The Marshmallow Factory

A Found Manuscript

In 1984, I was working as an editor at a consulting firm in New York City whose only redeeming feature was its location - 42nd Street between Fifth & Sixth Avenue. I started writing this book when I had nothing to do in the office and typed the manuscript on the company’s IBM typewriter. Why I didn’t get fired I have no idea, other than perhaps because I was so busy typing, someone might have thought I was actually working.

At lunch, if it was nice outside, I’d often go across the street to Bryant Park and continue writing on a legal pad. When it wasn’t, I’d walk the extra block to the NY Public Library to do research. There I found vintage copies of McCall’s and Vogue for inspiration and studied old advertising campaigns. Imagine when Tampax was sold at “notion” counters. And a 1939 Oldsmobile was described as having 110 HP that was built on a new and improved “rhythmic ride chassis” with a 124-inch wheelbase.

Curiously (for me at least), I didn’t write about food as much as relationships. The untitled manuscript has been sitting in a box all these years and I would like to share some of it with you on the first Wednesday of every month. The first part of the book takes place in 1939 and the second part was meant to take place in the present. But since I wrote the book in 1984, and it’s now 40 years later, let’s assume the present is 1984.

The factory bell rang. It’s not like one of those dainty dinner bells you’d see in the movies that the lady of the house would ring to have the table cleared by a maid. This is an ear-splitting, booming bell. It has to be loud enough to be heard above the machines. But still, even after a year of working there, it scares me every time it goes off.

I peel off the white gloves that they gave me when I first started. You’re supposed to wash them every night but sometimes I forget, so mine have spots of pink and green candy dye on them.

Paula, who stands next to me, is already sneaking into the ladies’ room to have her cigarette. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to smoke in the factory – those marshmallows pick up the smoke. The foreman, Mr. Davis, says folks aren’t paying to eat smoked marshmallows.

“They’ll buy a smoked ham if they want something smoked,” he said.

Mr. Davis thinks he’s funny when he says that. Paula says that if she’s caught smoking, she’ll just say she can’t read the “No Smoking” sign in the toilet. Fact is, another girl, Mary, told me once she’s not kidding. Paula can’t read.

I walk over to the water cooler, take a triangular paper cup from the metal holder, fill it up, and gulp the water down before the paper cup gets soggy. I always drink the water fast because I don’t want it to drip through.

I told my Mama about the paper water cups. I even tried to make one for her, but she just couldn’t understand. I even used one of her large round coffee papers to try and show her. She figures if you can pour water through the paper to make coffee with, then you sure can’t drink from it just because it’s folded up like a little triangle.

***

Bing, bing. The bell rang loudly again, this time indicating the end of the break. I throw my paper cup in the trash can, and Mary ties the kerchief around her head even tighter. I once asked her why she did that, and she said it’s because she gets these bad headaches and somehow tying the kerchief real tight seems to help her.

Between her headaches, chewing gum, and talking to the girl next to her, I know she doesn’t count the number of marshmallows she puts in a box. That’s why I call the ones she packs “surprises.” Sometimes you get more or less than you paid for.

We work at the bottom of the line, putting 12, 15 or 24 in a box. The new girls work at the front of the line mixing the gooey marshmallow batter that they then put into these machines. The more experienced girls press them out into shapes and then they’re sorted. We like to dye the ones that aren’t perfect, because the colors hide the ridges. Those go into big vats filled with red or green dye. When they come out, they run them down the belt through a dryer, but sometimes they’re not dry yet when they reach us. That’s why our gloves are always soiled.

***

When Mary and I punch out that night, it’s already dark and a cold, damp wind is blowing in our faces. Behind us, the factory lights make the building seem warm and inviting; the kind of place that if you walked by at night you’d say to yourself, “Gee, I’d like to work there, that looks like a cozy place.”

But once inside, you’d smell the sickening sweetness of thousands of marshmallows and see the monotony written on all the girls’ faces. You’d see me humming and Mary chewing her gum and occasionally putting the back of her hand up to the side of her head.

Paula would be there too, rattling on about some new guy she met, or was going to meet. And how many times she’d already told him to get lost.

When we’re outside the factory gates, we see two girls ahead of us, also hurrying to get home. If you look to the right, past Mr. Doumas’ grocery store, you can see the lake. But first we have to cross two sets of railroad tracks; these are the tracks that carry all the steel that’s made in the mill to other parts of the country.

Clang clang. We hear the sound of the streetcar behind us.

“Come on Sara, the streetcar! We’re going to miss it,” Mary said.

Mary starts to run and I try to keep up. The streetcar passes us, and we still have half a block to go when a guy from the streetcar waves to us. By now, Mary is ahead of me, almost at the corner, and I try to run a little faster. I finally catch up with Mary and the guy who had waved to us calls out.

“Hold it, two more beauties for this trip.”

I blush as I hear this and Mary and I step up onto the streetcar. We’re both trying to catch our breath, and when we look at each other, we start to laugh.

I look around and realize this isn’t the train we usually ride. We are surrounded by men from the steel mill, and they are dirty.

“This must be the earlier train,” Mary whispers.

All of the men around us look tired, except for a few of the young ones here and there. Their spirits are high because it’s Friday and they know they can go out dancing with their girls or drinking with their buddies tonight.

Mary’s cute little nose takes offense though and she puts her fingers up to it in clothespin fashion, turns to me, and makes a face.

Joe Borna, who is standing directly opposite Mary, looks embarrassed when she does his. He is slight, of medium height with fair hair, and deep blue eyes underneath all the sweat and grime.

“Gee,” he thinks.

He hates riding the train and having to meet pretty girls like this. It seems he only meets them when he’s at his worst. He could go home and clean himself up, which some nights might take over an hour, and then go out and never meet a nice girl.

He looks over at Tom. He’s got spirit. He’s the one that waved to the girls who just got on. Pretty girls too, but why did one of them have to wrinkle up her nose like that and make him feel bad? He knows he smells, and his hair is greasy, and his fingernails have so much grime under them that sometimes if he doesn’t wash right, even his food tastes bad.

Suddenly he hears Tom say, “Smells like marshmallows in here.”

***

I try very hard not to be embarrassed, but I could feel a redness in my cheeks. I hope I won’t miss my stop. I keep my eyes open, watching for it.

I catch the eyes of one of them, “a nice fella” as Paula would say, with blue eyes.

“Oh, stop it,” I tell myself angrily. I can’t even look at a guy without blushing.

I look down at my clumsy shoes and suddenly the streetcar stops, and I get off.

“What a ride, huh?” Mary said.

“Even if it is smelly,” she continued. “Maybe we should try to get that train every night. Just imagine how many dates we’d have.”