America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 172 Give it back to me! Right in this second!

Big Mike stopped moving.

He looked down at the newspaper with its curled edges, and the headline "The Grapes of Wrath" was prominently displayed on the front page.

"Are you the Irishman who wrote the book?" Big Mike's voice lowered, tinged with suspicion.

"It was me. You should know better than me whether what's written in that book is true or not."

Big Mike fell silent. Of course he knew. Many of his comrades went to farm after leaving the army, but they were all kicked out of the bank and ended up here as butchers or thugs.

"Since you're a writer, what are you doing here? Signing books for us?" Big Mike mocked.

"Most people here can't even write their own names."

"No. I'm here to hand you guns." Arthur dusted himself off.

The moment those words were spoken, the atmosphere in the tavern instantly shifted from mockery to a chilling tension.

The previously noisy commotion suddenly stopped, as if cut off by a knife.

Big Mike narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint in his eyes that had weathered the poison gas of the trenches.

He suddenly reached out a large hand and grabbed Arthur's collar.

"Kid, do you know what you're saying? Firing guns? In Chicago, only two organizations dare to say something like that: Al Capone's Italian gang and the police department. Which side are you on?"

Arthur looked him straight in the eye, unwavering: "I am the third head. I am here to claim compensation from the expeditionary force."

My advice is that you need to go to Washington and collect that debt that's been owed for ten years.

Big Mac stared intently at Arthur for a full ten seconds.

Then, he suddenly let go and helped Arthur straighten his wrinkled collar.

"You've got guts." Big Mike grinned, the scar writhing like a centipede.

"The last person who dared to speak like that here has already been thrown into the meat grinder. But since you're the one who wrote that book—maybe I can listen to your nonsense."

He turned and waved to the crowd in the tavern.

"Sit down, all of you! Pour this Mr. Kennedy a glass of Chicago Special. It's horse piss mixed with industrial alcohol. If you drink it and don't die, we're brothers."

After several rounds of drinks...

Big Mike led Arthur through the tavern's kitchen to a more secluded basement.

-

This place was originally a warehouse used to store smuggled liquor, but now it has become a temporary gathering point for hundreds of veterans.

If you think this is a passionate revolutionary site, you're mistaken.

This place is filled with despair, a despair more suffocating than the smog on the ground.

The air was thick with the smell of musty tobacco, the stench of unwashed bodies, and the dejection of losers. Several tattered American flags, riddled with bullet holes, hung on the wall.

Most of these veterans were disabled. Some had broken legs and were leaning against the wall wiping their prosthetics.

Some coughed violently from inhaling mustard gas on the battlefield, their lungs making a bellows-like sound.

Many more people sat numbly, staring at the kerosene lamp on the ceiling.

They were once national heroes, having defeated the German army on the European battlefield. But now, they are forgotten trash, targets of bank debt collectors, and thugs subjected to police batons.

Big Mike stood atop a wooden crate in the middle and roared, "Brothers! Listen up! This Mr. Kennedy from New York says we're going to organize a team, go to Washington, go to Capitol Hill! We'll make them cough up the compensation money that wasn't paid out until 1945!"

There were no cheers. Only a few cold laughs.

"Go to Washington? Walk there?" a veteran in a wheelchair scoffed.

"Mike, my legs are stuck in the Somme in France. I can barely even get across the street to buy cigarettes. You want us to go to Washington? That's thousands of kilometers away!"

"So what if we get there?" said another one-eyed man, one of the opinion leaders here.

"Hoover will send out cavalry. Just like they did when they suppressed the steelworkers in Pittsburgh. We only have iron hooks, they have Maxim machine guns."

"Forget it, Mike. Mr. Kennedy is a great writer. He went back to New York and lived in a big house after he finished his book. If we go, we'll either die on the road or die in prison."

They have struggled at the bottom of this country for so long that they no longer have the strength to be angry, and are left only with the instinctive fear of survival.

Arthur stood aside, watching these former warriors.

He realized that at this moment, any impassioned speech would be ineffective.

Language requires logic, but despair is illogical.

To break this silence, a more primal and direct resonance is needed.

Arthur's gaze fell on the corner.

There was a worn-out guitar there, probably pawned by some wandering singer to get alcohol.

Arthur walked over and picked up the guitar.

His fingers expertly brushed the dust off the neck of the violin and adjusted the pitch slightly.

The one-eyed old soldier said disdainfully, "What are you trying to do? Tell us a bedtime story? Or sing us a hymn on our way?"

Arthur did not answer.

He sat on a broken wooden box, his fingers gently plucking the strings of the instrument.

"Zheng—"

The first note rang out.

It was an extremely suppressed glissando with a metallic, tearing sound.

The once noisy basement gradually quieted down.

Arthur closed his eyes and was imitating sounds with the strings of his harp.

That was the sound of rain hitting the corrugated iron roof of the trench.

That was the rhythm of machine guns firing in the distance.

That was the wheezing of a friend who had fallen into the mud, his last breath choked by blood and foam in his lungs.

Arthur's fingers moved quickly across the strings, and the music became increasingly rapid and volatile.

The veterans slowly raised their heads.

They understood.

This isn't performing music; it's translating their nightmares.

The veteran who was wiping his prosthetic leg stopped what he was doing.

The one-eyed man put down his wine glass.

Even Big Mike was stunned. He thought of Argonne Forest in 1918, and the fear and frenzy that lingered on the edge of death.

Just as the tension reached its peak, Arthur suddenly changed the rhythm.

The piano music suddenly leaped from the subdued low register to a soaring strumming.

He started singing his new song, "Give It Back to Me," in a kind of almost roaring, half-recited, half-sung style: "They gave me a gun and told me to go kill the Germans."

"They said I was a hero and wanted to cover my coat with medals."

"But when I returned to my hometown, I found the gate locked."

"The bankers took the land, and my wife and children are shivering in the wind."

"Hey! Uncle Sam! You owe me a leg!"

"Hey Wall Street! You owe me a life!"

"I don't want your medal; it can't buy bread."

"Give me back my hard-earned money, today, right now!"

This is the most primal cry. The lyrics are crude and straightforward, but every word strikes a chord deep within these people's hearts.

"Give it back to me! Right now!"

Big Mike couldn't help but yell along.

"Give it back to me!"

The people in the corner also started shouting.

It was like a spark igniting a parched grassland.

Dozens, even hundreds of voices converged, creating a resonance throughout the entire basement.

The one-eyed veteran suddenly stood up and smashed his wine glass on the ground, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.

"To hell with 1945! I want it now!"