Chapter 9 - Where I Can Shine My Abilities
Nora Graves.
Her home was a Tenement House.
A crowded apartment complex with poor living conditions.
The residents were mostly poor Jewish and Italian immigrants.
In the basement, there was a workshop subcontracted by a clothing company for sewing work.
Known for its harsh working conditions and low wages, it was a so-called sweatshop — the place where Nora worked.
Clack, clack.
Even with about fifty people gathered, the only sound in the workshop was the sewing machines running.
The small chats of the morning had vanished, and the women sat silently at their old sewing machines, pressing the pedals and moving their hands without speaking.
A sweatshop is literally a 'sweat-producing workshop.'
It meant long hours of labor for wages that were far too low.
Even in the May heat, sweat dripped down, and dust drifting off the fabric floated around the cramped, unventilated space.
In that workshop, Nora skillfully fed the fabric through the sewing machine's needle.
Her hands and feet focused on the work, but her mind was filled with complicated thoughts.
Within a week, both her sons had taken turns losing consciousness and being carried away.
Something was seriously wrong.
What was most despairing was that no matter how hard she looked, she couldn't see any way out of this filthy mess.
"This is all something I brought on myself."
Instead of the Catholic faith her family had believed in for generations, she chose Protestantism.
She became a missionary and, for the first time in her life, crossed over to the country called Joseon, where she met her husband.
When her husband died, despite the opposition from her parents and siblings who pressured her to remarry, she stubbornly refused.
All of these were Nora's own choices.
Of course, when she thought of her children, she never regretted those choices.
But the suffocating reality—whether she could truly escape it—pressed down heavily on her shoulders with anxiety.
It was at that moment, as a sigh escaped Nora's lips—
Bang!
"Blank!"
Five or six men burst through the workshop door. They headed confidently toward the manager's office.
As all the sewing machines fell silent, the harsh voice of one man entering the office echoed through the room.
"You bastard, I told you to pay back the money. You just ignore me? If you don't have the means, then don't gamble!"
"W-Wait, just listen to me—"
"The time for talking is over."
Thud! Thud!
With each heavy sound, the workers flinched at their shoulders.
Nora bit her lip tightly as she stared at the manager's office.
The unpaid wages had piled up to seventy dollars—payment for working twelve hours a day, money that her family's survival depended on.
The manager had consistently claimed the company they supplied to was slow in paying, but judging by how things were going, it was all just excuses and lies.
There was no doubt he had been gambling away borrowed money from loan sharks and even wasted their wages.
"Damn bastard…"
Anger surged all the way up to her scalp.
Nora's eyes fixed on a sewing needle within arm's reach.
Her hand trembled with a fierce urge to grab it and stab the manager to death.
Her coworkers felt the same way.
Everyone's situation was equally tough, and the workshop buzzed with tense unease.
"Do you think we'll ever get paid what's owed to us?"
"Look at how things are going now. It's obvious. I knew it from the moment he started making excuses about not having the money, that bastard!"
"So, what's going to happen to us now?"
Setting aside the harsh working conditions, wage arrears were common in sweatshops.
The garment companies subcontracted work, and the more complicated the chain became, the more likely it was for the whole operation to collapse if even one middle agent slipped up.
With cases like this everywhere around them, workers trembled in anxiety whenever even a small delay in payment occurred.
A little while later, men with brutal expressions stormed out of the manager's office, shouting.
"We'll be waiting outside, so get out here quickly! If you can't come up with the money by tonight, we'll sell off all the equipment—just so you know!"
The man who barked the order led the group as they crossed through the workshop, not sparing a glance at the employees.
Once they disappeared, Nora and a few other women sprang to their feet and headed for the manager's office.
"What the hell is going on, Blank!?"
The manager glared at the protesting workers while holding his forehead.
Far from showing any sympathy, he instead raised his voice.
"Shut up and get back to work! You've got to work if you want me to come up with your pay!"
"Is that really money for us?"
"If you don't trust me, then quit! If you don't plan to go back to your station, get out of here right now!"
The one at fault was getting angry instead.
It was infuriating.
But there was some truth in the manager's words—work had to be done to earn money.
Even though everyone knew full well that money would be used to repay loan sharks, they still couldn't afford to stop working.
Who could give up on the wages owed to them?
There was also a faint hope that if they paid off the debts, maybe the back pay would start coming in little by little.
The manager, who had risen from his seat, coldly spoke toward the women who came to protest.
"I'm going to go raise the money, so stop daydreaming and get back to work."
No one spoke as the manager left the workshop.
Amid the mingling of sighs and sobs, suppressed anger and anxiety, someone started the sewing machine.
With her lips pressed tightly together, Nora had no choice but to join in as well.
Rrrrrrr, rrrrrrr.
The situation was uncertain—whether they would actually receive the back pay or not.
The workshop hadn't changed at all.
The manager was cleverly taking advantage of the laborers' helpless situation, where they couldn't do anything about it.
***
The undisputed center of global finance was the City of London in the United Kingdom, but recently, an American city had been threatening that dominance.
Lower Manhattan's Wall Street, New York.
Tall stone buildings lined both sides of the street, with bankers and investors in suits bustling about.
For first-time visitors, the scene was eye-opening, but the towering skyscrapers lining the roads weren't all that awe-inspiring.
Moreover, although it was somewhat less crowded than other places, it was still just as hectic.
Roads dominated by horse-drawn carriages and Ford Model T automobiles spewed thick fumes.
Newspaper boys yelled headlines about the great European war to catch the attention of passersby.
"Our American merchant ship has been sunk by a German submarine in the Atlantic!"
"The American troops have finally arrived in France! The local reactions are vividly captured in the newspapers!"
Among the newspaper boys, there was a little kid who looked about Roa's age, and even carrying a bundle of 1.2-cent newspapers seemed like a struggle for him.
Everyone is working so hard.
And I'm one of them.
From early morning, I shined shoes on Wall Street.
It wasn't an easy start.
The territorial aggression was no joke.
There were all kinds of curses and threats to follow me into the alleys, but I completely ignored them.
"If you don't like it, come and fight."
"Wow, this guy's totally crazy."
No matter how furious they got, frothing at the mouth, they couldn't hit me in public places with lots of people around.
Besides, cases like mine, where someone pushed back so recklessly, were so rare that they even seemed taken aback.
Holding my ground like that, I made way more money than yesterday.
Wall Street was bursting with men in suits, and the slogan I had set up behind me caught customers' attention.
[I'm not shining shoes, I'm polishing your future.]
This time, a well-dressed young man walking by took the bait.
He was a man dressed in a suit, radiating an air of wealth.
"Wow, that's a cool slogan! Did you write it yourself?"
"Yes! I'll make sure to polish your future to a brilliant shine."
"Alright, then I'll leave it to you."
The customer smiled and placed his shoe on the footrest.
It wasn't just the money that made me choose this place—it was the chance to catch a glimpse of new opportunities.
To find someone who would recognize my true worth, especially to get connected with big shots like JP Morgan!
In fact, Wall Street, emerging as the heart of global finance, was overflowing with young investors.
While they had their shoes shined, they often read newspapers, their attention fixed firmly on the European war.
I'm no finance expert, but I'm confident my future knowledge surpasses theirs.
America had consistently maintained neutrality but was reaping a war boom, pulling in money.
And decisively, after America officially declared war participation last April, stocks related to the military industry launched a continuous rally.
Weapons, transportation, steel, railroads, and oil industries thrived, and on top of that, war bonds like the 'Liberty Loan,' issued to finance the vast war efforts, were drawing intense interest.
Amid this atmosphere, I tossed out tempting comments to catch my customers' attention.
"The war won't last long. At most, until winter next year? Germany will surrender, and the Allies will collapse. Especially the Ottoman Empire—it'll be torn apart."
When I said things like this, reactions tended to be pretty similar. Being skilled at lying showed a tendency toward being a con artist, or people simply ignored what I said.
But this young man asked me a question.
"If the war will end soon like you say, when should we sell stocks related to weapons or steel? Do you think this is the peak?"
"There might be a short-term drop after the war, but in the long run, they'll rise again."
"So I should hold on to them then?"
"Nothing lasts forever. Factories churn out products in abundance, but if there are no buyers, prices will crash. Inflated bubbles always burst eventually. And that leads to another war..."
"That's interesting, but I don't have much time."
Perhaps thinking he had only heard the ideas secondhand, the man cut me off. Then, he added some earnest advice.
"Don't talk like that anymore. Everyone will think you're a con artist. And some people might even hit you for it. I've actually seen guys get punched for saying things like that."
On Wall Street, there were plenty of people who had failed in business or investments and were desperate for money. To hide their desperation, they took even more care with their appearance, with shoes being a prime example.
But a shoeshiner pretending to know what he's talking about?
A shoeshiner—and an Asian one at that?
No wonder it would sound obnoxious.
The man pointed this out and gave me some advice.
This was my second chance at life.
Though I had gone back 100 years into the past, I hadn't found an answer for how to use my knowledge.
It's not easy to move people's hearts with fragmented information and knowledge gained from books or media. Even if what I said actually happened later, it would be only after quite some time.
I couldn't predict what might happen tomorrow, or even this week.
The bitter taste of that reality was just like the one in my mouth.
"Don't worry. I'm in a really good mood today. That's why I'm listening to you."
The man smiled and patted my shoulder.
He took his feet off the footrest and looked down at my shoes, then made a somewhat satisfied expression.
"How much?"
"Three cents."
He handed me a coin while glancing at my sign.
"Did you really come up with that phrase yourself?"
"I made it last night."
"Seems like you have a way with words. Instead of putting that phrase on other people's shoes, why don't you find something where your skills can really shine?"
He said my skills would probably shine in the army. To do that, you need money, education, and sponsorship.
It doesn't have to be West Point—as long as it's a military academy where you can become an officer, any would do.
Though it was unlikely, if you, a stranger to me, were to sponsor me...
"May I know your name, sir?"
"Joseph. Sorry, but if my name comes up in your wild story, that would be a real problem."
This cautious man gave me only the common name Joseph and then went on his way.
I followed Joseph with my eyes.
He disappeared into the J.P. Morgan & Co headquarters building.
The Morgan Dynasty that controls American finance.
I think I heard that JP Morgan's grandson is in his mid-twenties, but his name wasn't Joseph.
I turned my gaze toward Trinity Church, towering at the end of Wall Street.
Built seventy years ago, it will probably still be standing there a hundred years from now.
Damn it, I'll just shine shoes.
I shifted my eyes back to the street to make eye contact with passing customers.
A commotion broke out nearby at a newsstand.
"I told you not to sell my papers! You're running your business like this?"
"What!?"
Four men wearing wide-brimmed fedora hats grabbed bundles of newspapers and threatened the owner.
There were plenty of people around, but everyone deliberately kept their distance, as if avoiding stepping into something foul.
In fact, these men were what people called "Sluggers"—the pieces of crap hired by certain newspapers.
Their main job was to intimidate and use violence against newsstand owners to disrupt the sales of rival newspapers.
The most famous case was the "Newspaper War" between Joseph Pulitzer's New York World and William Randolph Hearst's New York Journal.
The two papers fiercely competed to boost circulation through sensational articles, price slashing, and poaching famous figures from each other.
In this insane deathmatch, both sides deployed Sluggers.
The gang affiliated with the New York Journal even attacked and destroyed the New York World's newspaper delivery wagons.
They didn't hesitate to engage in brawls, destroy rival newsstands, and threaten or assault delivery workers.
This gave rise to the term Yellow Journalism.
It referred to newspapers that ignored journalistic ethics and published sensationalized and fake news purely to increase sales.
Of course, after the Spanish-American War ended and Pulitzer died six years ago, competition among newspapers gradually eased, and public awareness about the press began to change.
But with the outbreak of war in Europe, things regressed.
Demand for newspapers surged, sales competition resumed, and now many papers once again hired Sluggers to obstruct their rivals' sales.
Anyway, the important fact is that these Sluggers were essentially gang members.
They tore through the newsstands and didn't just pass by me.
The next target was me—someone who was trying to do business here on Wall Street, ignoring the territorial rules.
"Who the hell does this cowardly Chink bastard think he is, selling here without permission?"
Snap!
A man kicked my toolkit like a soccer ball.
The wooden board splintered, and the contents scattered.
Brushes, shoe polish, polishing cloths, spare shoelaces rolled across the street.
As I stood up, three men surrounded me, while one sneaked behind me with a knife so people wouldn't see.
Then they took all the money I had earned.
And that wasn't all. Just then, some other shoe shiners who had been sneaking around to chase me off appeared.
After watching the big, tough guys with satisfaction, they swiftly ran over and grabbed the tools that had fallen to the ground, like a bunch of beggars.
"If you're hanging around here again tomorrow, it won't end this lightly."
The men who had kicked away my toolkit left me with that warning.
My heart, already angry, began beating faster.
These damn gangsters find me everywhere and keep interfering.
Over the past few days, my patience has completely run out.
"Seriously… this sucks."
Just like Uncle Larry said.
Gangs are like weeds mixed into the grass.
That's why no one pays attention unless they look carefully.
Even if one day those weeds get pulled out and something else grows there, people still don't care what it is.
A gang's name? Who cares? They're all the same.
Even though the NYPD created a special violent crimes unit to wipe out the gangs, new shoots will grow—ones that are even stronger and more brutal. Like Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Siegel.
I bent down to pick up a small, sharp object from the scattered tools on the ground.
Slugger boys had tossed copies of the New York World newspaper onto the street, torn and crumpled all around.
Then a headline caught my eye.
"Senator Wayne Wheeler Pushes for Full-Scale Prohibition Discussion"
The unprecedented, insane era of Prohibition.
Maybe it's time to stop shining other people's shoes and start finding something that lets me shine on my own.
A place where I can make my own skills stand out.
Maybe not the army, but the city's battlefield is the right place.
After making sure the newsstand owner was distracted, I quietly grabbed a newspaper.
Screeech!
A piercing whistle suddenly cut through the street.
The police arrived incredibly quickly.
Of course, the gangsters and the kids who stole my things were all gone.
The newsstand owner gave the officers a complicated look but said nothing.
He must've been too afraid of retaliation to report it.
Supporting that, the officers who showed up late didn't even ask about my situation. Instead, they paid more attention to the shattered toolkit that had littered the street.
"Hey, don't cause a scene here. Clean up everything on the ground and get going."
"It's not mine."
After shining shoes for two days straight, I'd done enough for now.
I grabbed only the newspaper and the small knife and moved on.
The knife was the one used to scrape mud and grime stuck to the soles of shoes.