The Subway Girls

by Susie Orman Schnall

  “It’s fine. I don’t mind,” Olivia said, looking at Ben and then at Mrs. Glasser. “And the answer is no. I’m not with anyone special right now.”

  Olivia took a bite of her cupcake and let the awkward silence pass.

  “So tomorrow morning, Olivia. Meet me in the hallway at seven o’clock and we’ll go from here.”

  “Sure. Where do you walk?”

  “The High Line. We can enter at Gansevoort and Washington.”

  “Perfect. But that’s an early call time for me, so I’m going to thank you for a truly wonderful evening and get to bed. It was so kind of you to invite me tonight.”

  “Of course, it was a pleasure having you, dear,” Mrs. Glasser said, and stood. She walked toward the kitchen, calling after her, “Don’t leave yet. I have something for you.”

  “Okay,” Olivia said, standing to collect her things. “You’re a lucky guy, Ben. To have a family like this,” Olivia said.

  “Funny, because so often I feel like I got cheated out of a family.”

  They stared at each other for a minute.

  “Here you go, dear,” Mrs. Glasser said, handing Olivia a heavy plastic bag. “It’s leftovers. You’ll return the Tupperware when you’re done.”

  “That is so nice of you,” Olivia said. “I really appreciate it.” She leaned over and gave Mrs. Glasser a kiss on her cheek. “See you in the hallway in the morning.”

  “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late,” Mrs. Glasser said, opening the front door.

  “I won’t. Good night, Ben,” Olivia said. He was standing next to his grandma, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

  “Good night, Olivia.”

  * * *

  Olivia opened her front door at 6:59 A.M. and found Mrs. Glasser at the elevator. The down button was already pushed.

  Mrs. Glasser was dressed in black leggings, pink Nikes with white ankle socks, and a fuchsia North Face down jacket. Olivia was similarly dressed, but in all black: black leggings, black Nikes, black no-show socks, and a black Moncler jacket. Jenna’s, of course.

  They made small talk on the elevator down, Olivia thanking Mrs. Glasser again for the delicious meal, withholding what to her was an embarrassing admission that she hadn’t sat at a dining room table with others in years, besides a Thanksgiving here and there at Jenna’s.

  The doorman looked surprised to see them together. “Mrs. Glasser! Olivia! A little morning exercise?”

  “That’s right, Nico. Mrs. Glasser is showing me how it’s done. I hope I can keep up!”

  “Good luck with that!” he called after them as they went outside.

  Spring was on deck but winter refused to yield, so Olivia was happy she had her jacket and beanie and gloves. Mrs. Glasser was clearly made of heartier stock, gloveless and hatless and walking quite quickly. Olivia put an extra oomph in her step to catch up.

  Once they were on the High Line, Olivia felt warmer and kept pace with Mrs. Glasser. They weren’t alone. There was a reassuring representation of New York up early to join them: a woman in head-to-toe Lululemon talking into her mouthpiece and pumping her arms; a tired-looking stroller pusher; business people on their way to work, cross-body bags swaying.

  “I Googled you last night, Olivia,” Mrs. Glasser said matter-of-factly, staring straight ahead, her pace impressive for an older woman.

  “You did?” Olivia asked, looking at Mrs. Glasser. This woman, who she had never really thought about, was continuing to destroy every assumption Olivia had made of her.

  “Of course. I like to research my dates before I go out with them.” At this, Mrs. Glasser turned to Olivia and winked.

  Olivia smiled.

  “I see from your LinkedIn profile that you’ve worked in advertising for your whole career,” Mrs. Glasser said.

  “I have. I started at Young & Rubicam right out of college and left only a few years ago when my boss, Matthew Osborne, started an agency and I joined him.”

  “How is that working out?”

  “Pretty well. Actually,” Olivia reconsidered, “pretty awful right now. We recently lost one of our accounts, and we were counting on winning a piece of business that didn’t come through.”

  “And now you’re trying to win the MTA account?”

  “Yes, and we’re thinking about incorporating Miss Subways into our pitch.”

  “Would you bring back the contest the way it was?”

  “We’re not entirely sure what we’d do. Perhaps some sort of juxtaposition with how women’s aspirations in the past weren’t so different from how today’s women approach their careers and their lives. They may be framed differently, and they may appear more quaint in the Miss Subways posters, but women have always dealt with the same struggles in establishing an identity. And tying it into the subway, it would be something like, ‘See where the subway can take you. It can take you to this life or that life.’ I don’t really know yet. I just have to find the right edge and unpack it from there.”

  Mrs. Glasser didn’t say anything, so Olivia turned to her. Mrs. Glasser had a big smile on her face.

  “What?” Olivia asked.

  “I like how your brain works. You remind me a little of myself when I was younger. So ambitious. Wanting to prove yourself.”

  “I feel like I have so much to prove. To myself especially. It’s a little overwhelming at times, and sometimes I wish I didn’t feel that way, but I can’t help it.”

  “It’s a good thing. It’s what will drive you.”

  “I hope so.”

  Mrs. Glasser stopped at a slatted wood bench. They sat down and stared over the railing at the cloudless blue sky. Olivia felt warm from the exercise and from the companionship. It was nice to speak with someone who understood her.

  “In my day, it was revolutionary to want what I wanted. Not so much having a job—a lot of girls had jobs and wanted jobs. During the war, many women worked, so it wasn’t so unusual. But after the war, the roles seemed to revert back. Most of the women I knew just wanted to get married. They didn’t want to build a career.”

  “But I saw your wedding picture in your hallway, so was it a problem for your husband that you worked?”

  “No. Not at all. My husband loved that I was ambitious. I had made it clear from the very beginning that I was a career girl.”

  “Did you encounter a lot of sexism?” Olivia asked, turning to Mrs. Glasser.

  “Oh, sure. And it didn’t get better over the years, even as times changed. It may have changed superficially, but there was always an undercurrent. In many ways, I just worked around it. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to single-handedly abolish it—it was too ingrained—so I just made tactical decisions at different occasions: sometimes I ignored it and sometimes I addressed it head-on. Essentially, I picked my battles. Ready for more?” Mrs. Glasser asked, standing up.

  “Sure,” Olivia said, and they resumed their walk. “What was it like to be Miss Subways?”

  Mrs. Glasser turned to Olivia and smiled. “To be perfectly honest, it was an exciting time. One of the most memorable experiences of my life. I haven’t thought about it in years, but after you left last night, I reminisced. Thank you for that.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Olivia said. “Can you tell me your story?”

  They continued walking while Mrs. Glasser told Olivia all about receiving the letter saying she was a finalist, along with her whole experience with the photo shoot and interview and everything that came after. Mrs. Glasser’s voice changed, Olivia thought, as she talked about Miss Subways. It was lighter, girlier, as if going back to that time transformed Mrs. Glasser, in a way, to the person she was then.

  While Mrs. Glasser told her story, Olivia imagined herself in 1949, going through the same adventure. Olivia had never had something like that happen to her. Something so out of the ordinary from her normal daily life. She could only imagine what it must have been like to have been plucked from the mundane and delivered to a world of glamour and attention, at least for a little
bit. “Do you think the experience changed you?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Glasser said. “Absolutely. Everything that happened to me after was only possible because of Miss Subways. Let’s turn around.”

  Olivia thought the exercise felt good. She didn’t make enough time in her life for exercise. She didn’t make enough time in her life for much aside from work. Maybe, she thought, committing to a regular walking schedule was just what she needed. Perhaps with Mrs. Glasser?

  “So you said last night you don’t have a boyfriend,” Mrs. Glasser said.

  “Yeah, no boyfriend in sight. There’s a man I like, but I have to get it through my dense head that there’s no future for us. He doesn’t like me how I like him, and however much I try to convince myself that it’s for the best, there’s part of me that’s still holding out for him.”

  “I’ve always found in my life that answers become clear at unexpected times. You have to trust that they will and then keep your eyes wide-open for the signs. Sometimes they will be subtle, but they’ll always present themselves. And you have to be brave enough to take a risk even if it seems like there are a lot of reasons not to.”

  Olivia was silent, digesting what Mrs. Glasser had said. It applied to her job and it applied to her life. Olivia just wasn’t sure if she’d seen any signs yet. She hoped she hadn’t missed them. But she promised herself she’d be more attentive.

  CHAPTER 11

  CHARLOTTE

  FRIDAY, MARCH 11, 1949

  “Charlotte Friedman? Mr. Powers will see you now.”

  The relief Charlotte felt was palpable when Miss Fontaine eventually called her name. Upon her arrival at the office earlier, she fully expected the birds to send her on her way due to the fact that—their notes would clearly say—Miss Fontaine had spoken to Charlotte’s father and, well, ta-ta.

  And even though that didn’t happen, even though the birds directed her to the conference room where the other girls had assembled, waiting for their audience with John Robert Powers, waiting for their chance at becoming Miss Subways, waiting for their lives to be touched by a bit of razzle-dazzle, Charlotte had been wary, expecting the worst. That Miss Fontaine would take one look at her, that a synapse would fire off reminding her of the nasty Mr. Friedman dashing his daughter’s dream, and that Charlotte would be back on Park Avenue, left with nothing to remember Miss Subways by, save a crinkled finalist letter and a teacup full of memories not worth having.

  But that didn’t happen either. Which meant Charlotte’s plan had worked. And that Miss Fontaine believed JoJo when she’d called posing as Charlotte’s mother: “I’m so sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Fontaine, but my husband overreacted when he called you earlier, and he’s changed his mind. He has decided to allow Charlotte to participate in Miss Subways after all. It was a terrible misunderstanding, and I hope it won’t in any way tarnish Charlotte’s chances in the competition.”

  When Charlotte arrived at John Robert Powers that morning, she’d gone to the ladies’ room to put on a fresh coat of lipstick. She told the girl in the mirror that if she didn’t want to work at her father’s store, she needed to win Miss Subways July 1949. Then she told the girl that there was absolutely no reason why she couldn’t.

  Hearing her name called, Charlotte stood, took a deep breath, and reminded herself of everything she had to lose. She needed to ensure that the moment she met John Robert Powers, he was convinced he was looking at Miss Subways July 1949.

  “Go get ’em,” Rose whispered to her.

  Charlotte looked around the table, and all the girls who still remained in the room gave her encouraging smiles. Charlotte straightened her dress with her palms—she had borrowed something black, form-fitting, and slightly alluring from JoJo—and followed Miss Fontaine into a large office, outfitted entirely in dark wood, walnut perhaps. Charlotte wasn’t sure which had a more commanding presence: the huge desk that sat in the center of the room beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows or the man behind it. Mr. John Robert Powers.

  “Mr. Powers, allow me to present Miss Charlotte Friedman of Brooklyn,” Miss Fontaine announced, gently guiding Charlotte toward Mr. Powers, who stood when she approached.

  “Miss Friedman, it’s a delight to meet you. Please, sit down,” Mr. Powers said, shaking Charlotte’s hand and gesturing to one of the leather chairs across the desk from his. “Let’s get to know each other a bit.”

  Charlotte smiled. Her stomach was doing flips. Breathe, Charlotte reminded herself.

  “Thank you, Mr. Powers,” Charlotte said, lifting her chin and giving her hair what she thought was a stylish shimmy. “It’s an honor to be here.”

  “Well, well, the honor is all mine. You’re certainly a doll of a girl. How old are you, dear?”

  “I’m twenty-one. I’ll be twenty-two this November.”

  “And what sort of job do you have?”

  “I’m still in school, Mr. Powers, my final year at Hunter. My ultimate goal is to work in advertising, but for now, as soon as I graduate, I’m going to work in my father’s store, which—”

  “Isn’t that nice? Would you like to be a Powers Girl, Miss Friedman?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Powers. Wouldn’t every girl in New York like to be a Powers Girl? But I’ll settle for Miss Subways,” Charlotte said, smiling. She was starting to feel comfortable with Mr. Powers, who was nothing like she’d imagined he’d be, which was a cross between her high school principal and her father.

  “I like this one. She’s got pluck.” Mr. Powers smiled, directing his comment at Miss Fontaine and the photographer, who was adjusting his camera near a white backdrop in a back corner of the office.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Powers,” Charlotte said, recrossing her legs demurely.

  “So, tell me, Miss Friedman: Do you have a special beau?”

  “Yes, sir. His name is Sam. He’s a lawyer at Linden & Linden.”

  “Oh, a fine Jewish firm.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you have plans to marry?”

  “Well, if Sam had his way, we’d already be married, but I would like to establish myself in my career before I settle down.”

  “And what sorts of things do you like to do in your spare time, Miss Friedman?”

  “Oh, all sorts of things, I guess. But I don’t have much free time. As I started to say, I work with my father at his store, Friedman’s Paint and Wallpaper on Third Avenue in Bay Ridge. I try to be there as much as I can. It’s a wonderful store. Every paint color imaginable and books just bursting with wallpaper choices.” Charlotte knew that sounded ridiculous, but promoting her father’s store was the whole point. At least she refrained from saying it was well lit and there was free coffee on Saturday mornings.

  “Fine, fine. Now, tell me, Miss Friedman: Have you ever had your picture taken?”

  “Sure, lots of times.”

  “Fantastic. This will be just like that. Muky here will tell you where to stand and what sorts of expressions to make, and you just need to be yourself. How does that sound?”

  “Well, I’ll certainly do my best, Mr. Powers.”

  “Fine, fine. Muky? Miss Friedman is ready for her test shots. Thank you for your time today, Miss Friedman. It was a delight speaking with you. I think you’re a lovely girl and exactly the type we’re looking for for Miss Subways.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Powers,” Charlotte said. He began to address papers on his desk, so Charlotte stood and turned to where Muky was finishing his preparations. She wondered if she should make another mention of the store. Or of how badly she wanted to be Miss Subways. She had thought the interview would be longer, that she’d have the opportunity to charm Mr. Powers a bit more, and she feared that she didn’t contribute enough during their short exchange to convince him that she was his girl.

  “This way,” Muky said gruffly.

  Charlotte took a final look at Mr. Powers, but he had already picked up his telephone. She smiled at him, though he didn’t look up, and set her sights on impressing the
photographer. Attempting to sashay the way she saw Rose doing earlier, she felt awkward and laughed to herself.

  “Is something funny?” Muky asked.

  “No, sir. I just had a thought.”

  “Care to share it?”

  “Um, no, sir. I don’t think you’d find it funny,” Charlotte said, suddenly nervous around this diminutive man with the indiscernible accent who had not yet smiled.

  “Stand on that white paper backdrop,” Muky said.

  When Charlotte stepped where he directed her to, her heel punctured the paper. A loud pop resonated through the room.

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Muky.”

  “Just Muky,” the photographer said, sneering at her.

  Charlotte became flustered, afraid to put more weight on her heels, so she leaned forward onto her toes.

  “Now stand in the middle and just smile with your face directed squarely at the camera. No, don’t turn your shoulders that way. Just face forward. And stop tilting your head like that—just straight. Lean back. You look like you’re going to tip over.”

  Charlotte felt drops of sweat begin to trail down her back. Muky started snapping photos, and Charlotte tried to look natural as Muky kept yelling at her to do.

  Charlotte looked toward Mr. Powers to see why he wasn’t stopping this Muky fellow from addressing her in such a nasty way, but Mr. Powers and Miss Fontaine were busy sifting through photographs, probably of other Miss Subway contestants who most certainly had had an easier time with this Muky than Charlotte currently was.

  “Look this way. Not over there. There’s no camera over there. The camera is right here.” Muky gestured grandly, shifting from hip to hip.

  Charlotte readjusted herself, her nerves multiplying, and smiled at the camera.

  “A natural smile. Not a false smile,” Muky demanded.

  For the next ten minutes, while Muky barked directions and Charlotte tried to keep up, turning her left shoulder in and then her right, tilting her head just so and then just so in the other direction, serious expressions, joyful expressions, she couldn’t help but think this whole thing was going downhill fast. What had started so positively with Mr. Powers was ending miserably with Muky, and she didn’t have any idea why this disagreeable man had it out for her.