As night fell around Central Park, dim lights began to illuminate the inky black sky. Loose, rotting boards were flickering with a soft orange glow from
inside the decrepit shacks. Cardboard doors were left open to invite the chill of night into the stuffy, rotting homes. Families were not inside, however. Bowls at the table were left unattended, the beds made and occupied.
A distant shout and hushed voices gave way in the night. All the tenants of the decrepit neighborhood were crammed around a small, crackling radio. Its wooden frame was badly nicked and scratched, and the sound was fuzzy, but no one seemed to care. It was a radio, after all. Not many could say they had one, let alone ever seen one.
It had been two years since the collapse of the stock market. People who had been living large had been reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye, now living in places like this one, dirty and rotting. It was this or nothing at all.
Two men were fiddling with the plastic knobs on the front of the radio. The burlier of the two men jiggled one of the knobs, but snapped it off by accident. He banged his fist down angrily onto the small table where the crowd was clustered around. The motion sent the radio bouncing, and when it hit at particular angle, the radio sputtered to life and the announcer began talking at a furious pace.
"Ladies and Gents," the announcer began in a smooth voice, "The president has just announced his new action for the road to recovery." Everyone leaned in, eager to hear the crackling radio. "He calls it," the announcer paused for effect, "The Hoover Moratorium!"
A man in the back of the group grumbled sarcastically, "Sounds like a funeral home for America." A few nodded in agreement, then turned back to the radio.
"The president called for a one-year halt in reparation payments by Germany to the French state and Allied war debts to the U.S. 'It will be another step towards recovery,' the president states, 'And I am optimistic for our great nation.' Americans everywhere have called the plan an "outrage" and have begun protesting as we speak. Tune in tomorrow, same time, for your nightly news updates. I'm Carter Rhoads, signing off."
Silence fell around the group. Some looked at each other with worried countenances. A tall, burly young man stood up and smoothed his worn tweed jacket over his chest. His eyes shone with anger, his unshaven face twitched with rebellion. "How dare he? Hoover is a disgrace! How dare he cut off reparations when we need it most? How can he just sit there and watch the rest of America starve? We are not his slaves! I say we shove his "Hoover Moratorium" up his big, fat-"
"Shut it, Frederick." A young man stood up from the back, interrupting him mid-sentence. He looked no older than twenty-two. He wore a black jacket with a blue collared shirt gathered at his elbows, clearly more well-off than the others.
"Ah, Mister Raymond Drake himself." remarked Frederick sarcastically.
"Hoover is our president," Raymond began, speaking to the crowd. Frederick tried to interrupt him, but he ignored the attempts and continued. "Hoover is trying his best. Who are we, with no political backgrounds, to judge the man who could set us back on track? Are we the ones to hinder the well-being of our nation?" He addressed each face, urging them to reply. A few discontent murmurs swept through the people. Frederick crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.
"I didn't think so." The Raymond stepped forward, and turned back to the crowd. "We are a great nation, and I believe that we can again be the richest country in the world. Our children and our children's children will live in a nation where they can be free and not worry about the constraining debt placed upon their shoulders. Mr. Hoover is our leader. We must respect his decisions and support them. We must respect him so that our nation will once again live in freedom and greatness!"
He finished his right hand clasped in a fist and held in the air, breathing heavily, as he stepped down into the crowd once more. The rallying calls of his supporters rang through the streets, cheering and singing "America the Beautiful" all through the night.
Hearing these chants, Raymond felt a pang of guilt buried in his heart. How many starve while he lives in luxury? How many children go hungry while he is gluttonous? As he walked back toward his father's brick house facing the street, it began to rain. His coat and pants were soaked through, yet he shook off the cold. He stood in the middle of the street and spread his arms wide, embracing the rain. Rain pelted his face, but he didn't seem to mind too much. Any stranger would think him mad, but in his heart he felt such a surge of happiness, that no one's opinion mattered to him.
