America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

On the morning of October 23, the air in Brooklyn, New York, was chilly.

James Miller, the hardware store owner, tightened his old overcoat and pushed open the wooden door of Old Joe's Cafe on the street corner.

James was somewhat uneasy.

Just yesterday, he finally broke his promise to his wife and mortgaged his hardware store, which he had run for fifteen years, to the bank.

At that moment, he had a five-thousand-dollar check in his inner pocket.

Once the stock exchange opens at 9:30, he will, like all "smart people," go all in on the money in the stock market.

"Old Joe, as usual, another copy of the latest New York Daily News."

James sat by the window, his voice filled with the excitement of about to step into high society.

In New York today, if you don't talk about stocks, you're more of an oddball than admitting you never secretly drank whiskey during Prohibition.

James had already planned that once the five thousand dollars doubled, the first thing he would do was outdo the shoemaker next door who always boasted about how much money he had made.

Before the coffee was even served, the newspaper was handed to me first.

James habitually flipped to the financial section, intending to see how the experts were praising this great era of prosperity, but a somewhat strange headline caught his eye.

"Van Dyke's Stock Market Notes," by the honest man on Wall Street.

"Honest people on Wall Street? That's an interesting name," James muttered, picking up his steaming black coffee and beginning to read.

The story in the newspaper read like this:

In New York's Lower East Side lived a poor clerk named Van Dyke Earl, thirty-five years old, who still worked at a small newspaper copying stock quotes and proofreading typographical errors, earning twenty dollars a week. After rent, he had only enough left to buy dark bread and coffee grounds.

His wife, Betty, often complained to him, "Besides being able to recite the 'Dow Jones 30 Industrial Stocks' by heart, you're clumsy even when changing a light bulb!"

However, Van Dijk had only one persistent thought in his mind: to buy stocks and turn his life around!

At first, he only dared to stand outside the iron railings of the stock exchange and look around.

Watching the gentlemen in striped trousers and top hats come and go, sometimes pounding their legs in ecstasy, sometimes slumping on the stone steps with blank stares, he concluded that the building held some kind of "Midas touch" magic.

Later, he heard that his neighbor, Old Mike, a mechanic, had borrowed fifty dollars to buy General Motors stock, and within three days his investment quadrupled. He not only bought a brand-new Ford but also took his whole family to Coney Island to ride the Ferris wheel.

Upon reading this, James couldn't help but slap his thigh and silently nod in approval:

"That's so accurate! It's just like me! All the neighbors have already come in, so I can't just be a spectator anymore."

He even felt that the author's Van Dyke was practically his brother from another time.

He continued reading:

Van Dyke was so jealous that he stared at the cracks in the ceiling all night, counting them over and over. In the end, he secretly pawned the only decent inheritance his father had left him, a pocket watch, for twenty-five dollars and won a lottery for newly issued stock of "Radio Corporation of America".

In the first two days, the stock price dropped by five dollars. He lost his appetite and spent his nights listening to financial news on the radio, as if he were keeping vigil.

On the morning of the third day, newsboys shrieked from street corners: "Prices have skyrocketed! RCA has broken through $85!"

Van Dyke couldn't believe it and rushed barefoot to Wall Street. The crowd was like a boiling tidal wave, everyone waving newspapers and shouting, "Forever bull market! Long live Hoover!"

He squeezed his way to the price chart and squinted to get a better look. It clearly displayed: "RAC: 85.25"!

He shuddered violently, then threw his head back and burst into laughter: "I made money in the stock market! I made money in the stock market! Tomorrow I'll move to Fifth Avenue! Hire a butler! Invite President Hoover for champagne! I'm going to build a rooftop swimming pool, full of goldfish!"

James's breathing quickened as he read this passage.

Five thousand dollars! If it triples, that's fifteen thousand dollars! He almost climaxed at that line of text.

Although the author's writing style is somewhat sharp, he seems to be a knowledgeable person.

But before he could even start fantasizing about which Rolls-Royce to buy, the story took a sudden turn.

Laughing, Van Dyke's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground with a thud, foaming at the mouth and convulsing, muttering, "Leverage...keep going long...never cut losses..."

People around him rushed forward, pinching his philtrum and splashing cold water on his face. His wife, Betty, arrived, crying and cursing, "It's all this damn stock market's fault! I told you not to trust those con artists in suits!"

Just as chaos erupted, a young broker wearing glasses squeezed through the crowd and sighed, "Oh dear! Isn't this Mr. Van Dyke? The stock you bought was just pumped up by the big players to unload their shares, and it crashed before the market closed! The actual effective transaction price was $11!"

Upon hearing this, Van Dyke sat bolt upright, his eyes wide: "What did you say?!"

The young man shook his head: "Last night's news revealed that the radio company actually suffered a loss in the third quarter. All the previous gains were just hype... The entire market has been dragged down by this stock! It's already a stock market crash!"

Before he could finish speaking, Van Dijk coughed up a mouthful of blood and fainted again.

Upon seeing this, James jerked his coffee cup, splashing scalding liquid onto the back of his hand without noticing.

"The market maker is driving up the price to unload their shares..."

James muttered to himself, the word hitting him like a hammer blow, leaving him dizzy.

As a businessman who has run a store for fifteen years, he knows all too well what "clearance sale" means.

If the stock market boom of the past few years was really just a bubble inflated by Wall Street tycoons, then was his check, which was secured by his entire fortune, buying hope or a ticket to hell?

He read the ending with a pounding heart:

The next day, he was found on a bench in Central Park. He had wrapped the New York Daily News around himself like a blanket and was muttering to himself, "The economic fundamentals... are very healthy... this prosperity is not a flash in the pan... President Hoover said it himself..."

A passerby shook his head: "Another one who's gone crazy from stock speculation."

The newspaper in James's hand slipped onto the table.

The sunlight outside the window shone on the skyscrapers of Manhattan in the distance, which should have looked magnificent, but in James' eyes, those buildings looked like giant tombstones.

That guy named Van Dijk went mad, but what he kept repeating after he went mad were the same maxims that every politician and expert talks about every day.

"This isn't a story...this is clearly a will." James felt a strong sense of nausea rising in his heart.

He remembered the broker who had persuaded him to mortgage his property, and the greedy glint in the broker's eyes.

He suddenly realized that if he actually put the check in, he would most likely be the next Van Dijk wrapped in newspapers and sleeping on a park bench.

"Fuck American radio, fuck Hoover!"

James suddenly let out a suppressed growl.

He suddenly stood up, the movement so forceful that he almost knocked over the table.

"Mr. Miller, your bacon hasn't arrived yet!" the shopkeeper, Old Joe, called out from behind the counter, sounding puzzled.

"I'm not eating! Old Joe, help me put the newspaper away, I'm keeping it to remind myself all the time!" James rushed out of the coffee shop without looking back, plunging headfirst into the cold morning wind.

His destination was no longer the stock exchange on Wall Street, but the savings bank that had not yet opened.

He wanted to personally withdraw the mortgage loan that could cost him his life before that damned contract took effect.