Tommy sat in the driver's seat, not in a rush to start the car, but instead rubbed his face and stared out in a daze.
Honestly speaking, as of now, he really had no means of making a lot of money,
The thought of peddling physicians' certifications and prescription drugs came out of economic pressure. He came up with this idea based on memories from his past life – a way to make a little money without technically violating United States law on the surface.
He had his last life's fortune-seeking girlfriend to thank for this, the one who had to drag him shopping, getting him shot in the process. Her grandfather had come to study in Boston from South Bay back in 1974, who, on many occasions, arrogantly boasted to him about his experiences of making his first bucket of gold when he first arrived in the United States.
Now, Tommy could only pray that the majority of that old man's boasts were true. His hope of earning a bit of money to support his family was entirely reliant on him.
After recalling his memories a few more times, Tommy started the car and drove along the interstate towards Boston, the largest city in the New England region.
Boston wasn't far from Providence, just a hundred kilometers away. By 10:30 in the morning, Tommy had already arrived in Chinatown, located in the heart of Boston. However, Chinatown in 1982 couldn't hold a candle to its former quaintness and charm from his past life—it resembled an old, rundown village within the city.
In stark contrast to the traditional English buildings around it, which had been preserved for over a century and regularly maintained so that even after a hundred years, they still retained their elegance, Chinatown stood out with its decay. The Asian or Asian-American community areas spread out from Chinatown were disheveled and chaotic, with walls plastered with flyers or covered in graffiti. Asian faces would hurry along the streets, their expressions anxious.
After parking his car in a spot, Tommy surveyed his surroundings—both familiar and strange—and felt a tinge of emotion.
Despite the dilapidated and chaotic street scene, the large number of Asian faces and the familiar sounds of the Chinese language sparked a sense of closeness in Tommy. However, every time he tried to get closer to listen to the conversations of pedestrians or shop owners, the owners or pedestrians would quickly stop talking. They would put on a polite smile, bow slightly towards him, and with a nervous glance ask in English,
"Sir, is there anything this Chinese can do for you?"
Tommy could understand why Asian Americans or Asians would quickly announce their nationality when they saw him, a white man. They were afraid that he might harass them, beat them up on the street, or even brutally kill them.
Many American blue-collar workers or lower-class whites were in a state of extreme hostility towards Asians, or more specifically, against the Japanese. To be precise, they couldn't distinguish between the facial features of Asians.
Japan's economic boom had usurped American business, and a large number of Japanese cars had landed in the United States. Local car companies had to cut production lines, leading many blue-collar workers to lose their jobs. Consequently, major industrial cities across the States began a wave of anti-Japanese sentiment. Two months ago, a group of car workers from Detroit beat a Chinese worker to death in a mob, simply for mistaking him for Japanese.
Even when the murderers learned they had attacked the wrong person, they showed no remorse and even joked with reporters that they should blame the poor man who looked too much like a Japanese, suggesting he could join a look-alike contest.
And the sentencing? The ringleaders received probation and a fine of three thousand US dollars, while the other workers involved were unaffected.
Even the three thousand US dollar fine was paid by the union and the car company, sparing the murderers from paying anything.
It was just like yesterday afternoon when Tommy's part-time Chinese laundry shop was smashed by his father and others. The local unions even secretly fanned the flames, hoping to stir up a frenzy.
This, of course, fueled the arrogance of American white-collar workers against Asians. Soon after, in cities like Boston, Detroit, and Cleveland, Japanese-owned restaurants were vandalized, Japanese cars were smashed, and there were numerous cases where Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, and Filipino individuals were mistaken by whites and beaten.
Many Asians who thought they had stepped out of their communities and integrated into American life were quickly taught a lesson by the white man's iron fist and then promptly shrank back into their familiar environments to seek solace and warmth, recognizing the harsh reality that despite holding the same colored American identity card, there was still a fundamental difference between them and the white masters.
Nowadays, Asians in Boston become nervous at the sight of white people, quickly asserting their identity and distancing themselves from the Japanese, even going so far as some Japanese in trouble would claim to be Chinese or Vietnamese to avoid a beating, the one thing they refused to impersonate being Korean is the sole stubbornness of Japanese residing in America.
Tommy Hawk didn't enter Chinatown, which bore the phrase "The world belongs to the public," but instead headed to an English-style building next to the street, where a bilingual sign hung: Huá Bù Asian Medical Center.
This was his destination in Boston.
As he pushed open the doors of the medical center, the front desk assistant with a Korean woman's appearance, who had been flipping through a newspaper while seated, quickly stood up with a smile as she saw a white man walk in:
"Sir, is there anything I can do for you?"
"I want to see Dr. Chen Furen, I need him to examine my condition," Tommy said grimly, leaning forward on the counter to be more imposing, speaking in an unfriendly tone.
The woman was initially taken aback, not expecting a young white man to come to an Asian medical center to see a doctor, and started to explain, somewhat bewildered: "Are you here for a consultation? Sir, this place is intended to provide service for Asian individuals..."
"So, I'm facing racial discrimination at a medical center in the United States of America, huh? Miss, are you discriminating against white people? Are you telling me I have to fucking die from my illness here just because I'm not Asian? Do you want this white man to teach you what racial discrimination is?" Tommy's eyes were fierce as he mimicked the coarse tone of Irish drunks, firing a string of F-laden profanities.
The woman kept waving her hands, quickly defending herself in an almost tearful tone: "No! No! Of course not, sir, it's just a routine... OK, I'll contact Dr. Chen for you."
She picked up the front desk phone, dialed a number, rapidly explained the situation, then forced a smile at Tommy, signaling for him to follow her as she personally led Tommy up to an office on the second floor of the medical center.
Tommy Hawk, who relaxed upon seeing the Chinese doctor waiting at the door, although the doctor was only in his late twenties, he could vaguely recognize the face as belonging to the grandfather of his girlfriend from his previous life.
"Mr., please come in," Chen Furen led Tommy into his office and then dismissed the receptionist before closing the office door.
Once Tommy sat down, Chen Furen asked with a smile, "Sir, what can I do for you?"
Tommy took out a piece of paper filled with information from his jacket pocket and handed it over to Chen Furen: "Doctor, I need twenty medical certificates."
Chen Furen barely took the paper and hadn't had a chance to open it when he heard Tommy's request. His hand trembled, and the paper dropped onto the desk as he looked at Tommy with a shaky voice: "Sir, what are you talking about..."
"Listen up, Asian dude, I know the most profitable business of this Asian medical center is issuing fake doctors' certificates for wealthy Asian students, allowing them to have enough vacations to revel in New York and San Francisco. You sell it to them for fifteen to thirty US dollars each, but I am only prepared to offer you five US dollars for each," Tommy Hawk said, slightly narrowing his eyes as he spoke more slowly.
Chen Furen, shocked, picked up the paper and looked at Tommy with a troubled expression, trying to speak but also fearful of rejecting the imposing white man in front of him and facing retaliation.
"Alternatively, I could call the police, then countless wealthy Asian students from their respective universities will get dealt with, and I ensure they will know the reason they were punished by the school was just because you didn't provide me with twenty medical certificates," Tommy Hawk's voice was cold as he continued, "I reckon those students, with the same skin color as you, will be lining up to 'warmly' pay you a visit."
Chen Furen's forehead was already dripping with sweat; he wiped it off with a tissue, then slammed the desk hard and cursed in Chinese:
"Damn it! I've always said to keep it secret, not to let this kind of thing get to the ears of white folks!"