Chapter 430: Chapter 199: Cooperative
Two days ago, they were still on farms in Bedford, still in the chicken farms of Scranton.
Now, they were on the dinner tables of Pittsburgh’s workers.
"Dad, I want roast chicken." Sam looked at the blackboard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
"We’re having beef."
Nathan declared with a grand wave of his hand.
"Beef will make you strong. We’ll get a salad too. You’re a growing boy."
The father and son picked up their trays and moved along with the line.
In the kitchen, several chefs in spotless white uniforms bustled about.
They ladled generous spoonfuls of stew over mashed potatoes, the thick gravy steaming.
At the end of the serving counter sat a black card reader.
Nathan took a card from his pocket.
It was a stiff blue card. The front was printed with the Pittsburgh city seal, and the back read: "Pennsylvania Industry Alliance Member Card."
He tapped the card on the sensor.
BEEP.
A number appeared on the screen: -20.00 credit points.
Lunch for two, including two main courses, two salads, and drinks.
Equivalent to about twenty US Dollars.
In any decent restaurant in Pittsburgh, that wouldn’t even be enough to buy a single salad.
But this wasn’t free.
Nathan looked at the deduction on the screen, not with a pained expression, but with the calm assurance that comes from paying one’s own way.
This was a transaction.
This was the at-cost price, made possible by municipal subsidies, direct supply from producers, and cutting out the middlemen.
He wasn’t indebted to anyone, nor was he begging for anyone’s pity.
He had used the wages earned from his own labor to purchase this hearty lunch.
"Come on, let’s find a spot."
Carrying the heavy tray, Nathan found a seat by the window.
He pushed the plate of beef stew in front of his son.
The beef was stewed until it was fall-apart tender, the aroma of red wine permeating every fiber. The mashed potatoes were smooth and creamy, having soaked up the rich gravy.
"Eat up."
Nathan picked up his knife and fork, cut a piece of meat, and put it in his mouth.
"Have some more."
He watched his son wolfing down his food, his eyes filled with pride.
"This is what your dad earned building roads."
"We don’t take handouts."
In a corner of the large hall, at an inconspicuous little table,
Leo Wallace sat alone.
Before him was the same meal of red wine beef stew, and next to it, a cup of steaming coffee.
He, too, had tapped his own card and waited in line for his meal.
He cut a piece of beef and chewed it slowly.
It tasted great—a hundred times better than the cold buffets he’d had in the fancy banquet halls of Washington.
Because it had a taste of substance, of something real.
He watched Nathan and his son nearby, seeing the pride on the father’s face and the satisfaction in the child’s eyes.
He could see the city’s vitality returning.
’Mr. President.’
’This beef stew is not bad at all.’
Roosevelt’s voice resounded in his mind.
"Yes, Leo."
"This is the kind of society we want."
"Back when I was implementing the New Deal, many people advised me to simply open the granaries and hand out food so everyone could have a full stomach."
"But I refused."
"I insisted on work-for-relief programs, insisted that people should earn their food through labor."
"Because while a free lunch can fill a stomach, it will devour a man’s soul."
"It breeds laziness and dependence. It forces a man to lower his proud head the moment he holds out his hand to beg."
Roosevelt’s gaze seemed to rest on Nathan as well.
"Look at that father."
"He paid. It may not have been much, but he paid."
"That means he is a customer here. He is a valuable participant in this society, not a burden to it."
"He can sit there, justifiably proud, and teach his son to work hard."
"Those twenty dollars bought more than just beef and potatoes."
"It bought dignity."
"Leo, you didn’t turn this place into a charity handout. You turned it into a refueling station."
"You’ve enabled these people to eat their fill, walk out with their heads held high, and continue to build this city."
Leo took a sip of his coffee.
Bitter, then a sweet aftertaste.
He watched the noisy crowd in the large hall.
Some were discussing tomorrow’s project, others were complaining about the weather, and still others were sharing amusing stories from home.
This lively, human clamor, this vibrant din, represented a kind of prosperity that could never be captured in any data report.
Leo stood, picked up his tray, and walked to the return station.
Just like every other ordinary worker dining there.
He sorted his dishes into the proper bins and nodded to the chef in the window.
"Thank you, that was delicious."
The chef was a plump, matronly woman. She didn’t recognize the young Mayor without his suit and simply waved her ladle enthusiastically.
"Come back any time if you liked it, young man! We’re having roast pork chops tomorrow!"
Leo smiled.
Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. A new text message had arrived.
The sender was Professor Davis.
"Leo, I’m giving a public lecture on ’Great Depression Economics’ tonight at seven, at the Workers’ Palace of Culture. I hope you can make it if you have the time."
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