Susie Orman Schnall - The Subway Girls

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To the real Charlotte and Rose, my grandmothers, whose names I borrowed for this book and whose memories I will forever cherish

I learned this, at least, by my experiment:

that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams,

and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined,

he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.

Henry David Thoreau

CHARLOTTE

THURSDAY, MARCH 3, 1949

After extensive research and considerable internal deliberation, Charlotte had submitted employment applications to five advertising agencies, their prestigious footings in Madison Avenues most glimmering and stalwart buildings having nothing to do with her choices. Four rejected her expeditiously. The deliberately worded and carefully typed missives were diplomatic: the standard We are unable to offer you employment at this time. We wish you well in your continued pursuits sort of baloney.

Charlotte was convinced, however, that the true reason for the rejections was her advanced age. That the hiring executives took one look at her, with her impressive-but-unnecessary-for-a-typist education from Hunter College and her twenty-one-year-old vestal womb on the verge of decay, and assumed they were better off with girls fresh out of high school. Charlotte, they had most wrongly assumed, in her eyes at least, was one stockinged step away from the maternity ward, which would leave them with a typist seat gone cold and the terribly inconvenient need to recruit a new girl mid-season.

But as Charlotte and JoJo made their way out of Professor Finleys econ class, the March air stinging their exposed skin, Charlotte hoped that the news from advertising agency number five would be imminent. And positive. It should be today, JoJo. I dont know how much longer I can hold it together if it doesnt come today, she said, shielding herself from the cold wind with her woolen scarf and fierce ambition as they walked toward their favorite coffee shop, a well-lit number on the corner of Seventy-First and Lex.

I dont know if I can eat a thing, Charlotte continued once they had sat down. I feel like that Hawaiian tsunami from a few years ago is gaining momentum in my stomach.

Shell have a tea, and Ill have an egg salad on white, please, JoJo told the waitress.

That letter better be bursting with good news. Another rejection and Im heading straight to the high point of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Charlotte! JoJo scolded. Dont talk like that. Youre gonna get the job. And if you dont, there are better options than a swan dive.

Like what?

J. Walter Thompson is not the only advertising agency in all of Manhattan, you know.

Easy for you to say. You have a job, Miss Copywriter at McCann Erickson, Charlotte said, taking a sip of her tea.

I realize how important this is to you. And I know things arent great at home. Its as if every day youre still living in Bay Ridge is like another ragged breath into a balloon. And youre on the verge of combusting.

Aint that the truth? And I dont know whether to laugh or cry.

Laugh, Charlotte. Its good for digestion.

Charlotte gave JoJo one of her what-are-you-talking-about-JoJo looks and then laughed. How lucky she was to have a best friend like JoJo. A girl who relied on truth as much as humor, realizing that the former was essential and the latter was what made life bearable. A far cry from most of the other girls in their class, who relied more on flattery and gossip, neither of which was essential nor made life bearable, and resulted in the type of girl Charlotte and JoJo had neither time nor patience for.

* * *

Lookin like spring might finally be on er way, the optimistic-as-eggs postman said as he and Charlotte both approached the front walk to her house.

I sure hope so, Charlotte said politely, smiling and accepting the small pile of mail. Waiting for the afternoon post had punctuated Charlottes days the last couple of weeks. Anticipation. Disappointment. Anticipation. Disappointment.

Flipping fervently through the envelopes, Charlotte spotted a J. Walter Thompson return address. Anticipation? Check. Disappointment. She hoped not. Charlottes stomach dropped. An elevator with a broken cable.

J. Walter Thompson, the most prestigious agency in Manhattan, had been Charlottes first choice all along. It was the perfect place for Charlotte to begin her dream career in advertising, despite the distressing fact that the decade insisted upon that career, for young ladies at least, be confined to the typing pool. But Charlotte was used to feeling confined, and preferred the metal-desk-and-Smith-Corona sort of confinement to the sort she was presently enduring amid the silence and the sadness that was her parents home in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. So while the other firms rejections were disappointing, they werent the worst outcome. The worst outcome would be a rejection from JWT. Charlotte didnt have a backup plan.

Ignoring the cold, Charlotte sat on her stoop and examined the envelope. Miss Charlotte Friedman. Clear black type. The shipshape handiwork of an earnest typing pool girl.

She would have preferred to dieJoJo enthusiastically claiming the cemetery plot immediately to her rightthan be like most of the Bay Ridge girls, who wanted to get married and have babies straightaway. A girl who settled for being a typist or a teacher temporarily, if at all, while waiting for Mr. Right to sweep her off her loafers, bring her home to his mother for a thorough once-over ( Nice teeth, shed say), and then straight to a tidy railroad apartment in the boroughs where she could carry on with the housekeeping, the cooking, the mothering, the drudgery of it all.

Girls today had choices. Charlotte had choices. She would get a college degree. She would be a professional. Together, she and JoJo were going to make names for themselves. And one day, and this they discussed only on nights when Coca-Cola wasnt the only dark liquid in the tumblers, theyd open their own agency. It was all decided. Charlotte could barely contain her excitement that her life was truly about to start. And that soon shed be able to afford an apartment in Manhattan with a couple of the other girls. A life worth living, indeed.

She took one last look at the envelope and ripped it open. Her heart raced as she unfolded the single page and read its contents in haste. Once she got past the We are unable to offer you Charlotte lowered her head to her knees and cried. There was so much anticipation and emotion in every tear dropping onto the cracked concrete.

She had spent hours fantasizing about what it would be like to ride the elevator with purpose each morning; the way shed spread her hands across the desk, absorbing the firmness and stability of the job; the skirts and blouses shed hang according to outfit; and the journal shed keep to ensure she didnt repeat an ensemble within a given week. So much time fantasizing about learning everything she could about advertising by reading the memos she would be asked to type, by listening extra carefully during the meetings for which shed record notes, by lifting trade magazines from reception on her way out the door on Fridays. Those images flickered out like lightbulbs that had died emitting too much brightness.