Introduction (Fall 1929) 

It was a Friday after school when Carla Miner found her father hanging from the ceiling.  She was the first person home that day.  Her little brother and sisters were at a birthday party, her mother out grocery shopping with the baby.  The policemen called it suicide; it was happening all over the country, they said.  Men and women affected by the bank failures were overdosing, jumping out of windows, and even hanging themselves because they could not stand the loss of their lives' works.

The children – little Hanna, Matthew, and Dolores – were not told the cause of their father's death.  Their mother, who found another husband soon after because one could not survive the troubled times as a single mother of four, called it "an accident."  Try as the family might to keep Mr. Miner's death under wraps, neighborhood intrigue simmered over his "disappearance," and Mrs. Miner's hasty remarriage only contributed to the gossip about betrayal, divorce, and abandonment.

…

"The market's going to shit," commented Rob, a savvy twenty-something saxophone player, as he sat at the diner counter with his fellow band mate Nick.

"What else is new?" asked the young man with a shrug.  He downed the last of his hamburger and wiped his hands on his pants.

"This ain't a joke, Carter.  I been thinking—well, it's the whole band that's been thinking.  Maybe it's time for us guys to go our own separate ways, y'know.  There ain't no money for musicians around here.  Maybe if we all split up, we can find some money thataways.  I'm myself heading out west."

"Can I go with you?" Nick asked.  With no warning his whole family, music-wise, was about to split. "When do we start?"

"You can go west if you want to, kid, but not with me. I'm startin' off today, you see, and I ain’t gonna pay your fare," Rob told him.  "No offense, Nick, but you're only sixteen.  I can't look cool with a tyke like you hanging on my arm, man."  He patted the boy’s shoulder.  "So long, and good luck to ya," the saxophonist crumpled up his napkin and tossed it on the counter.

"And oh yeah, Nick.  Remember how I said I was buyin'?  Well, I spent all my money on that train ticket," Rob turned out his pants pockets, "So I got nothing on me.  Thanks for lunch, sport."  With a wave he headed out the door.

"Hey!  But I don't have any money..." Nick called after him, but Rob was gone.

I (February 1932)

"Damn car," muttered Carla's stepfather Paul as he tinkered under the old clunker''s hood.  "Be a good kid and hand me that wrench, would you?"

She put down the polishing rag and grabbed the tool off the bench.  "Here you go," Carla handed him the wrench and then busied herself with wiping off the dirty windows.  "So, Paul... How's the job search going?  Mama said you, uh, borrowed some of my stash to pay for gas to go downtown."

"She told you that, did she?  Well, yes, I did.  That's quite a collection of coins you got in that piggy bank of yours.  How long have you been saving up?"

"Hmm... Six years, I think.  Yeah, that's right.  It was right before my eleventh birthday when I got the bank."  She fell into silence, remembering the day her father had brought home the little clay piglet.  Now Piggy lay shattered in a dozen fragments on the nightstand, and her mother had done no more than told her to “grow up” when she’d complained about Paul’s misdeed.  Steeling herself with a little bit of righteous indignation, Carla prodded him again.  "You know, you didn’t answer my question.  I asked how'd the job search go?"

"Not too well," he admitted.  "People just ain't hiring around here, you know?  People ain't hiring nowhere, it seems.  But I will find another job, I know I will.  It's just the bank keeps hasslin’ us about house payments and all them damn bills keep rolling in.  Never seem to have enough money."

Carla was of the opinion that the lack of money was her stepfather's fault.  He liked to stop into the local speakeasies, former bars where liquor still flowed in blatant defiance of the national prohibition law.  Alcohol these days did not come cheap, and Carla knew that there would have been more food on the table if it weren't for Paul's "little indulgence."  She doubted that he'd really used her money on gas, and sometimes she felt that their family would be better off without him.  Paul contributed little more to the family than extra mouths to feed.  He’d not even been married to her mother for three years yet, and they’d already had two little boys, Erik and Jeremiah, with another baby due by autumn.  Who knew how many more were to come?

As Carla reflected upon the current state of her family, Paul droned on about everything from work to the weather.  She listened only half-attentively while he apologized for not providing a better living for them all, for not being a more responsible father, and, most of all, for not being able to afford a present for Carla's birthday, which had recently passed.  Paul discussed how the family did not have enough money and how things around their house needed to change.  "Sacrifices will have to be made in the future so that everyone can be happy.  Your mother and I are sorry, you know, Carla."

"About what?  Not affording to celebrate my birthday?  That's fine," she shrugged it off.  "It's like you said; sacrifices will have to be made, and I can understand that."

"Well, I'm happy you understand, but that's not what I meant by sacrifices."  Her stepfather set down the wrench and wiped his hands on his work coveralls before he placed them on his hips.  "With the baby on the way, we're going to have six kids to feed, not including you.  So I've decided that it would be better for you to leave home now," he told her with the air of a company boss letting his employee go.  "You're seventeen.  That's old enough for you to make your own way about this world."

"Very funny, Paul," Carla laughed without a pause in cleaning the windows.  "And when am I getting my royal sendoff?" she asked jestingly.

"Today, actually.  I'm glad to see that you're taking this so well," he replied seriously.

Her stepfather's tone made Carla stop to look at him.  "You're serious?"  She stared at him for a minute.  "...What?  My God, you want to get rid of me.  You honestly want to get rid of me."  She shook her head, "You're delirious.  My mother won't stand for this."

"Sure, she will.  It didn't take long for her to agree."

Carla gawked at him.  "I can't believe that this is happening.  And you want me to leave today?" she asked faintly.

"Yes, now.  And don't you look at me like that, young lady.  Sacrifices have to be made, remember?  It's not easy raising a family."

"Yeah, well my father did it,” she returned angrily, “and that was before my older brother and sister moved away.  He raised six kids and would've never thought of turning one of us out to the cold."  Carla threw the washrag at his feet in defiance.  "Daddy could do it!"

Paul stooped to pick it up and wiped the last of the grease from his hands.  "Things were different back then.  Money was easier to come by.  And before you start putting your father on a pedestal, don't you damn well forget that he committed suicide.  That cuss would be no better off in this situation than your mama and me.  In fact, that's probably why he hanged himself in the first place.  Your daddy wasn't man enough to raise his own family when he went broke."

"Shut up, you bastard Paul!" Carla turned away.  Tears smarted at the corners of her eyes as she quickly changed the subject.  "You can't kick me out.  This is unbelievable!  Don't make me go, I don't want to leave.  Please don't kick me out of my own house," she begged.  "I'll get a job, I'll help somehow!  Why me?  I mean, why can't you get rid of the appliances for chrissakes?  The washing machine!" she exclaimed.  "The refrigerator!  Anything but me..."

Her stepfather grabbed her by the elbow. "Don't get hysterical now, kid.  You're making a fool of yourself.  The neighbors are gonna hear you," he dragged her to the doorway.  "Come on, your mother's probably got your bags packed by now.  It's time to go, Carla."

...

"Extra!  Extra!  Read all about it!  Teenage girl forced out of house by family!  Extra!"

Or at least that's what Carla imagined the headlines would be.  As she stood on the street corner, watching Paul drive away in the old car, it did not occur to her that young men and women across the nation were not only being forced from their homes by the economic disaster but were also leaving by choice.  She scowled as the Ford turned not homeward bound but deeper into town, most likely in the direction of Paul's favorite speak easy.

Making a frustrated noise in her throat, Carla turned to read the sign of the hotel where she'd been delivered.  De Anza Hotel, it said.  Carla wondered whether she'd be able to afford it.  The money she had wasn’t really much.  She would have to find a job soon and a way to get to school – that was, if she continued attending now that she was living on her own.

A frown crossed Carla's face as she walked into the building with her valise in her left hand and a knapsack slung over her right shoulder.  She made her way to the counter, which was unattended.  Carla set down her bags on the floor and rang the silver bell, "Hello?"  She rang again, "Anybody here?  I need a room."

A woman in a vulgarly bright dress stood up with a bunch of papers in her hand.  Apparently, she'd stooped to pick them up—or the papers were just a show and the clerk had been sleeping on the job as the rumpled state of her clothing and the bags under her eyes suggested.  "Sleeping or jumping, kid?"

"Excuse me?"  Carla gaped slightly, thinking she had heard wrong.

"Sleeping or jumping," the woman repeated, running a hand through her hair, which was nappy on one side.  At Carla's blank stare, the woman explained, "D'you want a room for sleeping in, or do you just wanna jump out the window?  If so, we got an opening on the top floor.  Hurry it up 'cause I got an appointment with Mr. Sandman."

"You-you're joking right?" Carla asked.  This day was just one bizarre moment after another.

"I'm not kidding, kid," the clerk pointed to a poster on the wall that was covered with a long list of names.  "Those're the people that have used this fine facility for their one way tickets to Hell these past few years.  We got quite a record going here."

"Well, I don't want to jump!" Carla exclaimed.  "I just need a room to stay in for a while."

"You got bags?" the woman asked, suspicious of her.  "'Cause jumpers don't bring any bags, don't need 'em where they're going."  The clerk leaned over the counter and saw the luggage at Carla's feet.  "Okay," she said, satisfied, "looks like you'll be sleeping then."

Carla paid for a key to the cheapest room available.  There was no bellboy so she carried her belongings to the third story room herself.  The chamber was small and dark, the taller buildings next door blocking any direct sunlight from coming into the room, and there was only a dim ceiling bulb to be switched on by a pull of its rusty chain.  The bathroom was not separate but rather a tub, toilet, and sink set into one corner with a raggedy folding screen to block them from view.

"Welcome home, Carla," she told herself and set the bags on the bed.  She sat beside them and contemplated her miserable new state. It could have been worse, of course, much worse if she didn't have any money.  But the money she did have wouldn't last long either.  Carla was going to have to get a job, hopefully soon, or else she would be out on the streets by the weekend's end.  All these thoughts combined with the fact of her new accommodations were too depressing for Carla, so she unpacked her clothes into a small bureau and headed downstairs.

"Might as well start searching for that job now," she said, slipping her room key into her purse.  But as she reached the lobby, Carla heard faint strains of music and followed the sound to a ballroom off the main corridor.

...

"Request a song?  Anyone?" Nick strummed his guitar lazily as he looked expectantly around the room.  From his seat beside the hotel piano, he watched the hotel guests who chatted, ate, smoked, and schmoozed, and once in a while they would take a break from their banal lives to request a tune.  The tips they gave were "fair," but Nick’s hat still had a way to go before it was full.  "Request a song?  Anybody?"  And then one man, entering from the hotel lobby did, and Nick played it.

He sang softly and pleasantly with a rich sounding tenor that for all its gentleness managed to reach the ends of the hall and be heard over the sounds of the crowd.  He closed his eyes as he played, letting his fingers work by memory.  At times he slipped into hums and ad-libs, and he improvised the song a bit, making it his own.  When he finished there was light applause, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a few members of the audience approach with tips.  A young lady, one who hadn’t been there before the song began, put some change in his hat.  The look on her face struck him in its obvious enjoyment of the music but its reluctance to be doling out money.

"You play beautifully," she complimented and took a seat right in front of the stage.

"Thanks.  Don’t tip often, do you?" he commented on her expression.

"Er... did I not give enough?" Carla asked uncertainly.

"No, it’s not that at all.  It's just… the look on your face seemed a little bit unsure.  You here with your folks?  Are you lost or something?" he played lightly as he spoke.

"I'm here by myself," she told him.  "I'm not lost, just new to this.  It’s my first time out – alone, I mean – in the city."

"Ah, so that's what it is.  Nice to meet you.  The name's Nick, Nick Carter," he took his hand off the guitar for just a moment to shake hers.  "So, how do you like the city so far?  You from around here?"

"I live – my family lives on the outskirts.  I moved into the city to try my own thing," she lied, "maybe find a job, you know?"  She paused as though debating with herself and then said, "My name's Carla Miner."

"Well good luck with your job search, Carla.  I'm kinda doing the same.  I travel around and perform, trying to make a few bucks here and there.  It's not so bad.  Sometimes the tips get really good."  He looked into the hat at his feet, "But today isn't one of those days.  Guess I have to get back to work..."

"Yeah, and I should go and look for that job.  Bye, Nick, it was a pleasure meeting you."

"You, too," he nodded.  "Maybe we'll see each other around again.  Good luck with your job.  Hope you find something."  Of course, Nick knew there wasn't any decent work in town; he himself had already combed the streets.  De Anza Hotel was a last ditch effort to make a few bucks before moving on.

"Thanks."