I became a son-in-law in the United States

Chapter 51 A Day in Boston

July 7, 1927, Boston, North Side.

Before dawn, the sounds of horses' hooves and car engines could already be heard on Hanover Street.

Boston has several boroughs, from top to bottom: Beacon Hill, Back Bay, South Boston, North Boston, Charleston, East Boston, etc.

Lighthouse Hill and Houwan District are mainly residential areas of Anssa, especially Lighthouse Hill, which is the most prestigious among the elite.

It could be said that the entire city of Boston was controlled by these few dozen families, and the Lowell family was just one of them.

This is why *New Youth* could only be sold in areas beyond South Boston, as it couldn't enter those areas at all.

Here, everything is private, even the squares and parks are private.

At this moment, Uncle Cuban got up early and began cleaning his small newsstand.

He is fifty years old this year, short and stout, but due to years of hard work, the wrinkles on his face are quite deep.

He first collected the old newspapers that hadn't been sold yesterday, folded them neatly, and prepared to take them home to use as wrapping paper for his children.

Then they took out the new newspapers from under the counter, carefully placed them, and stacked them neatly, one by one, like they were setting up a set of dominoes.

His newsstand was small, located at the intersection of Hanover Street and a small alley, with a faded dark green awning.

Under the shed was a wooden counter with various newspapers and magazines on it, and a tin box hanging in front of the counter for collecting coins.

There was a folding chair next to the counter, which was where he sat. He would sit there to rest when there were no customers.

As a Polish immigrant, Cuban has been in the United States for over twenty years. Although he speaks broken English, it doesn't stop him from getting along well on this street.

He supported his family of six with this small newspaper stand.

An elderly, blind mother, a chronically ill wife, and three infants.

The eldest son is eleven years old this year and has already started shining shoes at the dock to earn a few coins to help support the family.

The second daughter is eight years old and stays at home to help take care of her sick mother. She occasionally does needlework and can earn a few dozen cents a day.

The youngest was only three years old, and he would run around the alley all day with his bottom naked, like a slippery loach.

Including Cuban's newsstand, the family's weekly income was about $20-30, making life tight and frugal.

The distribution system of this era differed from that of later generations.

These days, newspaper vendors have to source their own goods and bear all the risks themselves. If they can sell them, they can earn a dollar or two a day.

If you can't sell them, they'll be stuck with you, resulting in losses and taking up space.

So for many years, Cuban has been very careful, only publishing in mainstream newspapers such as The Boston Globe, Metro Daily, The New York Times, and The Christian Science Monitor. These are established brands with a stable readership and no worries about sales.

As for those unknown tabloids, he only dared to buy a few cheap copies, and they had to be the kind with sensational "little articles".

It's those kinds of shows with titles like "Mysterious Woman Visits Mansion at Night" or "The Unknown Secrets of a Wall Street Tycoon," meant for passengers waiting for their rides to pass the time.

Although these tabloids had a bad reputation, they sold quite well, especially among the workers who stood on the street smoking.

But today, a new newspaper appeared on his shelf.

This is none other than "New Youth".

Cuban himself certainly wouldn't want to sell this kind of newspaper.

He had picked it up and flipped through it a long time ago; the layout was rather rough, and some of the characters were even printed crookedly.

The printing quality was also worrying; several pages had too much ink and were smudged into a mess.

The paper used was the cheapest kind of newsprint, yellowish and grayish, and felt like sandpaper.

In short, this newspaper fits the typical characteristics of a tabloid—cheap, rough, and it's unclear how many issues it will last.

Nevertheless, Cuban couldn't refuse.

Because this means "above".

Cuban didn't know exactly who "above" was, only that one afternoon, a middle-aged man in a dark suit and a wide-brimmed hat came to his newsstand and said expressionlessly, "From now on, order 100 copies of 'New Youth' every week, pay as usual, and someone will buy any that don't sell."

After saying that, the person left without even leaving their name.

Cuban has spent most of his life in the North Side of Boston; he's seen it all.

He understood what that person meant, and he also knew who that person's backer was.

All the newsstands on this street received the same notice; they dared not refuse, otherwise they wouldn't be able to survive.

One hundred newspapers, about two dollars, consider it protection money for the gang.

Thinking of this, Cuban sighed and placed the neatly folded copy of "New Youth" on the far side of the counter, in a less conspicuous position.

Just after seven o'clock in the morning, the streets gradually became more crowded.

Compared to Lighthouse Hill and Back Bay, the North District is a melting pot.

Irish, Italians, Poles, Jews—immigrants from all walks of life lived together, speaking languages ​​they couldn't understand and doing businesses that each other looked down upon.

Fish stalls, bakeries, dried goods stores, pawnshops, and taverns (although alcohol was prohibited, the taverns never really closed their doors) stood side by side, crammed into those narrow old streets.

East Boston is similar, except it's mostly factory and dockworkers.

But whether they are white-collar workers or manual laborers, they all have one thing in common: they are very busy in the morning.

Therefore, the busiest hour is between 7:30 and 8:30. Workers leave their homes and hurry towards the factory, the dock, and the office. They eat bread or sandwiches as they walk, carrying either a lunchbox or a newspaper.

Buying newspapers is as natural to them as drinking coffee.

While waiting for the tram, or during the ten or twenty minutes of the tram ride, I would unfold the newspaper and scan from the front page to the back page to find out what happened in the world yesterday, and pass the time during my boring commute.

It's only a couple of cents, not expensive.

Cuban stood behind the counter, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the passersby.

A young man wearing overalls and a baseball cap walked over, glanced at the newsstand, grabbed a copy of the Boston Post, tossed down two cents, and left.

Another plump middle-aged woman, holding the hands of two children, bought a copy of the Metropolitan Daily and walked away without looking back.

Cuban accepted the money, gave change, and nodded in greeting without any expression, without uttering more than three words throughout the entire process.

At that moment, a middle-aged man wearing glasses walked over.

He looked to be in his early forties, wearing an old gray suit with his tie loosely tied, as if he had a rope around his neck.

The cuffs were worn and faded, and a briefcase was tucked under his arm; the leather surface was already cracked.

His hair was gray at the temples, and he had deep bags under his eyes, clearly someone who often stayed up late and had no sex life.

Cuban immediately stepped forward and greeted him solicitously, "Sir, is there anything you need?"

These days, not many people wear suits. Even an old one looks more respectable than work clothes.

Moreover, these people have one major characteristic: they like to read newspapers with a certain level of sophistication and are willing to spend money on them.

The middle-aged man stopped and glanced at Cuban's newsstand.

His brow furrowed slightly.

Before me were familiar newspapers—The New York Times, rambling on and on, with an article going on and on for three pages, making it feel like I hadn't read it at all.

The Metropolitan Daily News is full of gossip all day long, about which celebrity danced with whom, or how short a lady's skirt was—it's incredibly boring.

The Boston Globe is respectable, but it's run by WASP, so its bias was skewed from the start.

He paused, then said with some disappointment, "Forget it, I won't watch it today."

These days, there isn't even a decent newspaper to read.

He turned around, ready to leave.

"Wait a minute, sir!" Cuban suddenly remembered something, quickly bent down, grabbed a newspaper from the far side of the counter, and hurriedly handed it over.

P.S.: Just to clarify, the US had mixed feelings about communism in the 20s. The government rejected it, but the public welcomed it. At that time, many writers longed for the Soviet Union and wanted to go there from the US. So this is something worth discussing.