Matt Dube 11 Shannon Frost Greenstein

LOCKED FROM THE OUTSIDE by Shannon Frost Greenstein

Based on a True Story

“He’s even coming for Passover,” Sarah whispered, beaming through the scrim of dirt on her face. “My

father invited him personally.”

Rose, her fingers deftly threading the sewing machine even as she listened, squealed enviously.

“He’s so handsome,” she sighed and Sarah nodded happily, her brain running away with images of

Samuel even as she absentmindedly counted stitches.

It was warm in the factory, the vestiges of winter losing the battle against the spring sunbeams. As usual,

it smelled of fabric and dust and the combined odor of 500 bodies in very tight quarters. Most of these bodies

were also Sarahs and Roses, young women from distant lands doing their best to survive in America, Land of

Opportunity. They all had a sewing machine, and they all had a quota, and they all had passions and dreams

which had nothing to do with shirtwaists.

For hours on end, the women stitched and Capitalism churned and the sun traveled across the sky. Sarah

worked on autopilot, dreamily planning the upcoming seder, her mental shopping list occasionally interrupted by

errant thoughts of wedding dresses.

“Sarah!” Rose hissed suddenly, her voice shattering the late-afternoon stupor. “Sarah!”

Sarah, however, did not need this alert to draw her attention to the doorway; she had noticed Samuel the

very moment he stepped onto the ninth floor. Her body was attuned to his presence, drawn to him like a dowsing

rod, her ears perfectly designed to catch the exact timbre of his voice. As had been the case for weeks, a spark

ignited behind her breastbone at the sight of him, electricity spreading into her molars and fingertips and hair

follicles.

Samuel strode across the floor, his eyes darting to the side for the most fleeting of instants to meet

Sarah’s. Smiling unconsciously, a blush rising upon her cheeks, Sarah quickly averted her gaze to stare at the

pile of fabric before her. A relationship between a seamstress and a supervisor would be scandalous enough to

“Mr. Bernstein!”

Calling for the manager, Samuel walked right by Sarah and Rose while Rose giggled shrilly and Sarah

pretended to be very interested in a shirtwaist. Sarah knew her clandestine relationship was unwise; her family

counted on the meager wages she earned at the factory. But she was in love for the very first time, and it made

the entire struggle – the nauseating ride across the ocean, the family members left behind the tenements and

hunger and grit of New York City – almost seem worth it.

Sarah stretched her aching back, keeping one eye on Samuel’s conversation with Mr. Bernstein. She was

getting a headache, as she did every afternoon, her pulse thudding dully in her temples.

“What time is it?” she asked Rose, closing her eyelids against the light and motion of the factory,

momentarily lost in a wave of dizziness.

“Almost quarter of five,” her friend responded, and Sarah exhaled deeply. Eight o’clock seemed like

miles away; the American Dream seemed even further.

She drew a breath, readying herself to return to her sewing, and paused.

“What’s that smell?” she asked Rose, even as her lizard brain processed the odor, even as adrenaline

began to flood her limbic system. “Is that…smoke?”

“I don’t smell…,” began Rose, and paused. Her eyes widened, and it was as she was opening her mouth

to speak that she was interrupted by a distant yelling.

“Fire! Fire!” Sarah heard, panic rising from the stairwell and drifting up out the windows and slowly

infecting the occupants of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, one worker at a time.

“There’s a fire!” Rose shouted, her nails digging into Sarah’s flesh as she gripped Sarah’s hands in her

own. “What do we do?!”

Sarah shook her head briskly, trying to get her bearings even as her eyes started to sting, even as the

ninth floor began to tumble into entropy. Cries and screams were filling the air like a rolling fog, voices stacked

up to the ceiling in a cacophonous pile. The work floor had devolved into a roiling sea of bodies, frenzied and

Sarah clung to Rose’s wrist and dragged her out from behind the sewing machines. The stairwell was all

the way across the floor, but the elevator was only a few steps away, and it was to this beacon Sarah pulled Rose

through the frantic mess of turbulent limbs.

A crowd of young women were jostling and shoving in front of the lift, while smoke began to billow into

the room from under the ninth-floor doors, both shut tight. The elevator arrived slowly, desperate workers trying

to rush inside before the doors had even opened fully.

“Hurry, girls, hurry!” urged the operator, a man her own age who Sarah knew only as Jacob.

But it was only a handful of women who made it inside; only a handful who descended to the street once

the tiny cage was full. The elevator crept downward with a groan, floor after floor, each second a millennia.

Sarah fidgeted feverishly in place, willing the old machine to work faster.

“Come on, come on!” she shouted in frustration, as Rose began to weep next to her. In the distance,

Sarah could hear the warble of a fire engine approaching; much closer, she could hear screaming from the floors

below and the street beyond.

There was a torturous pause, and the elevator began to rise once again. Sarah felt a rush of gratitude for

Jacob for bringing the car back up, this near-stranger with whom she had nonetheless been spending nearly

eighty hours a week.

“We have to get on this time!” Sarah told Rose breathlessly, preparing to rush inside as soon as the

elevator arrived.

The doors began to separate, and Sarah was awarded a brief glimpse of Jacob before a searing pain in her

back brought a shriek from her throat.

She turned to the mob behind her, clutching her back, immediately sensing the wetness of blood soaking

her dress. Sarah did not know the worker standing behind her, but took only a split second to notice the dripping

shears she clutched.

“Let me through!” the woman yelled, brandishing the shears, and Sarah ducked out of the way. Other

pressing against all sides of the cage, Sarah saw a scissor slice into Jacob’s arm; as the doors creaked shut, she

saw his sleeve turn red.

“This is taking too long!” Sarah exclaimed; her proclamation punctuated by a fit of coughing. The smoke

was everywhere now, shrouding the scene in a granular darkness despite the afternoon sun. “We have to get to

the stairs!”

Still clinging to Rose’s wrist, Rose still sobbing, Sarah lugged the girl along behind her as she rushed

across the floor. They were less than halfway when she began to hear the thuds, a series of heavy bangs

accompanied by howls of mortal terror.

Looking over her shoulder, Sarah watched as a wave of bodies disappeared from sight. The flames

arrived, beginning to lick under the door to the Greene Street stairway, and she watched young teens and barely-

grown adults – children, essentially, and mothers; all of them just trying to feed their families, all of them

laboring towards a better life – throw themselves down the elevator shaft. She watched them fall in droves,

aiming for the plunging elevator carriage, and she heard the impact as they landed. Then, turning back to the

distant stairwell, Sarah stopped watching anything else at all.

“Sarah!” she heard through the pandemonium. “Sarah!!”

Samuel appeared, emerging from the smoke like a mythical creature, and Sarah felt weak with relief.

Samuel would get them out; Samuel would keep her safe.

“Samuel!” she called out gratefully, rushing to his side and clinging to his chest, discretion be damned. A

basket of rags burst into flame behind her; she could hear the crackling of fire chewing through equipment,

chewing through walls.

“Follow me!” he ordered, ushering Sarah across the floor, Sarah hauling an unprotesting Rose, the trio

headed for the Washington Place stairwell like a like a straggling line of ducklings.

The fire had not yet reached this corner of the ninth floor, and Sarah allowed herself the briefest moment

of hope. Death could still be imminent, but it was no longer a certainty; they had nearly reached the stairs, and

and a curse.

“No! No!” he roared, grasping wildly at the handle, throwing his shoulder against the wooden slab.

Nothing moved; the door remained closed.

“It’s locked!” he howled, and Sarah gaped uncomprehendingly.

“Locked?” she managed to repeat.

“Locked from the outside!” he responded with a shout, continuing to thrash at the wood, the door

motionless in its frame.

Unbidden, an image of the factory owners flashed through Sarah’s mind. Mr. Blanck and Mr. Harris

were always worried about theft from the factory; they were always complaining about workers sneaking breaks

during the day. The door had always been locked, Sarah realized – locked from the outside – and now there was

no getting through it.

“The other door?” Rose wheezed, but Sarah shook her head. She could see a throng of women crushed

against the Greene Street stairway, their collective force against the door rendering the entire group immobile.

An instant later, the fire was upon them, hair sizzling, flesh scorching, their screams echoing under the high

ceiling.

“What should we do?” she begged of Samuel, her voice sounding foreign in her own ears. She coughed

uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, her eyes spotting flames wherever they happened to turn.

“Come with me,” Samuel ordered, and led the girls away from the door. There was nowhere to go, of

course; the fire was everywhere. “We have to get to a window! I hear the firemen outside!”

Holding hands like schoolmates, Sarah and Rose followed Samuel at a run to the nearest window, where

women hung halfway out of the frame, dangling over the abyss.

“The ladders…” Samuel began to exclaim, his voice falling away as he noticed what the workers at the

window had already accepted. The fire department was indeed below, the firemen bustling about, their ladders

resting against the building, rungs stretched to full height…and still falling nearly twenty feet short of the ninth

All around her, women were beginning to jump from the windows, fire lapping at their feet. Sarah could

hear screams from the spectators below, could actually feel bodies hitting the asphalt in her back teeth and in the

pit of her stomach. Staring unblinkingly at the scene playing out before her, she watched the firemen unfurl a life

net. She watched a figure strike the fabric, and then a second, and then the fabric tor and a third figure fell

directly onto the street.

With Herculean effort, Sarah tore her eyes away from the ground and toward Samuel’s face. A long

moment passed, a communal decision, an unspoken message flowing between them like a current. Samuel

stretched out his hand to gently cup her cheek. Then he lifted himself through the window, clutching the frame

and balancing upon the sill.

He reached for Rose, who turned to Sarah in confusion, her face practically unrecognizable beneath a

mask of fear.

“What’s happening? What do we do?”

Sarah could not find the courage to tell her friend they were simply out of options. She did not have the

words to explain their only remaining choice. She was unable to utter the truth that nothing is worse than dying

by flame, so she simply squeezed Rose’s hand and stepped aside instead.

It wasn’t until Samuel pulled her onto the windowsill that Rose finally seemed to understand. He held

her hand delicately – respectfully – like he was helping a fine lady step aboard a stagecoach. Then he gripped

her waist and hoisted her away from the burning building.

“Sarah…” Rose voiced weakly, and then Samuel let go.

“Hear, O Israel, Adonai is our God,” Sarah recited under her breath, surprising herself by falling right

into the Shema Yisrael like a child. “Adonai is One…”

“Are you ready?” Samuel asked, his voice barely audible over the shrill soundtrack of horror and

destruction and death.

Sarah nodded, and he lifted her onto the sill, anchoring her with a hand around her middle.

fingers clutching at his hair, and wished with all her might for a second chance. Then Samuel’s hands were

peeling away from her body, and she was falling.

She saw him jump, mere seconds behind her, and then she saw nothing at all.

A CONVERSATION ABOUT GOD’S PROVIDENCE WHILST SMOKING A BLUNT by Greg Rapier

As I was saying, we had them all together in a single-file line, and it was this kid Byron’s turn to be line

leader. You know Byron?

Naw.

Robin’s kid. Brown hair?

Oh, yeah. Sure. He’s like six, right?

He’s four. Anyway. It was his turn to be line leader. See, Byron’s nothing like his mom—you know how

Robin is. All reserved, put together.

Meticulous.

Shit, that’s a good word. Yeah. Meticulous. So, Robin’s meticulous. But Byron…he’s wild. Runs every

which way. Throws dirt. Sometimes gets upset when we’re in circle, so he’ll take off his clothes and start

running around naked. Chasing his classmates. Chasing everyone. And you know that song about the cookie jar?

You ever sing that when you were in preschool?

Yeah, we sung that. Song’s a bop. Go on and pass that, Viv.

Oh, sorry.

Shit’s about to burn out.

Sorry… So when we sing that song about the cookies and the cookie jar, if anyone says Byron’s name,

during the call and response—who me? yeah you?—where he’s supposed to say couldn’t be, he just says yep.

Just like that. Yep. Ruins everything. Wild fucking kid, Reed, I swear.

I don’t know—sounds kind of funny.

I mean, yeah. It’s funny, but that’s not the point. Point is—hold on, just one more hit—point is Byron

was line leader for the pool. So I held his hand, and with his other hand he took the front of the rope. And the

other kids, they held onto the little handles attached to the rope, and Byron led us all to the pool. Or rather, I

helped Byron lead us all to the pool. And you know the path from the daycare to the pool takes like two minutes,

A hundred feet maybe. Oh, here.

Appreciate it.

And so when we got to the gate, I had to get the pool key from my bag. And my hand slipped. And Byron

wriggled free. Kid yanked that rope and ran straight into the intersection. Brought the whole line with him.

Eight, nine kids. Sanding there frozen in the middle of the asphalt on account of we taught them not to let go of

the rope. I mean, I grabbed Byron real quick, and I brought everyone back onto the sidewalk, and none of the

kids got hurt. So it was all good, but…

But what?

Let me just get a little...That’s better… Here, you keep it… But like, that got me thinking. Like what if

there was a car?

There wasn’t, Viv.

Yeah, but what if there was? Like, what if there was a car, and what if I saw Byron veering off the path,

and I just let him, you know. Let him get hit.

Jesus, Viv.

And so I guess the question is, like, with God and all that shit. If you believe in that. And with free will

too—you know, like choosing your own path—that sorta thing. So, if we choose wrong, if we go off the path or

whatever, if I’m tracking, then that means, I think… then that means God’s just going to sit back and let us get

fucking annihilated. It just seems…I don’t know…

Suspicious?

I’m not sure that’s the word. But, yeah, kind of. Suspicious.

Should I roll one more?

Yeah, but just one.