America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Jimmy Walker sat in his city hall office, three newspapers in front of him. Three articles criticizing Arthur. He read them carefully, put them down, and fell into deep thought.

Not enough, far from enough.

These articles are merely questioning, not preventing.

They did influence a segment of middle-class readers and arouse skepticism among some intellectuals, but for the workers and immigrants who truly supported Arthur, these articles were more likely to provoke their resentment.

Walker stood up and walked to the window. Outside was City Hall Square, where workers were queuing to enter the relief station. The line was long, stretching from the square all the way to the street corner.

The cold November wind blew by, and the people in the group hunched their necks and stamped their feet.

These are the people Arthur wants to reach.

If Arthur's play actually goes on, if these people actually go to see it, if they actually start to wonder why the government is making them line up to starve, then there will be trouble.

Walker turned around and pressed the bell on the table. The secretary pushed open the door and came in.

"Summon the director of the Ministry of Culture."

Ten minutes later, William Brown, the Director of Culture, walked into the office.

Walker cut to the chase: "Do you know about Arthur Kennedy's upcoming play?"

"Yes, I know. I saw the report in the newspaper."

"He plans to perform at the union auditorium. Does the union auditorium have a performance permit?"

Brown paused for a moment, then immediately understood what the mayor meant. This wasn't a real problem; it was an order.

"I need to check the records."

"Investigate. Investigate thoroughly. Also, what is the purpose of the union auditorium? Does a cultural performance count as a union activity? These things need to be clarified. We cannot allow public facilities to be misused."

Brown wrote it down in his notebook.

"Remember, we're not banning them from performing; we're just fulfilling our regulatory duties. We care about them, making sure they follow the rules and avoid unnecessary trouble."

"I understand, Mr. Mayor."

After Brown left, Walker called in the director of the building safety department.

"Check the safety of those union auditoriums. Fire safety equipment, emergency exits, load-bearing structures. You know, routine checks. If you find any problems, issue a rectification notice. Remember, we're doing this for public safety."

The head of the building safety department nodded and turned to leave.

Walker finally dialed the police chief's number, and his meaning was clear.

A large gathering of people, with heightened emotions, could potentially lead to a riot. The police department should be prepared to deploy personnel to maintain order.

……

The following morning, Brown, the director of the Department of Culture, came to the AFL's office. The AFL president, William Green, was a burly 50-year-old man who had been working in the coal mines since he was 16.

Brown sat across from him and opened a thick folder.

"Mr. Green, I'm here for a routine check-up. We've received word that your auditorium is going to host a cultural performance."

"Yes, we agreed to Mr. Kennedy's request."

"Very good. But I need to confirm, does your auditorium have a permit for cultural performances?"

Green frowned.

"A permit for performing arts? We've never heard of that."

Brown pulled a file out of the folder and pushed it in front of Green.

"This is stipulated in Article 327 of the Municipal Ordinance. Any venue used for public cultural performances requires a special permit."

The document was filled with dense text, and Green couldn't continue reading after only a few lines.

"But our auditorium has always been used for union activities."

Brown's tone was polite: "Union activities are no problem, of course. But if it's a performance for the public, a separate permit is required."

Green remained silent for a few seconds.

How long does it take to apply for a permit?

"The normal process takes three months. We need to review the site conditions, assess safety risks, and solicit opinions from relevant departments. All of this takes time."

Three months. Three months later, everything had cooled down.

"Can you speed it up?"

"We will try to expedite the process. But the procedures are fixed, and there's nothing we can do about it. Of course, you can perform without applying for a permit. But if any problems arise, you will be responsible for them."

"What's the problem?"

"For example, the fire department might come to inspect. If they find any safety hazards, they might order the performance to stop. The police might also come to maintain order, and if they feel there is a security risk, they might intervene."

Green knew this wasn't a suggestion; it was a threat.

"I need to discuss this with other people."

"Of course. I understand."

Brown walked to the door, then turned back: "I'm just here to remind you of the rules to avoid unnecessary trouble. We're doing this for your own good."

Green sat in his chair, looking at the document on the table.

Article 327 of the Municipal Ordinance. He had never heard of this ordinance before, and he suspected that most people had never heard of it either.

He sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed Arthur's number. On the other end of the line, Arthur listened to Green's account and remained silent for a few seconds.

"They've started their operation."

"What should we do?"

"Don't panic. Let me think of something."

Arthur hung up the phone, his face grave.

Instead of directly banning the performance, Walker used bureaucratic procedures to delay and obstruct it. This tactic was clever because it appeared perfectly legal.

Who can say that checking permits is wrong? Who can say that caring about safety is wrong? But these legal procedures combined can kill any project.

In the afternoon, inspectors from the Building Safety Department visited two other community centers.

Both community centers had previously offered to provide rehearsal space. One is in Brooklyn, and the other is in Manhattan. They are both small community organizations that rely on donations and volunteers to operate.

The inspectors, carrying thick checklists, inspected everything from fire-fighting facilities to emergency exits, from load-bearing structures to ventilation systems.

Their movements were slow and careful, as if they were searching for something.

In the end, they all found them.

The fire hydrant at the first community center had insufficient pressure.

The inspector held the pressure gauge, repeatedly measuring and recording the data. His expression was very serious, as if he had discovered a major safety hazard.

The emergency exit signage at the second community center was unclear.

The inspector stood at the door, measuring the size of the sign with a ruler, comparing the color of the sign with a color card, shaking his head, marking an X on the inspection form, and issuing a rectification notice.

"You need to complete the rectification within two weeks, otherwise it cannot be used for public activities."

The head of the community center held the notice, his hands trembling. These problems had existed for years, and no one had ever addressed them. Why the sudden need for rectification? But they dared not ask.

That evening, the heads of the two community centers called Arthur separately, saying that they could not cooperate with Arthur and his team for the time being.

"Mr. Kennedy, we didn't want this either. But as you know, we are a community organization and can't go against the city council. If you could wait a bit, we would still be willing to help once the improvements are complete. We are truly sorry."