America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 22 Backlash

As Arthur walked out of the New York Daily News building, a light rain began to fall.

A newsboy on the street corner was shouting his wares at the top of his lungs:

"The New York Daily News! The honest man has admitted his mistake! The mayor is actually a good person!"

Arthur took a dollar out of his pocket, handed it to the newsboy, and bought a copy.

The newsboy was a boy of about ten years old with freckles all over his face. He paused for a moment when he saw Arthur.

"Sir, you don't seem very happy."

Arthur didn't answer him immediately. He took the newspaper, looked at the article on the front page, and asked the newsboy with a smile:

"Kid, what do you think of this article?"

The newsboy scratched his head:

"I don't really understand these big principles. But my dad said that honest people used to be quite good at cursing, but this piece of writing today looks like it was written under someone's thumb."

"Your dad is right. It was written under someone else's control."

Arthur rolled up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and turned to leave.

The newsboy's voice came from behind:

"Sir! Your change!"

"No need, take it and buy some candy."

……

At 10 a.m., the New York Daily News' switchboard room was already overwhelmed with calls.

The three operators frantically answered the phone, sweat streaming down their foreheads.

"Hello, The New York Daily News."

"I want to find an honest man! I want him to come out and explain!"

The voice on the other end of the phone was that of a middle-aged man, visibly angry.

"Sir, we cannot disclose the author's contact information..."

"Bullshit! Yesterday he was criticizing the mayor, and today he's sucking up to him? Did he get paid?"

"Sir, please calm down..."

"Calm down my ass! I just cut out his article and posted it in the store yesterday, and people are laughing at me today! Has your newspaper been bought off by the Tammany Association?"

Fortunately, the other party hung up the phone quickly.

But before the operator could even catch her breath, the phone rang again.

"This is the office of the councilman for Brooklyn's 3rd district. We'd like to know if this article was actually written by Honest Man himself?"

"This...we cannot confirm..."

"So it wasn't him who wrote it. Good. I will tell my constituents this news."

Another hang-up.

The operator next door is dealing with an even more difficult person.

"Miss, I've subscribed to the newspaper for three months, and now I want to cancel it."

"Sir, according to regulations..."

"I don't care about any rules! I don't want to see your sycophantic newspapers for even a day longer!"

The third call he received left him speechless.

"Feed? I want to subscribe to a hundred copies of today's newspaper."

"Okay, sir, what is your address...?"

"I'm going to use it as toilet paper. What else can you do with newspapers like this besides wiping your butt?"

The three operators looked at each other, and one of the young women was on the verge of tears.

"I can't take it anymore! How can these people be so violent!"

The older operator, Mary, handed her a handkerchief:

"Don't cry, Susan. This is just the beginning."

No sooner had he finished speaking than all three phones rang at the same time.

"Damn it!"

The third operator, Emily, cursed, "We need backup!"

The door to the switchboard room was pushed open, and two female employees from the accounting department poked their heads in.

"Do you need any help?"

"Come in quickly!" Mary called out.

"You can pick any one!"

The two accountants hurriedly sat down and picked up the microphone.

"Hello, *The New York Daily News*... What? You're saying we're lackeys of the Tammany Society? Sir, I'm just an accountant..."

"Hello... Yes, I understand your anger... No, I don't know where the honest man lives..."

The phone rang incessantly, like an alarm that would never stop.

When Mary answered the seventeenth call, the caller was an old lady.

"Miss, I'd like to ask if something happened at your newspaper?"

"Why do you ask that, madam?"

"Because my son read the newspaper this morning, he overturned the table. He said honest people have betrayed the working class."

Mary didn't know how to answer.

"Madam, I'm just a switchboard operator..."

"I know, son. I just wanted to say that your newspaper might need to be careful. My son works for the dockworkers' union, and he said that people in the union were cursing you all today."

The old lady hung up the phone. Mary put down the receiver and looked at the other operators.

"Should we tell the upstairs neighbors?"

"Tell them what? Tell them the readers are going to revolt?"

"At least they should be made aware of how bad the situation is."

"They know. The editor-in-chief's secretary just came down to get the statistics."

"So what are they planning to do?"

"I don't know. It's not something we can decide."

The phone rang again.

This time it was a young man's voice.

"I want to subscribe to tomorrow's newspaper."

Mary breathed a sigh of relief: "Okay, sir, may I ask for your address...?"

"Wait, I'm not finished. I want to book for tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, until you go bankrupt."

"Sir, I don't understand..."

"Because I want to see how you keep licking my boots. I'm going to keep every single issue, and when you go bankrupt, I'll compile all these newspapers into a book called 'The Self-Cultivation of a Simp'."

The other party hung up the phone, leaving behind a string of grating laughter.

……

In the editor-in-chief's office, Thomas Duane's face was even more grim than the dark clouds outside the window.

The table in front of him was piled high with telegrams and letters, all of which were complaints from readers.

"Mr. Hearst, the situation is worse than we anticipated."

Thomas handed over a stack of telegrams.

Hearst took it and flipped through it casually, his face expressionless.

"What kind of content is it?"

"Most of them questioned the honest person's stance. Some also requested to unsubscribe."

"Cancel? How much?"

Hearst frowned.

"As of now, approximately three hundred copies."

"Only three hundred copies. Our daily circulation is one hundred thousand copies. What's three hundred copies?"

Hearst threw the telegram back onto the table.

"But this is only the data from this morning. And..."

Thomas hesitated for a moment.

"And what?"

"And the reaction on the streets was very bad. I had someone listen in, and they were all cursing at us."

"Let them curse. They'll forget about it in a few days."

I don't think so.

Thomas stood up and mustered the courage to refute Hearst.

"The Honest Man column is one of our most popular pieces. Readers have grown attached to it. If we suddenly ask him to change his tune, they'll feel betrayed."

Hearst stared intently at Thomas.

"So what do you want to do? Let him keep cursing the mayor? And then wait for endless law enforcement inspections?"

That's not what I meant.

Thomas shook his head.

"I mean, we should give the readers an explanation. For example, the honest man is sick, and this article was ghostwritten."

"Isn't that like trying to hide something obvious?"

"It's better than it is now."

The two were silent for a moment, then there was a knock on the office door.

The secretary pushed open the door and came in, holding a new telegram.

"Sir, this was just received. The sender is the Brooklyn Dockworkers Union."

Hearst took the telegram, glanced at it, and his expression changed.

"What did they say?" Thomas asked.