Chapter 3: The Super Radio Station!

The school bus moved slowly forward, with cars around it giving way. This year, the Summer Olympics would be held in Los Angeles, and billboards advertising the event could be seen everywhere, even on the bus that Su Mu was riding. This city, one of the most famous on the American West Coast and already well-known for Hollywood, now also boasted the Olympics. Tickets for the hottest events had sold out long ago, and people kept those tickets at home, awaiting the arrival of July 28th.

Since April, after orders were issued by City Hall, the chaotic traffic had improved, and garbage trucks appeared frequently. The plastic bags once blown about by the wind were now rarely seen. The city had changed dramatically; no longer gray and gloomy, street sweepers appeared two or three times a day on the same roads. No one ran red lights, no one jaywalked. Even tossing a cigarette butt on the ground would earn a stern lesson from the police. It was hard to believe this was Los Angeles in 1984.

Locals rejoiced at the changes, knowing things would return to normal after the Olympics, but their mood when shopping lately was much improved. Some were happy, others less so—such as the special women whose profession was visible everywhere at night, commonly called "call girls." Not only in remote alleys, but even on bustling streets like Hollywood Boulevard and Rodeo Drive, their presence was once common. Now, they had been pushed elsewhere, though a careful search by car at night would still find a few.

The LAPD was under immense pressure, leading to a surge in efficiency, and the jails were overflowing. Rumor had it some judges had collapsed from exhaustion, with sentences mostly set for four months later, right after the Olympics ended.

Even the number of homeless people on the streets had dwindled. They had been relocated to other places—those "other places" mainly meant areas out of sight of reporters, for countless pairs of eyes nationwide and worldwide were now trained on Los Angeles. The mayor and the governor of California were under tremendous pressure, leaving no room for carelessness.

In a time with few entertainment options, when seeing someone with a bulky mobile phone would cause gasps and sparkling eyes, the Olympics counted as one of the few grand events. The attention was entirely natural.

The shadow of the Cold War still hung over America, and the economic crisis of the seventies had only ended two years ago. It started in Britain, then spread to the United States, lasting longer than any postwar crisis. Business failures and unemployment reached record highs, with unemployment above 11%, prices continually rising, and annual inflation in double digits. Only recently had things begun to recover.

This year had already seen several major events, such as Apple launching the revolutionary Macintosh computer in January. People believed it represented the future. Microsoft had just begun to make waves, releasing a desktop operating system that made computers easy to use.

In February, two American astronauts completed a spacewalk, gaining an edge over the Soviets, filling Americans with pride. News came on the eighth that the Soviet Union would boycott the Los Angeles Olympics; American newspapers claimed they had never intended to invite them anyway, that the so-called boycott was just an attempt to stay relevant.

The Challenger space shuttle, and President Reagan’s "Star Wars" plan announced last year, rekindled confidence among Americans. The apocalyptic atmosphere during the recent economic crisis seemed a distant memory.

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Although the changes in downtown Los Angeles were dramatic, the slums remained unchanged. Except for the wealthy area to the west, Beverly Hills, the other three sides grew more chaotic the farther from the city center.

At this time, many white residents kept twenty dollars in their pockets, ready to hand it over in case of a mugging—a practice not made in jest. Many truly did it to save their lives, while others who carried no cash ended up dying in confusion.

Chinatown was relatively safe. This area, home to many Chinese residents, was almost forgotten by the rest of Los Angeles. Not even presidential, gubernatorial, or mayoral candidates came here to campaign, and the local Chinese residents didn’t care either, closing their doors and making a living on this continent. Within Chinatown, it felt like Asia—cross a street and you were back in America.

California boasted many Chinatowns, and the Su family had lived for generations in the Los Angeles Chinatown, located in the eastern suburbs and bordering the GC district, making it one of the major Chinese enclaves on the West Coast. Waves of immigrants from China lived in or near Chinatown.

Red lanterns lined the streets, store signs written mostly in Chinese characters. Few tourists visited in those days, conversations were primarily in Cantonese and other local dialects, but people switched to English outside. Many elderly Chinese didn’t speak English at all, but lived happily in Chinatown.

By mid-May, Los Angeles weather was already warm; only a jacket over a long-sleeved shirt was needed. The wind came from the Pacific, but after passing through car exhaust and factory smoke, it was thick and polluted.

The yellow school bus stopped and started along its route. By the time it reached Mexico Street, half the passengers had gotten off. Su Mu recognized almost all who remained. Chinatown was large, but not many rode the same bus as him. In a few years, those who could talk to him had already become acquainted.

The bus was always noisy, but the driver was numb to it. This bus, along with a dozen others, mainly served Mexicans and Chinese. It stopped at the ancient Chinatown gate and let the students out. The driver drove off, leaving Su Mu and about twenty other youths behind.

Almost all were in the same grade, about to graduate middle school and enter high school. Unless their grades were exceptionally poor, they had no need to worry about missing out on high school. Academic pressure was light, so they laughed and chatted about school life, splitting into three or four small groups as they walked.

None would tell their elders that attending such a middle school offered little future; perhaps their elders knew but still hoped for a slim chance. It was said Castellal Public Middle School used to be good, but after starting a "racial integration experiment class," all the top students left. It wasn’t the worst school nearby; the worst one saw one or two student deaths almost every month, a testament to how dire things were.

Li Ping’an went to his grandmother’s house for dinner, so Su Mu walked on alone for a few minutes, passing run-down old houses. The street was slightly better, but the deeper into the alleys, the worse it got. Dirty water was spilled on the road, and a foul stench could be smelled from far away.

When Su Mu arrived home, he found the house empty. Cell phones were something his family could not afford. He took out the key from his backpack and opened the door, recalling that his father had mentioned going to a friend’s house for dinner that night. At the dining table, he found tomato and egg soup, and stir-fried cauliflower with plenty of meat—smelling quite appetizing.

The Su family was not wealthy, but they never lacked food or clothing, especially for the only boy in the third generation. Whatever he wanted, he got. As long as a Chinese family was a bit industrious, they could scrape by.

In the early eighties, Los Angeles strictly enforced laws against child labor, but that did not stop many children three or four years older than Su Mu from dropping out to work and support their families.

Old Su had witnessed many tragedies in his time—neighbors' children going astray at a young age, some ending up in jail, and countless Chinese youths without skills living mediocre lives.

Su Mu’s grandmother had skills—she was mixed-race, her father an Italian tailor who also made leather shoes. So Su Mu inherited a little mixed blood.

It was not obvious in his appearance, save for a slightly higher nose bridge and deeper-set eyes, but his hair and eyes were black, and his skin was yellow. If he didn’t say so, no one would guess he was mixed-race.

Later, Old Su became her assistant, and after thirty years, he had mastered the craft. Su Mu’s grandmother died of heart disease two years ago, leaving Old Su to work alone, earning a little money to supplement the household.

His clients were those who could not afford store-bought suits. Though he claimed "hand-made tailoring," it was hardly famous, and he might go a week without an order. He had long considered renting a shop, but the rent was too high, so he worked from home, losing much business.

Neighbors in poor families were also poor. The lucky Chinese who made money had long since moved away. Who would have suits made at Old Su’s?

For Old Su, nothing mattered more than Su Mu’s education. No matter how much the family needed help, he never mentioned passing down the tailoring business.

In his eyes, it was a lowly and unprofitable trade, barely covering the family’s expenses, less than a single day’s salary for the Wall Street elite. He dreamed of Su Mu one day working for a big company as a manager.

Having lived his whole life in Chinatown and never left California, this was already a prestigious ambition. Anything higher—he dared not imagine.

His son was a lost cause; running a Chinese restaurant was fine, at least not needing to ask for money, but he still hadn’t left Chinatown. The burden that should have fallen to Su Mu’s father now rested on Su Mu’s shoulders. Poor Su Mu, at age eleven, already carried a seven-kilogram backpack.

That was the weight of new books at the start of the school year. Usually, there weren’t so many books nor much homework, but Su Mu carried them every day, mainly to please Old Su—more books looked like dedication. To earn a little pocket money, the boy had suffered plenty.

Whenever Old Su remembered the one-and-a-half-year-old Su Mu choosing a bright green dollar bill from a pile of items, his fantasy of Su Mu's future wealth grew stronger.

Su Mu’s father, Su Dingcai, had once been a boatman in his youth.

He dreamed of owning his own fishing boat, going out to sea—a good profession, providing cheap seafood and a good income, as well as food for the family.

But reality was harsh; Chinatown was far from the coast, and traveling was inconvenient. Then the captain, who owed two months’ wages, died unexpectedly, and before the bank repossessed the boat, Su Dingcai only managed to salvage an old radio, the kind no one would pay fifty dollars for at a secondhand shop.

Frustrated, he brought it home, thinking something was better than nothing, and placed it in Su Mu’s room.

The Su family had immigrated as laborers from Old Su’s father’s generation, spending nearly half a century to buy this old house, about two hundred square meters with five rooms.

The room facing the street, after Su Mu’s aunt married and moved to San Francisco, had its wall knocked through to become a Chinese restaurant, with a menu of just over ten dishes.

Su Dingcai and his wife’s cooking was mediocre, so business was never good. Americans didn’t care for authentic Chinese food, and many native-born Chinese found it hard to stomach as well. Their customer base was narrow, mainly neighbors who sometimes didn’t want to cook at home.

After heating up his meal and eating quickly, Su Mu went back to his small room, lay on his bed for a while. The walls were slightly yellow, the cheap ceiling even more so. The room was barely over ten square meters; after placing a bed, there was little space left. Books filled the shelf and desk, along with all his awards from childhood.

He read a lot and had excellent grades, but he was no bookworm. Next to his bed lay a traditional edition of "The Legend of the Condor Heroes." Jin Yong’s fame had swept the Chinese diaspora, and he had many American readers; Su Mu had finished the book long ago, and now lazily returned it to the shelf.

With his family out, Su Mu idly fiddled with the old radio by his desk. Despite its age, it still worked, and the sound was clearer than ordinary radios, picking up signals from farther away.

After plugging in its black-taped cord and switching it on, a crackling noise sounded. As Su Mu was about to tune in, he heard the host say, "Sorry, a solar storm has just erupted, hahaha! The earth is affected, and the signal seems unstable!"

Next, he heard, "Let’s listen... Hello, everyone! Today is February 12th, 2018, 6 p.m. This is the First Financial Broadcasting Program. I’m your host, Da Bin. Glad to meet you again. With Spring Festival approaching, I wish you all a happy holiday and safe travels home.

Well, as everyone knows, this week the U.S. stock market plummeted, dragging down the A-share, Shenzhen, and startup boards. We covered that yesterday. Today, I want to talk about SpaceX, the company that sent electric cars into space..."

Su Mu was stunned.

It had been English just moments before, and now he heard such fluent mother tongue. He was utterly bewildered. What was this? What year was 2018...?