Chapter 12: A Good Era

There was a movie theater right in Chinatown. Most locals rarely ventured beyond its bounds unless absolutely necessary, and even then, they only lingered in the surrounding neighborhoods. To her mild embarrassment, Su Mu had lived in Los Angeles her entire life but had only visited Hollywood once—and that was for a school field trip.

Out-of-towners always imagined Hollywood to be something extraordinary, but the truth was that most Angelenos found nothing remarkable about it. Celebrities were a common sight, film shoots happened all the time, and everyone had grown accustomed to it—it was hardly worth mentioning.

The streets were narrow, packed with throngs of people—most of them with East Asian faces, though there were also darker-skinned Southeast Asians mingling in the crowds. The air was filled with the blaring of car horns, overlapping conversations, and a general din. Even so, this was still a quieter time; by night, the crowds would swell even more.

In the 1980s, it was as if the mayor had forgotten about this part of the city. While infrastructure in neighboring districts was being renewed and modernized, Chinatown remained unchanged. The only federal officials routinely seen here were from the tax office.

For the many Chinese immigrants who evaded taxes and preferred to use untraceable cash, the authorities often found themselves at a loss. Beyond the truly criminal acts like money laundering, they sometimes simply looked the other way when it came to those unwilling or unable to pay taxes—the sheer volume of work was overwhelming, especially since many residents spoke little or no English, making communication nearly impossible.

The younger generation had legal residency and social benefits, while many elders were undocumented—either having entered illegally or overstayed their visas. The Su family, however, had no such troubles. Though they weren't wealthy, they were considered well-off by Chinatown standards, even owning a freestanding house with a sizable lot. This alone spoke volumes about the circumstances of most local Chinese, whose enclave resembled an isolated “Little China” on American soil. There were other such enclaves too—“Little Korea,” “Little Philippines,” and so on.

Passing by the Fuzhou Restaurant, with its unusual architecture and two stone lions guarding the entrance, Su Mu caught sight of the Jinjiang Hotel sign in the distance. Most signs were written in traditional characters, often with English translations below, though some were only in Chinese. Litter was strewn about alleys on both sides of the street; the sanitation workers would simply ignore it, figuring it was better to clean everything at once in the early morning, when the streets were empty.

The narrow roads led to utter chaos in traffic. A pedicab had collided with a car, and both drivers were shouting. Behind them, horns blared impatiently. Everyone agreed: walking was faster than driving here. Chinatown wasn't large, and everything was within walking distance—convenient enough.

Red lanterns, upturned eaves, ornate archways—this worn neighborhood was full of warmth and life. It was always bustling, lined with snack stalls and street performers. Much like in Hong Kong, cultures met and merged here, blending with local American flavors to create something unique. Newcomers found it fascinating, but local youth took it for granted and found it hard to adapt when living outside these enclaves.

In the old theater, a film screening had just begun.

There were no DVDs or VCDs yet for home viewing—apart from television, going to the theater was the only way to watch movies. The picture was grainy, the sound noisy, but this was normal for the era. The tremendous success of the first Indiana Jones film had garnered a devoted following, so tonight, many had come to see the second installment.

Su Mu watched with rapt attention, while Li Ping’an, exhausted from a late night spent reading martial arts novels, fell asleep just as the movie began. He slumbered through the entire screening, only to be gently shaken awake by Su Mu at the end. Groggy, he mumbled, “Huh? Is it morning already?”

“The movie’s over. Wipe the drool off your chin—it’s all down your shirt,” Su Mu replied, half amused, standing up to collect their empty soda cups before heading out. Watching movies was one of his few pleasures. Last year, after George Lucas released Star Wars: Episode VI, rumors spread that he wouldn’t be making a fourth installment, which had left Su Mu disappointed for quite a while.

Just a few days earlier, he’d heard on the radio that Star Wars VIII: The Last True Jedi was doing well at the box office—a surprise, since he’d believed the series had ended. He couldn’t help but think that the radio hosts who played such pranks must be Star Wars fans themselves. It was like someone claiming humanity would meet aliens by 2050—he didn’t believe everything on the radio, but he knew that someday, something would happen to reveal the truth to him.

Stepping out into the bright light of day, Su Mu tossed his empty cup into the bin. Li Ping’an stretched and squinted at the sunlight, then said to Su Mu, “I just had the best dream—I was rich, swimming in a pool full of cash.

“I’ve really made up my mind—once this semester’s over, I’m dropping out. Even if my dad breaks my leg, I’m done. All I do at school is nap, and it keeps me up at night.

“Do you really think selling computers is the way to get rich? I mean real money. These things are so expensive—who would buy them?”

“How should I know?” Su Mu yawned, infected by his friend’s sleepiness. “If you haven’t figured out what to do yet, just stay in school a while longer. You’re too young for most jobs—unless you want to wash dishes in a restaurant.”

He paused, then added, “Prices might come down one day. Bill Gates, Steve Jobs—those guys made their fortunes in personal computers. And Wang An, the richest Chinese man in the world, now has a net worth of over two billion dollars just from selling computers and parts. There’s a lot of money in it—real money.”

“The richest Chinese in the world? Who’s that?

“Damn, with that much money, he could buy his own private jet, right?”

Li Ping’an was wide awake now. To him, two billion dollars was an unimaginable sum—just an endless amount. He asked again, “Jobs? Gates?

“Who are they? I don’t know anyone you’re talking about.”

Rolling his eyes, Su Mu replied, “Come on, read a newspaper once in a while and you’ll know. You’re always reading martial arts novels, and the papers your family subscribes to are just piling up and getting moldy at your door.”

“Whatever. It’s not my money. I’ll ask my dad—he travels all over the country, he should know something.

“My mom wants me to become a dentist. That counts as a doctor, right? Dentists make a lot, but if someone has bad breath, I’ll die from the smell.

“Oh, I almost forgot—I’m going to my grandma’s this summer again. I really don’t like San Francisco, but my dad insists on sending me. He’s worried I’ll get into trouble at home.”

“See you in September, then. He’s probably right to worry.”

“…”

It was a remarkable era—military computers were just beginning to enter civilian life.

Last year, for the first time, a Chinese name appeared in the top ten of the Forbes Rich List: Wang An.

America’s seventh-richest individual, the founder of Wang Laboratories…