Chapter 63: Misunderstandings Are Inevitable

In 1980s America, the commercial order was far superior to that of many other countries. A well-developed system of business credit had already been established, with laws safeguarding the rights of legitimate companies and protecting personal property from infringement. Contracts carried significant legal weight—this was precisely why Sumu, despite his young age, dared to enter the world of business.

In other countries, one could easily fall into a trap, especially as a teenager in business. Attracting a pack of wolves would hardly be surprising—it would be like a delicious meal laid out on the table. Tens of thousands of dollars might not be a fortune, but it was enough to draw a crowd.

A sound commercial environment also enabled American entrepreneurs to dominate the globe. They didn’t need to worry about much else—just running their own companies was enough. It was precisely this outstanding business climate that gave rise to so many American legends in commerce. The most recent was Steve Jobs, one of the cofounders of Apple.

At nineteen, Jobs started his venture in a garage and stumbled into a fortune worth hundreds of millions. Sumu now looked up to this future tycoon as his idol. The story of dropping out to start a business and achieving success was irresistibly alluring for kids still in school.

At this moment, Sumu gazed at the towering old factory before him, imagining a future in which he too could earn vast sums. What he would do with such wealth, he hadn’t yet considered in detail. Mostly, he just wanted his family to live well, for himself to live well, and to no longer worry or toil for money.

This summer, he’d already earned over a hundred thousand dollars, invested in a store, and acquired the promise of a hefty inheritance he might one day receive. Life seemed to have suddenly turned comfortable.

With hope before him, Sumu couldn’t help but nurture greater ambitions. He felt he shouldn’t stop here—there was room for even better things ahead. The old factory being renovated before him was the first step on that path. No matter how he looked at it, it pleased him far more than secretly drinking and getting drunk last year ever had.

Hearing Mr. Han accuse him of boasting, Sumu did not dispute it. The market value of a famous watch company far exceeded the wealth he currently possessed. He just grinned and said nothing.

After signing the authorization to use company funds, Sumu declined Mr. Han’s offer to give him a ride and took a cab home instead.

What people commonly called Chinatown had long ceased to exist as the Chinese population expanded. Nowadays, Los Angeles’s Chinatown referred to an entire swath of the northeastern city—a large area where Chinese people congregated, collectively called "China City." There were no skyscrapers or bustling malls nearby, and luxury brands like Louis Vuitton or Chanel had no interest in opening stores here.

Garbage was everywhere, as were old buildings. By day it was manageable, but at night chaos reigned. Weeks when a gangster or two didn’t die were considered peaceful. In the most tumultuous years, it wasn’t rare to see several corpses in the alleys, forcing the L.A. police to step up their efforts—only recently had things improved a bit.

The old neighborhood where the Sumu family lived had recently seen an influx of residents from Southeast Asia. Despite the commotion across the Pacific, once on the North American continent, the lower classes of East Asian and Southeast Asian society still preferred to live among their own—perhaps out of familiarity with each other’s customs, easing feelings of alienation.

The cab driver was of Filipino descent, with slightly dark skin, and from the moment Sumu got in, he chatted about how property prices in the area were too high and even asked Sumu if he had a girlfriend. Sumu was in a good mood and was happy to exchange a few words on interesting topics.

He wasn’t sure if property prices around Chinatown were high; his family already owned a house here. Even if he planned to move, he wouldn’t buy another place in the same area. Anyone with eyes could see that City Hall had abandoned this district—there were no pothole-ridden roads in the city center, and the ride was enough to make one queasy.

He was planning to go straight home, but then remembered he needed to buy groceries at the market.

As he reached for his wallet to pay the fare, Sumu’s fingers brushed against a few silver coins. He took them out and examined them in his palm—they were all familiar, not the rare kind. His habit of reading widely had given him some knowledge about them.

There was a 1976 Bicentennial half-dollar, three 1903 Morgan dollars, a 1799 Liberty Head dollar, and one coin worth a little extra—a Morgan dollar from 1881. That year’s mintage was relatively small, and he’d read about it in a book. It had some collectible value, though not very high.

All told, they might fetch two or three thousand dollars—the 1881 Morgan was the valuable one. The Morgan banking dynasty still existed that year, but its glory days had long since passed, their former grandeur now only visible in books.

Not knowing where to sell them, he simply pocketed the coins again. After paying the fare, he stepped out of the cab, a wad of bills in hand, and strolled leisurely toward the market, just a few dozen yards away.

Maybe because times were tough, the streetwalkers who used to come out at night now brazenly stood at the mouths of alleys in broad daylight. Their rented rooms were nearby—whenever a customer arrived, they’d take him inside and lock the door, turning it into a "hotel."

The market area was the most chaotic. Having grown up nearby, Sumu was well aware of the situation. The provocatively dressed women paid no mind to passersby. Afraid of losing business to each other, they kept their distance.

A frail young man was being led to the curb by an older woman. Seeing her heavily made-up, over-forty face, then glancing at the young man, who was barely older than himself, Sumu shuddered and muttered, “That’s some seriously heavy taste.”

Had he passed through at night, he would have seen hundreds of women of every skin color, with a steady stream of customers. The poorer the neighborhood, the greater the chaos—passersby had long since learned to turn a blind eye.

At Sumu’s age, a woman’s allure was not to be underestimated, especially for a boy who’d never even had his first kiss, something Duzhong had teased him about more than once.

In America, if a man reached adulthood without any romantic or sexual experience, he was considered a joke; women also saw it as a sign of being undesirable or strange.

Cultural differences shaped different social environments. There was even a saying: “If you like her, just go for it.”

To white and Black Americans, sex and love were not necessarily linked. Sometimes, it was just for fun—no big deal. This outlook was a shock to Chinese sensibilities, so much so that even families who’d lived in America for over a century found it hard to adjust.

One of the women caught sight of the cash in Sumu’s hand—money meant for groceries—and grabbed his arm, purring, “Handsome, want to have some fun? I’m really good, you’ll definitely enjoy it.”

Sumu’s skin crawled; he felt like a human powder keg suddenly sparked, standing at attention.

Just as he was about to leave, he saw his dream girl, Kate, approaching from the opposite direction. And there was Sumu—flanked by a provocatively dressed woman, cash clutched in hand. It would be hard for Kate not to misunderstand, and her gaze was decidedly strange.

This was awkward. Sumu was completely dumbfounded...