The room that had been full of dust just moments ago was now spotless, the air filled with the scent of soap. Jenny's half of the room was neatly organized, looking very comfortable. Jenny rested for a while at the foot of the bed. Seeing Polly busy with her own things, she didn't disturb her. She quietly took her wallet and went downstairs.
It was already late. Coal lamps glowed through the cracks of neighboring apartment doors. Jenny went alone to browse the secondhand shops on South Street. In her nineteen years of life, even while studying and working part-time in her small town, she had always lived at home. She had never lived independently. At her uncle's house, someone watched over her, so it wasn't complete self-reliance. Now Jenny was determined to make a good life here and secure a long-term job.
She visited shop after shop on South Street, making several trips back and forth. She bought a lamp, a bottle of kerosene and matches, several bottles of ink, two dip pens, a thick notebook, envelopes, and letter paper. She also purchased her own tableware, toiletries, tooth powder, a chamber pot, and even cut a few feet of thick cloth from a woolen shop. From a delicatessen, she got several slices of ham, and from a bakery, half a pound of white bread.
On her last trip carrying food upstairs, she ran into Leni from the next room scolding Polly in the kitchen. Jenny passed through the hallway, put her things away first, then pressed her ear to the wall to listen. It turned out Polly had used Leni's soap while tidying up, and on top of that, had carelessly broken the glass jar. Leni was angry, hands on her hips, lecturing Polly for a while.
Hearing the commotion, Jenny slipped into the kitchen, used a frying pan to toast some bread and ham, and had a simple dinner. She had observed on South Street that buying ready-made ingredients to make sandwiches, with meat and vegetables, cost only ten cents—the cheapest way to eat well.
After dinner, Jenny heard Polly still haggling with Leni over coal. She went to the bathroom, used her new kettle to boil water, and washed up. Washing off the day's fatigue, she changed into a comfortable nightgown, threw on a shawl, sat by the bedside, lit an oil lamp, and first wrote a letter home. At least she had to inform her parents that she had changed jobs, found a place to stay, and her weekly salary had doubled to a base of twelve dollars. If she did a good job, her superiors could also apply for various subsidies. Many experienced female clerks at Dawling actually earned up to twenty dollars a week. In New York, a weekly wage of twenty dollars could support a family of three in a middle-class life. The most skilled typesetters and engravers in the printing factory earned fifteen dollars a week, and their foremen only made twenty-five dollars. However, this didn't mean she could slack off. Those who stayed long-term were those who had unique skills.
Jenny was the third child in her family, with older and younger siblings of both genders. Except for her parents, who didn't support her leaving home, the rest were supportive. She had to prove to them that coming to New York was the right decision. She wrote separate letters to each of them, packed them together, and sealed the envelopes with wax over the flame.
After writing the letters, Jenny got under the covers and pulled out two copies of the New York City Morning News she had bought downstairs earlier. Her direct superiors, Mr. Eliot and Mr. Blair, originally worked in Dawling's news service department. The New York City Morning News had a short story column edited by them. But Mr. Eliot was senior; he had joined Dawling twenty years ago, starting as a clerk and working in almost every editorial department. As Jenny read the columns Mr. Eliot had handled, she found he had a rich resource of moderately famous authors. In the editing business, seniority mattered, as did mentorship and factions, but most importantly, connections. A formal editor's career lifeline was continuously discovering good writers. Ideally, the editor could make writers dependent on him, accept his suggestions, and establish long-term acquaintance cooperation. That was why the company was willing to pay an annual salary of $2,500 for a formal editor. It was clear that Eliot was rigorous in his work and well-versed in this business.
After finishing the columns, Jenny closed the newspaper, leaned over to blow out the oil lamp, and curled up in bed. Soon, Polly also came into the dormitory, sat on the bed sniffling and wiping tears, muttering grievances in a low voice. "Those two next door are just too difficult. We're colleagues. Do they have to be so harsh with me? They can't even talk nicely. I didn't do it on purpose... And they insist on buying such expensive coal briquettes. This rundown place leaks air everywhere. What's wrong with a little smoke? If I make it big in the future and have money..."
Listening to the muttering, Jenny didn't dare to respond. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep. In truth, Jenny wasn't unaware of how shabby the place was. She seemed to accept it quickly, not because she had no material desires. On the contrary, she wanted a clean and decent life more than anyone, wanting everyone to treat her with respect. But reality was right in front of her. Besides pulling herself together and gritting her teeth to endure, Jenny had no other choice. She didn't even have the energy to complain.
She slept deeply.
The next morning at 6:30, just as dawn was breaking, a knock came at the dormitory door. Jenny woke and responded. Leni opened the door. She was already dressed neatly in a dignified brown suede long coat with a lapel, carrying a handbag, apparently ready to go out. "Jenny, we made an extra sandwich. It's on the kitchen table." Seeing Jenny nodding sleepily and thanking her, Leni left. Since Jenny had given them snacks yesterday, she simply didn't want to owe a favor. Jenny didn't linger in bed either. She quickly got up, pulled open the curtains, tidied up, and went to the kitchen to eat.
This exchange fell on Polly's ears and felt unpleasant. She felt somehow inexplicably snubbed.
After breakfast, Jenny took her documents and went alone to the building. She queued on the first floor to clock in, then climbed the stairs with the crowd of office workers and entered the Century Weekly editorial office in the magazine department. Early in the morning, the outer office was brightly lit. Many people were already busy. Light shone from the cubicles on both sides. She had arrived just in time.
The new clerks hadn't been assigned seats yet, but yesterday the secretary said to go directly to the corresponding supervisor on the second day and let the supervisor arrange it. The editorial department's management was very vertical: only responsible to one's own supervisor, nothing else mattered.
Jenny observed the office layout. The cubicles on both sides were for section heads and editors' secretaries. The executive editor's office wasn't here. Assistant editors' desks were in the open area, where there were many empty seats. The four assistant editors' desks were by the windows. Her workstation would probably be among the empty seats in the middle. Each formal editor had one assistant editor and three clerks.
After finding her way, Jenny encountered Ronald Amber, the third clerk under Mr. Blair. He was a young man around twenty, said to have attended college. He had been in the first batch of interviews yesterday morning and hadn't met Jenny and the others again after. At the moment, Mr. Blair had just sat down and was chatting casually with Ronald, seeming not to be meeting for the first time. Seeing Jenny approach, they stopped talking.
Blair looked at Jenny, his attitude friendly. "So, how are you finding the company dormitory? Ah, it was supposed to be renovated, but no choice—if we do favors for you, we have to increase travel allowances for the distribution salespeople, or they'll make a fuss. This matter has been delayed." Mr. Blair had a reputation as a nice guy, but Jenny didn't dare to agree. "No, I'm staying very well. It's quite good already. Thank you for your concern." Blair nodded, satisfied with Jenny's response. "If you encounter any problems in the future, feel free to come to me. But remember, never argue with Mr. Eliot, understand?" Jenny nodded cautiously. She noticed Ronald looked at ease, not at all tense.
Mr. Blair saw Polly arriving late behind Jenny, seeming to have something to say but not greeting her. He passed over her casually. "Our editor Mr. Eliot is solely responsible for the serialized fiction section. This section is very important, taking up one-third of the weekly's space. Every week we need one long serialized story and two short stories. Our job is to serve these three works each week. The other editor for the serialized section handles serialized poetry, essays, etc., and is not as important as Eliot.
"Currently, our work is divided into three parts..." According to the process, first came author submissions. Submitted mail had to be opened and registered daily. Of course, there were also many third-rate small authors in New York hanging around major publishers and theaters, dropping off various manuscripts. They would line up in the reception room on the first floor. The weekly's serialized section would send two clerks down each day to sit at the counter for the morning and accept their in-person submissions. Although this task sounded decent and carried a little power to produce results, it was the hardest job.
Sorted manuscripts were handed to the assistant editor for screening. Any manuscript the assistant editor liked would be typed into a clean copy by his clerk using a typewriter. After proofreading, the clean copy was submitted to the editor's office for review. If there was content worth noting, the editor would keep it. First, have the assistant write a letter to negotiate the price. After purchasing the article, the assistant editor and one clerk would revise and polish repeatedly until the editor was satisfied.
Usually, moderately famous authors would correspond directly with formal editors, mailing manuscripts only to them. Those who submitted manuscripts hoping for luck were all unknown authors, needing screening by assistants and clerks. Therefore, the editor also needed a full-time clerk to help organize the author's manuscripts into clean copies, draft replies, and even draft proposals to the section head. This position was close to famous writers and department leaders.
The workstations of these three clerks were to be arranged by Mr. Clare. He pondered for a moment, then pointed at Ronald and said, "You go help our editor organize manuscripts." Jenny and Polly weren't surprised, since he was a college student. Then he pointed at Jenny and Polly, about to assign one of them to work under him. Jenny thought for a moment. If she wanted to leverage her strengths, she had to rely on the hardest job. So she stepped forward voluntarily. "I want to handle the submissions." After hearing this, Polly thought Jenny must have lost her mind. But Polly's anxious heart settled. She had heard from Fujena that handling submissions was the most grueling. She preferred to work under the affable Mr. Blair.
Blair didn't reject the idea either. He nodded at Jenny. "Since you want to, go ahead." Then he looked at Polly. "Today, you handle the mail. From tomorrow, submissions will be handled by Jenny. You'll only be responsible for typing and polishing."
The three each received their assignments. Jenny chose a workstation near the door in the corner of the office. After taking some office supplies, she went to the counter in the first-floor reception hall. It resembled a bank, with submission counters set up for all the building's publications. At the Century Weekly nameplate, there were two empty seats. A girl was already handling submissions for poetry and essays. Jenny took the other empty seat, took a deep breath, and pulled open the wooden partition in front of her.
...