Word was passed this morning that “company” was coming! The bustling and the hustling and the dusting! Every girl had to clean her press from top to bottom, and we swept the floor with lightning speed. Miss Cross dashed to her little mirror and put powder on her nose. Hattie tied a curtain around her head to look like a Red Cross nurse. Every time the door opened we all got expectant palpitations. We were not allowed to speak, yet ever and anon Hattie or Mrs. Reilly would let out some timely remarks. Whereat we all got the giggles. Miss Cross would almost hiss, “GIRLS!” whereat we subsided. It was nerve wracking. And the company never came! They got as far as the third floor and gave out. But it was not until afternoon that we knew definitely that our agony was for naught.
Lucia's machine got out of order—steam escaped at a fearful rate. While the mechanic was fixing it he discoursed to me on the laundry. He had been there nine months—big, capable-looking six-footer. Out of the corner of his mouth he informed me, “Once anybody comes to work here they never leave!” It surely does seem as if they had no end of people who had worked there years and years. Miss Cross says they used to have more fun than nowadays, before so many colored girls were employed. They gave parties and dances and everyone was chummy with everyone else.
To-day, in the midst of hilarity and all unannounced, “company” did appear. We subsided like a schoolroom when the teacher suddenly re-enters. A batch of women, escorted by one of the management. He gesticulated and explained. I could not catch his words, for the noise of the presses, though goodness knows I craned my ears. They investigated everything. Undoubtedly their guide dwelt eloquently on the victrola in the lunch room; it plays every noon. On their way out two of the young women stopped by my press. “Didn't this girl iron that nightgown nicely?” one said to the other. I felt it obligatory to give them the “once over.”
The second the door was closed I dashed for Miss Cross. “Who were them females?” I asked her.
Miss Cross grunted. “Them were Teachers College girls.” She wrinkled her nose. “They send 'em over here often. And let me tell you, I never seen one of 'em with any class yet.... They talk about college girls—pooh! I never seen a college girl yet looked any classier than us laundry girls. Most of 'em don't look as classy. Only difference is, if you mixed us all up, they're gettin' educated.”
One of my erstwhile jobs at the University of California had been piloting college girls around through factories in just that fashion. I had to laugh in my sleeve as I suspected the same remarks may have been passed on us after our departure!
We have much fun at our lunch table. A switchboard operator and file clerk from the office eats with us. She and I “guy” each other a good deal during the meal. Miss Cross wipes her eyes and sighs: “Gee! Ain't it fun to laugh!” and Eleanor and I look pleased with ourselves.
In the paper this morning appeared a picture of one of New York's leading society women “experiencing the life of the working girl first hand.” She was shown in a French bonnet, a bunch of orchids at her waist, standing behind a perfumery counter. What our table did to Mrs. X!
“These women,” fusses Miss Cross, “who think they'll learn what it's like to be a working girl, and stand behind a perfumery counter! Somebody's always trying to find out what it's like to be a worker—and then they get a lot of noteriety writin' articles about it. All rot, I say. Pity, if they really want to know what workin's like, they wouldn't try a laundry.”
“She couldn't eat her breakfast in bed if she did that!” was my cutting remark.