pjbooks Chapter 176 We Don't Want Ideologies
Chapter 176 We Don't Want Ideologies
That speech, which just now shifted the blame eastward, successfully directed the crowd's anger towards Washington, and towards that distant Russell Warren. But that's not enough.
Although the crowd stopped throwing stones at him, their eyes remained full of suspicion.
A young man shouted from the back of the crowd, "Ron, don't think you can whitewash yourself by blaming Warren! You signed a contract with that Pittsburgh radical; you're selling Erie to socialists! You've betrayed the principles of the Republican Party!"
These words were like a sharp thorn, piercing through the newly formed atmosphere of sorrow.
The anger that had subsided slightly seemed to be rekindling.
The crowd began to stir, and suspicious eyes refocused on Smith.
This is a dangerous sign.
Smith stood on the steps, looking at the young man whose face was flushed, and then at the citizens around him whose eyes were darting around.
These people.
Smith shook his head inwardly.
When he brought back orders from Pittsburgh and announced that the factory would soon reopen, these people were still raising their glasses in bars to celebrate and praising him on the streets as a capable and efficient mayor.
At that time, no one asked where the money came from.
Nobody cared whether Leo Wallace was a radical or a conservative.
They only care about whether they can have a few more green bills in their pockets.
They'd even be willing to invite the mayor of Pittsburgh to their home for turkey, as long as the money arrived.
But now?
Now the money is stuck, the roads are blocked, and difficulties have arisen.
They immediately changed their tune.
They started talking about principles, about political parties, and about that vague notion of political purity.
They needed an outlet, a reason to explain their current predicament, so they picked up the moral cudgel.
This is human nature.
When greed takes hold, one not only wants to eat meat, but also complains that the meat isn't fatty enough; when fear takes hold, one not only wants to run away, but also wants to step over the corpses of others. But this stark reality, ironically, gave Smith an unprecedented sense of confidence.
Because he saw through these people.
So-called principles and beliefs are all bargaining chips that can be put on the negotiating table when it comes to survival.
Since they want to talk about principles, let's talk about the principles of survival.
Smith picked up the megaphone and took a step forward.
His demeanor suddenly changed.
"betray?"
Smith retorted to the young man, his voice as cold and hard as iron.
"What's your name, child?"
The young man paused for a moment, then instinctively replied, "Jason."
“Okay, Jason.” Smith stared at him. “You just said I betrayed my principles. Well, let me ask you this: when I announced at the press conference that the Pittsburgh order had come in, and that your father, your uncle, might be going back to work at the factory.”
"What are you doing?"
Jason was stunned for a moment, unsure how to respond.
"You're cheering," Smith answered for him.
A few suppressed laughs came from the crowd.
"Back then, did you know that the money came from Leo Wallace? Did you know he was a Democrat?"
Smith's voice pressed on relentlessly.
"You know, everyone in Yili knows."
"But at that time, I didn't hear you say a word. I didn't hear anyone stand up and say: Oh, mayor, this money is too hot to handle, this money is smeared with the spittle of the Democrats, we can't take it, we'd rather starve to death than not uphold the chastity of the Republican Party."
"no."
There wasn't a single person there.
Smith stretched out a finger and pointed it sharply in the air.
"Back then, you only cared about one thing: when would the checks cash?"
"Now, the road is blocked, the money is stuck, and you're all panicking."
"You're starting to get scared."
"So you picked up those so-called principles that had long been thrown into the trash, wiped the dust off them, and used them as weapons to attack me. You want to use this method to cover up your fear and your powerlessness in the face of the future."
"That's not called upholding principles, that's called hypocrisy."
The square was deathly silent.
The young man named Jason blushed, but couldn't utter a single word in rebuttal.
Listen up!
Smith's voice boomed across the square.
"I don't care what ideology you believe in, or who you vote for at the polling station."
I only know one very simple truth.
Smith pulled a one-dollar bill from his pocket and held it high.
"Take a look at this."
"It has Washington's image printed on it, and it's green."
"It is neither a Republican nor a Democrat. It has no ideology, and it is not divided into left and right."
"Its only function is to sell bread, medicine, and fill up your car with gas!"
"When you take this to the supermarket, will the cashier ask if the money came from Leo Wallace or Russell Warren? No!"
Smith gripped the banknotes tightly in his hand.
"Senator Warren talks about principles in Washington, but he cut our budget."
"Leo Wallace was discussing business in Pittsburgh, but he gave us the contract."
"Tell me, who are our true friends? Who truly wants us to live?"
"If I have to shake hands with that Pittsburgh radical and sign that damn contract in order to feed you and prevent this city from becoming a ghost town."
"I'm telling you, Jason, and everyone here."
"Not only can I sign, I can sign with a gold pen! I can sign faster than anyone else!"
"Because in my principles, Ron Smith, the survival of the Eries is above all that bullshit partisan politics!"
These words were like heavy punches, striking everyone's hearts.
The antagonism stemming from political stances began to crumble rapidly in the face of stark survival logic.
Why talk about ideologies when you're eating?
As long as we can get the money back and get the factory back in operation, what does it matter who we cooperate with?
The way people looked at each other in the crowd changed.
What started as doubt has become a kind of tacit acceptance, or even a kind of desire.
They hoped Smith would continue to be tough and that he would actually bring the money back, by whatever means necessary.
Looking at the expressions on these people's faces, Smith knew he had passed this hurdle.
But he still needs one last push.
He needs to elevate this interest-based identification into an emotion-based loyalty.
He needs to convince them that he's doing this not just for the money, but because he loves them and the city.
Smith lowered his hand that was holding the banknotes.
His movements slowed down as he began to unbutton his clothes.
He unbuttoned his suit jacket, then took it off and tossed it on the ground.
But he didn't stop.
He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up the sleeves high, revealing two pale, limp arms.
On his left forearm was a hideous dark red scar.
The scar looked like an ugly centipede, stretching from the wrist all the way to the elbow.
Smith raised his arm, showing the scar to everyone.
"I know what you're thinking."
Smith picked up the megaphone again.
"You think I've changed."
"You think that the mayor sitting in his office, wearing a designer suit, signing contracts with people from out of town, is no longer the Ron Smith he used to be."
"You think I colluded with that mayor, and that I sold my faith for money."
Smith took a step forward and stood at the very edge of the steps, his entire body exposed to the gaze of thousands of eyes.
His eyes searched through the crowd and finally settled on an elderly man with gray hair and a cane.
The old man was huddled at the front of the crowd, his eyes darting around.
"Old Jack!"
Smith shouted the name out loud.
"What are you standing there for? Do you also think I'm a traitor? Do you also think I'm betraying Yili?"
The old man named Jack trembled, raised his head, and a hint of panic flashed in his cloudy eyes.
"Look at me!"
Smith roared.
Do you remember the fire at the Yili chemical plant 25 years ago?
Old Jack's body trembled violently.
Of course he remembers.
That was the most devastating accident in the history of Erie, and a pain that will forever remain in the hearts of all Erie residents.
That night, firelight illuminated half the sky, and poisonous gas permeated the streets.
He was trapped in the fire in the duty room, the thick smoke almost suffocating him, a beam broke above his head, and the shadow of death loomed over him. "At that time, the fire department hadn't arrived yet."
Smith pointed to the scars on his arm.
"Who rushed in?"
Who kicked open that red-hot iron gate?
"Who carried you out of that fiery pit?"
"This scar was burned by a falling burning pipe!"
"The doctor said that if it had gone in just half an inch deeper, my arm would have been ruined! I would never be able to sign papers again, and I would never be able to hold my child again!" Old Jack's eyes instantly reddened.
He looked at the disheveled mayor, the man holding up his scarred arm.
The memories overlapped.
Twenty-five years ago, on that night, Ron Smith, who hadn't yet become mayor, his face covered in soot, carried him out of the inferno, put him in an ambulance, and gasped for breath, saying, "It's alright, old man, we made it out alive."
At that time, Smith wasn't doing it for votes or for show.
He was only trying to save a neighbor.
"Was I doing this for votes?" Smith questioned. "Was I doing this for corruption? Did I make any political deals with anyone?"
Old Jack shook his head desperately, letting out a sob: "No... Ron, you saved my life, you're a hero." Smith didn't stop.
His gaze shifted to a middle-aged woman on the other side of the crowd.
The woman was wearing a faded old coat, clutching the empty envelope tightly in her hand, her eyes filled with sorrow.
"Mary."
Smith called out her name.
Last year, your grandson was admitted to a state university, but your son's workers' compensation was delayed, and the family couldn't even afford the travel expenses.
"Come to the city hall and cry outside my office."
"What did I do back then?"
"Did I embezzle public funds? Did I send you to fill out those damn application forms? Did I send you through those endless procedures that take months to complete?"
Mary covered her mouth, tears streaming through her fingers.
"no."
Smith answered his question.
"I took five thousand yuan from my own salary card and put it in your hand."
I said, "Take this to pay your child's tuition. Consider it a loan. You can pay me back whenever you have the money."
"I didn't even make you write an IOU."
"Because I know that we Yili people are people of our word, and we will never renege on our promises."
Smith surveyed the crowd in the square.
He saw too many familiar faces.
"And you, Tom, when your shop was flooded, who brought people to help you drain the water?"
"Susan, who helped you contact the funeral home to get a discount on your husband's funeral expenses?"
Smith counted them one by one.
These things are all small, trivial, and even somewhat insignificant.
But at this moment, they converged into a massive torrent of emotion, breaking down everyone's defenses.
As people looked at Smith, the doubts in their eyes gradually disappeared.
Those were the citizens he had served for twenty years, the people who had watched him grow from a strong young man into a balding old man.
Ron Smith was first and foremost an Erie before becoming a Republican.
He was born here, grew up here, and will grow old here.
Smith's voice lowered.
"I have always been a Republican, and I have never changed my stance."
"I believe in small government, and I believe in individual hard work."
"but·……"
"When my citizens can't receive their pensions, when my factories have no orders, when my city is starving—can those so-called partisan principles feed me?"
"Senator Warren speaks eloquently in Washington, and he can say that he is willing to sacrifice interests for principles."
"Because it's not his interests that are being sacrificed, and it's not his children who are starving!"
Smith thumped his chest, making a loud thud.
"But here with me, at Erie City Hall."
"People are always more important than political parties."
"Living is always more important than any ideology."
"Between political parties and you, I will always choose you!"
The square was deathly silent.
People were looking at Smith.
His hair was disheveled, and his shirt was thin.
But he looked incredibly tall.
Smith took a deep breath, tears welling in his eyes.
Half of these tears were an act, a political performance; but the other half were genuine grievances.
He walked on thin ice for the sake of this city, only to be abandoned by those in power.
"You're accusing me of colluding with Leo Wallace."
Smith wiped his face.
"Yes, I colluded."
"I called him, I begged him to give us the order, I begged him to let our trucks into the city."
"That young man is a Democrat, a radical, the kind of person we used to hate the most."
"But he gave us money."
"He gave us a way to survive."
"If it's so that you can get this life-saving money, so that your pensions can be paid on time, so that Yili's factories can start smoking again."
"I must shake hands with the devil."
"Then I'm willing to go to hell!"
Smith shouted those words.
"Even if I'm expelled from the Party, even if you all point fingers and curse me behind my back, I'll still sign that document!"
"But it's not my fault!"
"It's this damn world that forced us to this!"
"It was Warren, the one who blocked our path to survival in Washington, who forced us to do this!"
"I, Ron Smith, will die on the road finding food for the Eries, even if it means my own death!"
The words fell.
Smith threw the megaphone on the ground.
He braced himself on his knees with both hands, panting heavily, as if he had exhausted his last bit of strength.
The square remained quiet.
A few seconds passed.
"Ron!"
Old Jack shouted.
He threw away his cane and raised the hand that Smith had once saved from the fire.
"You're a real man!"
This statement became the trigger.
"Mayor! We misunderstood you!"
"It's all that damn Warren's fault!"
"We support you! No matter who you partner with, get your money back first!"
The crowd's emotions completely reversed.
The hostility towards Smith vanished, replaced by a poignant sense of shared hatred.
They saw an old mayor who was willing to sacrifice his own reputation to protect them.
I witnessed a tragic hero forced into a corner.
Smith straightened up.
Looking into those eager eyes and waving arms, a huge weight was finally lifted from his heart. But that wasn't enough.
Simply directing anger at Warren will only provide temporary relief.
If the money hasn't arrived by next month, or if Warren exerts even more pressure, this group will still waver.
He must completely block his escape route.
He had to get the voters of Erie to jump into that abyss of no return with him.
Smith picked up the megaphone again.
"Brothers."
Smith's voice rang out again, drowning out the cheers from the square.
"You call me a hero."
"But I don't want to be that kind of tragic hero; I want to be a mayor who can lead you to victory."
"Why is Warren blocking us? Because he thinks we're easy to bully. He thinks that since Erie is a red zone and we're all labeled as Republicans, no matter how much he mistreats us, on election day we'll still obediently vote for him like a flock of sheep."
"He's got us cornered."
Smith gritted his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks tense.
"Because in his eyes, the Republican identity is a shackle on us."
"As long as we wear this hat, he will always be our master, and he can use our livelihood to make his political deals without any restraint."
"I won't agree."
Smith abruptly ripped off the Republican badge from his chest.
The metal badge bounced a few times on the concrete floor and rolled into a crack in the sewer.
"To ensure that the thirty million dollars go in smoothly, to ensure our trucks can get on the highway, and to let those bastards in Washington know that we are not to be trifled with."
"I have to make a choice."
Smith took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the entire room, and roared, word by word.
"As of today, I, Ron Smith, am officially resigning from the Republican Party!"
"For the survival of Erie, and to get that money, I will join Leo Wallace's camp as a Democrat!" This sentence was more impactful than all the previous speeches.
If the previous speech was like igniting a fire, then this statement is like detonating a nuclear bomb.
The air in the square seemed to freeze instantly.
The cheers stopped abruptly, as if cut off by an invisible knife.
Old Jack leaned on his cane, his cloudy eyes filled with disbelief and confusion.
Several elderly women in the front row even subconsciously made the sign of the cross on their chests.
They have just accepted that they can cooperate with the Democratic Party for their own benefit.
But they never intended to become Democrats.
These are two concepts.
In these small towns in western Pennsylvania, the Republican Party is more than just a political option; it's a way of life, an identity, and even a religion.
Smith stood there alone, looking rather thin.
He was a lone hero, but also like an exiled heretic.
Just then.
"Zi"
A piercing whistling sound from an electrical microphone shattered the tranquility of the square.
Behind Smith, the huge LED screen, usually used only for broadcasting municipal announcements and holiday celebrations, suddenly lit up. The screen flickered a few times before being divided into six clearly defined squares.
Six faces appeared in the image.
A commotion arose in the crowd.
"Who is that?"
"It seems to be the mayor of Scranton."
"I've seen that guy with glasses before; he's from Johnston."
The square in the upper left corner of the screen was enlarged and occupied the main screen.
Joe Byers, Mayor of Scranton.
He sat behind his desk with a Pennsylvania flag in the background.
He looked even more disheveled than Smith, his tie askew and a deformed paper cup clutched in his hand.
"Brothers of Ely".
Biles' voice came through the huge sound system on both sides of the square.
"I am Joe Byers, the mayor of Scranton."
"I'm watching a live stream."
Biles stared at the camera with a fierce look in her eyes.
"Ron Smith is not lying; he is not fighting alone."
Me too.
Byers held up a document in his hand.
"This is a notice from the state: Scranton's highway maintenance subsidy of eight million dollars has been suspended."
"They threatened me."
Byers slammed the file on the table.
"For his political games in Washington, to prevent that young Pittsburgh mayor from scoring points, he decided to starve us." The scene on the screen switched again.
It was a thin, middle-aged man, with Johnston's famous cable-stayed bridge in the background.
"I am the mayor of Johnstown."
The man's words were brief and powerful.
"Our glass factory has also been shut down. State police have set up checkpoints on the highways, impounding any trucks heading to Pittsburgh." "They said it's for security."
Six mayors, six cities.
They spoke out one after another.
Their voices came together, creating a peculiar resonance.
That was a groan emanating from the depths of the rust belt, a roar born from the zenith of despair.
The crowd in the square began to stir.
The fear of isolation and helplessness is fading.
It turns out it's not just Yili.
It turns out that it wasn't just Ron Smith who went mad.
The entire western Pennsylvania, the entire Rust Belt, was pushed to the brink of collapse.
This was a collective act of resistance.
"Did you hear that?"
Smith picked up the megaphone, turned around, and pointed to the large screen behind him.
"We have all been abandoned."
"Those bigwigs in Washington, sitting in their air-conditioned offices, drinking Evian water, talking about grand strategies and the purity of their parties."
"They demanded our loyalty."
"They said: You are Republicans, you must stick to your principles and not collude with the Democrats."
Smith gave a cold laugh.
"in principle?"
"Can principles feed you? Can principles pay your pension? Can principles keep the factory machines running?"
Joe Byers on the screen took over the conversation.
"We've had enough of those ideologies."
Biles roared on the screen.
"They talked to us about conservatism, liberalism, this 'ism' and that 'ism'."
"We don't need an ideology!"
"We need to work!"
"We want to eat!"
"We must survive!"
This sentence ignited the square.
"Yes! We must survive!"
Some people below started shouting along.
This emotion spreads like a virus.
Faced with survival, all political labels become pale and powerless.
What Republican Party, what Democratic Party, what left and right?
Those are word games that only well-fed people are qualified to play.
For people who are starving, there are only two camps: those who give them food and those who destroy their livelihoods.
Leo Wallace gave them orders, gave them cash, and gave them a way to survive.
And Russell Warren, their patron saint for thirty years, tore down their roof before winter even arrived. "Look at this map."
Smith pointed at the screen.
The images of the six mayors were rearranged to form an array of images of western Pennsylvania.
"We are surrounded."
"Warren wants to trap us, wants us to sacrifice ourselves for his re-election."
"He thought of us as sheep, livestock that could be slaughtered at will."
But he was wrong.
Smith walked to the edge of the steps and looked down at the faces that were raised above him.
"We are wolves."
"When the wolf pack has no meat to eat, they will eat the person blocking their way."
"No matter who he is."
"No matter how much power he wields in Washington."
"Regardless of what party badge he's wearing around his neck."
Smith stretched out his hand and pointed south.
"Since he is ruthless, don't blame us for being unjust."
"Since he has cut off our path, we will forge our own way."
Tell Warren.
"We don't need his charity, nor do we need his protection."
"We have our own alliance."
"From this day forward, Erie, Scranton, Johnstown... all these forgotten cities, we stand together." "We believe in only one principle: whoever lets us live, we will support."
On the screen, all six mayors nodded simultaneously.
This is a covenant based on the instinct for survival, transcending party affiliation and ideology.
A huge cheer erupted in the square.
The anger of betrayal, the fear of the future, found an outlet at this moment, transforming into a united force against a common enemy. The workers waved their fists.
The retired elderly people raised their canes.
Smith watched all of this.
He felt his heart pounding violently in his chest.