the black quilted Chanel 2.55 bags that were so popular. From there we moved on to the more moderately priced leather bags, alligator bags, knit bags and bags made of cloth. None of them were big enough to hold all my newspapers and magazines, my notepad and everything else that I schlepped to and from the city room each day. We had about given up and were working our way toward the Wabash Avenue exit when something caught my mother’s eye.

  “Aha! Come with me.” She headed toward a display of sleek leather attaché cases in the men’s department. “How about something like this?”

  “An attaché case?” I started to laugh. I thought she was kidding.

  “Why not? It’s perfect.” She snapped open the brass latches and ran her hand across the suede interior. “Isn’t it lovely? Feel this. It can hold everything. You can even carry an umbrella and your lunch. A change of shoes.”

  “But, Mom, it’s an attaché case. They’re for men.”

  “Says who? Who’s to say you can’t carry one as well?”

  And so that afternoon, instead of a wedding dress, my mother bought me an attaché case. Actually it took little convincing on her part as soon as we zeroed in on the right one. It was quite handsome, made of soft brown leather with brass buckles and a combination lock for safekeeping.

  Beyond the practicality of it, I didn’t give it much thought. But the next day, as I stepped onto the el, I couldn’t help noticing the looks my attaché case was attracting. The same was true on Michigan Avenue, when every businessman I passed eyed my briefcase, sizing it up to his own. Even the doorman in the lobby of the Tribune Tower gave me a quizzical look. And when I entered the city room the fellows were all over me about it.

  “Whose is that?” asked Benny, pointing to my case.

  “It’s mine.”

  “What do you mean, it’s yours?” Walter burst out laughing. “Hey, look everyone. The boss lady’s here.”

  “That’s some lunch box,” said Marty with a chuckle.

  “Whatcha sporting in there?” asked Henry. “A machine gun?”

  “Or better yet, maybe it’s a body,” said Peter.

  They all laughed while I set the briefcase on my desk and snapped open the brass buckles. I’m sure they were disappointed to see that it was filled with just newspapers and magazines. And that extra pair of shoes that my mother thankfully suggested.

  As the day progressed, the others continued to razz me about my attaché case. Even the girls were taken aback and seemed almost offended when I brought it along after work and set it on the empty chair at our table at Riccardo’s.

  “It’s just not the sort of thing a lady carries,” insisted Gabby.

  “Aren’t you worried that it makes you look too masculine?” asked M.

  “I’m worried that the rest of you don’t want to start carrying one yourselves,” I said. “It’s much easier than trying to cram everything inside your handbag or trying to carry everything in your arms. And besides, there’s no law that says these cases are for men only.”

  “She has a point,” said Eppie Lederer. “Still, I don’t think it’s for me. I can’t see me carrying that thing. It’s too bulky and then what would I do with my handbag?”

  “I agree,” said Gabby. “And I still think it’s off-putting to men.”

  “But she doesn’t need to worry about what men think,” said M. “She’s already got a man. She’s engaged, remember.”

  “And how does Jack feel about your carrying that thing?” Eppie asked with a laugh.

  I looked at her, baffled. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. Were my mother and I the only ones who didn’t think it was a big deal for a woman to carry an attaché case?

  • • •

  I continued to carry my attaché case despite judgmental looks from strangers on the el and from men and women passing me on the street. Not to mention the ongoing mocking from my coworkers, whom I thought would have been more concerned about preparing for the upcoming Democratic National Convention.

  Chicago was a steam bath that August, with temperatures in the high nineties. The humidity crept onto every surface, finding its way into every fold of fabric and crease of skin. Oscillating fans were perched on top of the desks in the city room trying to cool everyone while we revved up for the convention. There was a steady influx of updates coming in on the wires and announcements of candidates and delegates arriving.

  I was polishing a piece on “Planning the Perfect Picnic” for Women’s World Today when Mrs. Angelo, Mr. Ellsworth and Mr. Pearson called me into one of the conference rooms. I was a bit uneasy as I stood in the doorway. It was unusual to meet with the features editor and the managing editor together. And having Mrs. Angelo there only concerned me more. I was certain they were going to reprimand me or possibly even fire me for doing everything in my power to move off the women’s pages.

  “Come in, Robin,” said Mr. Pearson. Even after I’d worked in his department for a year and three months, he still didn’t know my name. “Have a seat.”

  I took the chair next to Mrs. Angelo. Mr. Pearson sat at the head.

  Mr. Ellsworth paced back and forth, his fingertips caressing his whiskers, as was his habit. “We’ve got a special assignment for you, Walsh.”

  “We’re putting you on the convention coverage,” said Mr. Pearson.

  “What?” At first I thought I hadn’t heard right. “But what about Marty and Walter?”

  “What about them?” Mr. Ellsworth planted his hands on his hips. “Marty’s still covering the convention. So is Walter. Relax, you’re just covering the women’s interest stories there. Mrs. Angelo will give you your assignments.”

  I left the meeting trying to decide if I was pleased that they were letting me cover the convention or disappointed that I’d been relegated to the women’s stories. That night I was home at a reasonable hour, washing my stockings in the bathroom sink and planning what I’d wear to the convention center the next day. I was squeezing out the excess soap when I heard a pounding on the front door.

  With my hands still dripping water, I looked through the peephole. Jack was standing in the hallway. When I opened the door, he was staring at the baby stroller, filled with black socks and one discarded sneaker. I let him inside, and with my sudsy hands held up like a surgeon’s, I leaned in to kiss him, but he pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Goddamn fuckin’ assholes.”

  “Whoa.” I’d never heard Jack talk like that before. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “My fucking editor reassigned the convention.”

  “What does that mean?” I reached for a kitchen towel and dried my hands.

  “It means I’m not covering the goddamn convention—that’s what it means.”

  “But why not?”<
br />
  “He says he’s got enough men on it. He needs me to stick with the zoning story. A goddamn zoning story when there’s a national presidential convention in town.”

  “Can’t you do both?”

  “I told him I could. I told him I’d sleep at my desk if I had to. He wouldn’t bite.”

  “I’m sorry.” I brushed my fingers through his hair, but he shrugged me away. I raised my hands in surrender. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Forget I said anything.” He went over to the fridge and surveyed the shelves. “What happened to all the beer?”

  “We drank it.”

  “Terrific.” He slammed the door shut.

  “There’s some vodka in the cupboard.” I retrieved a bottle, but then he was upset that I didn’t have any ice. He drank it warm anyway.

  “Why do you keep vodka in the cupboard anyway? You’re supposed to keep it in the freezer.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.”

  He leaned up against the refrigerator and made a face as if to say I didn’t understand.

  “What’s really bothering you?”

  “I’m damn frustrated is all. I wanted to cover the convention.”

  “I know you did.” I went and wrapped my arms around him from behind, butting my chin up against his shoulder. “It’s not fair. You would have done a brilliant job.” I tightened my hold around his middle and drew a deep breath.

  “Oh, before I forget, my mother needs to talk to you. Something about flowers or menus or something. I don’t remember what. And she said to remind you about your meeting with Father Greer on Wednesday.”

  “Okay. I know.”

  He looked at me with little confidence.

  “I know,” I said, this time louder. “I have it on my calendar and don’t worry, I’ll call your mother first thing tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  It wasn’t okay. Not with me it wasn’t. There were so many more important things on my mind just then, like figuring out how I was going to tell Jack that I would be covering the convention. Even though I’d been assigned only to the women’s stories, I knew it was going to sting.

  After Jack drank half his vodka, he said, “Listen, I’m in a shitty mood and I don’t want to end up fighting with you about the wedding.” He jangled his keys in his pocket and turned toward the door. “I’ve had a lousy day. I’m tired and—”

  “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “I gotta go.”

  “No. Don’t. Stay.”

  But he put his hand on the doorknob. “I’ll—I’ll call you later.”

  Chapter 22

  • • •

  I hardly slept that night, and the next morning I woke before my alarm to the steady sound of raindrops pelting my bedroom window. It was one of those gunmetal-colored days. Everything was gray and gloomy, and I could see the clouds moving overhead with nothing behind them except for more bleakness.

  By the time my attaché case and I headed down to the International Amphitheatre at Halsted and 42nd Street, the drizzle had changed over to an ominous downpour filled with thunder and lightning. It was as if the city were rebelling against this onslaught of delegates with their bad suits and their conventioneer antics.

  The first morning Mrs. Angelo had me do a piece on the convention organist. He was a young man from Palos Park. Just twenty-two years old. When I interviewed him, he told me he had memorized more than two thousand political songs and military marches.

  “Before this convention is over,” he said, “I bet you I’ll have played Chicago from Pal Joey at least two hundred times.”

  As soon as I finished that up, I moved on to the next assignment: the eighty switchboard operators in the convention telephone center. Political warfare was going on inside the amphitheater, and here I was, down the hall, talking to a roomful of women in matching blue uniforms. They had undergone hours of special training for this with Illinois Bell, which included speech and elocution classes. The supervisor explained that their main responsibilities were to place calls, connect incoming calls and take messages for the delegates. How Mrs. Angelo expected me to make an interesting piece out of this was beyond me.

  Next I was scheduled to interview the New York governor’s secretary for White Collar Girl. The rewrite desk was standing by back at the city room. Higgs was working ’round the clock, awaiting updates so he could knock out the stories as they were called in. He had to have been as bored with my topics as I was.

  I finished up early for the day and so I flashed my credentials and sat in on a press conference. Marty and Walter were sitting across the way, looking at me as if to say, What the hell are you doing in here?

  “I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes,” I explained afterward. The three of us were standing in a crowded hallway. Reporters and photographers were chasing down the press secretaries, hoping for statements. “I just had some free time and was curious. . . .”

  “Spare me.” Walter stuffed his pipe in his mouth, shook his head in disgust and walked away.

  “Walter, c’mon—”

  He ignored me and kept walking.

  “Aw, don’t worry about him,” said Marty. “He’ll cool off.”

  “Honestly, I don’t want to cause problems. I just wanted to sit in and listen. That’s all.”

  “Then be smart. Watch how you go about it. That’s my only advice.”

  After Marty left, I went to a pay phone and called Jack, asking if we could meet for a drink. Twenty minutes later I found him waiting for me in a dark corner of Marge’s Pub, a dive up on Sedgwick. Marge, the owner, and her husband lived above the bar. They both waved to me when I came in.

  “Sorry about last night,” Jack said, pulling me toward him for a kiss. “I was just so damn ticked off about the convention.”

  “I know. And you have every right to be upset about that.”

  “I knew if I stayed last night you were going to try to make me feel better, and I didn’t want to feel better.”

  I reached for his glass. “What is this?”

  “Scotch.”

  I took a sip because I needed a shot of courage. What I was about to tell him would definitely not make him feel better. But I had to say something before he saw my byline in the next morning’s paper. And he would see it because Jack and I followed each other’s work, read each other’s pieces. He even read my recipes in Mary Meade’s column. I took another sip of his scotch and called to the bartender for another.

  “So I need to talk to you about something,” I said after I brought my drink back from the bar.

  “What is it?”

  “Well, I was going to tell you last night, but I just couldn’t. It wasn’t the right time.”

  “What’s going on? Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that, well . . . My editors had a little meeting with me yesterday afternoon and . . . well”—I reached for his hand and shook my head—“God, I hate to tell you this. But see, they asked me to cover the convention. But”—I watched his jaw open as his eyes closed—“but I’m only covering the women’s stories. Just small pieces. Nothing big. Nobody’s probably even going to read them.” I heard the words leaving my mouth and it hurt. It was just like Simone de Beauvoir. It was a betrayal of the self. I wasn’t raised to downplay who I was and what I was capable of. If anything, it was just the opposite, especially being a girl and having a strong mother. But I didn’t want to hurt Jack. “Please”—I looked at him—“say something.”

  He slapped the table. “That’s—that’s great. I’m happy for you.” He grabbed his drink and gulped it.

  “Please don’t be like that. I know it’s weird for you, but . . .”

  He looked around the bar and then leaned his head back and scratched his neck. A thin sheen of perspiration had collected on his brow. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “I don’t want you to be mad at me because my editors gave me—”

  “I sa
id I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay, fine. We won’t talk about it.” I reached in my handbag for a cigarette and waited, expecting Jack to offer me a light. When he didn’t, I leaned over the candle. “So tell me about your day.” I exhaled toward the ceiling.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I exhaled again, harder this time. “Okay, fine. So you don’t want to talk about the convention. You don’t want to talk about your day. What do you want to talk about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jee-sus. C’mon, Jack.”

  But he wasn’t talking. So we sat in silence and finished our drinks. When we were leaving, we said good-bye to Marge and Mindy, one of the regulars who was at the bar, the two of them doing shots.

  The rain had temporarily stopped, but the air was thick and smelled of earthworms. Jack and I started down the street, traversing the puddles. I assumed he’d be coming home with me like he normally did, but instead he stopped, stepped into the road and raised his hand to hail a cab.

  “What are you doing? Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked.

  He waved his hand in the air. “Nah, I’m tired. I need a good night’s sleep.”

  He barely kissed me before he got in the taxi and drove off.

  • • •

  It was drizzling again the next morning when I made it to the amphitheater. I sat down in the entryway to wait for Mrs. Bernice McCray to arrive. Mrs. McCray was Governor Averell Harriman’s executive secretary, and I was scheduled to interview her for White Collar Girl.

  While I waited on her, I ran into an acquaintance who was with the AP.

  “Come with me,” he said. “I just got the results from last night.”

  I followed him down the hall and ended up being among the first reporters to get the overnight polls. When you’re one of a handful of people who know something that the rest of the world is waiting to hear, it’s a powerful feeling. Everything inside me came alive as I rushed to the bank of phone booths. They were all taken—probably by other reporters calling in their scoops. I couldn’t wait and let this chance pass me by, so I darted outside and found a phone booth around the corner and called back to the city room. The windowed panels of the booth were pelted with raindrops, like a Coca-Cola bottle pulled from an ice bucket. After a brief hold, I got Higgs on the phone. I swore the man never slept, always on the rewrite desk.