Chapter 23 - All the Neighborhood's Thugs Are Gathering
"How was it, shaking hands with Anne Morgan?"
As soon as I arrived home, I asked my mother.
"What do you mean, how was it?"
"Did she ask you to have a meal together sometime, or suggest meeting privately…?"
"Come on, why would someone like her have any reason to meet with me alone? She only said one thing."
'You're working hard.'
I knew that would be the extent of it.
What could the youngest daughter of JP Morgan—who controls the entire American financial world—possibly have to say to a poor laborer?
She kept it to a simple gesture of encouragement for the protesters.
"In that case, we'll just have to give her a reason to meet."
After all, needing investors isn't just about hiding where the money comes from.
With the funds I have, I can barely cover employees' wages and the rent for the workshop for a few months.
On top of that, the rubber bands and hooks needed to make brassieres have to be custom ordered, and those costs aren't trivial, either.
"Anne Morgan did say she supports women workers like us, but actual business investment? I'm not sure."
"It doesn't have to be Morgan. Someone out there will recognize the value, I'm sure."
My mother wasn't only protesting.
Following the sketches we had drawn together, we used the sewing machine in our room to complete several prototypes.
Fortunately, before the war in Europe, rubber bands for clothing had already been developed, and the small amount of iron needed for the hooks was still allowed for production.
"First, before we show this to anyone, we need to apply for a patent."
With some money in hand, and before the protest began, my mother and I took the brassiere designs and went to see a patent attorney.
Since I was still a minor, there were legal limits to what I could do alone.
Broadway Street, just on the edge of the Lower East Side where the tenement houses were packed together.
Instead of the narrow, dark alleys, there was a wide, paved road with tall buildings lined up on both sides.
[Reich & Wellman Patent Attorney Office]
Below the sign, the words 'Patent Registration Specialists' were engraved.
Inside the office, there was a faint smell of tobacco smoke, and mahogany desks and furniture filled the space.
"Welcome."
A middle-aged man wearing glasses stood up from his desk to greet us. For just a moment, his eyes quickly glanced over us.
Smoothing his hair, slicked back with just the right amount of pomade, he led us to the sofa.
"I'm Marvin Wellman."
"I'm Nora Graves, and this is my son."
Marvin gave me an intrigued look, then nodded.
"Please, go ahead, Mrs. Graves."
"I'd like to apply for a patent."
"Of course. Did you bring the necessary documents?"
My mother handed over two sheets of paper.
One displayed the complete design and detailed illustrations of the brassiere.
The other was filled with text thoroughly explaining its specific use.
Marvin reviewed the documents, stroking his chin and tilting his head this way and that.
"The hook itself was already patented by Mark Twain. And the method of placing two pieces of fabric together—I believe there's a patent for that as well, from about four years ago. In fact, products like that are already on the market."
Indeed, Mark Twain had invented the hook after watching his wife struggle to put on a brassiere by herself.
At the time, he dreamed of getting rich from his patent, but since the market was still dominated by corsets and the idea of a brassiere was nearly unheard of, his invention was ignored.
Mark Twain, a great literary figure who was ahead of his time.
It seemed almost fated that this "business failure" would go on to write the autobiography of President Ulysses Grant, himself not much luckier in business.
Anyway, my mother looked at me.
I spoke up on her behalf.
"The hook isn't the key to our patent. And our method is entirely different from simply tying together two handkerchiefs with string, even if that's patented. The straps that connect the shoulders and back are made of rubber band, and we've introduced and adapted the hook design for this purpose."
"... Alright. It certainly does seem different."
Marvin smiled and explained the process and cost of applying for a patent.
"It'll be $20, and it'll take at least six months."
"Can you finish preparing the documents for submission by the end of today?"
At my question, Marvin pulled a reluctant face.
"We have plenty of other things to take care of, you know."
"If I give you $30, can it be done by this afternoon?"
"...It can."
I'd expected to spend up to a hundred dollars from the start. If thirty dollars could speed up the notoriously slow process, it was well worth it.
As soon as we stepped out of the office, my mother furrowed her brow.
"Maybe we should've checked around at other places before deciding."
"It wouldn't be much different anywhere else. And it's riskier to just show our design to everyone."
"Still, paying an extra ten dollars just to get it done today feels like a waste."
"I gave it so we could check everything in person today."
We'd come after seeing a newspaper ad, but I didn't like the patent attorney's reaction. Most of all, it bothered me that he didn't look through the patent details carefully and started off by listing reasons why it wouldn't work.
"If you said that because you were worried we'd waste our money, I could at least understand. But he just doesn't seem like that kind of person at all."
What I'd learned recently was that a wealthy woman named Mary Phelps Jacob had applied for a patent for a brassiere reinforced with a handkerchief back in 1912.
Two years ago, Warner Brothers Corset Company bought that patent for $1,500—and their related products now made more than a million dollars in annual sales.
If the patent attorney knew about this, it would absolutely be a patent worth coveting.
That's why I plan to check again this afternoon.
I want to find out if he truly doesn't think our idea will work, or if he has some ulterior motive.
That's also why I paid the extra ten dollars and set a firm deadline.
When we arrived at the tenement house, protesters were just starting to gather at the entrance.
Several Marginals Sluggers were there too.
"Gavin, you're already better?"
"Come on, this is nothing."
Gavin, wearing a hat over his bandaged head, swung his baton around needlessly, wearing himself out.
So today again, we escorted the Sluggers and the protesters from a slight distance as they headed toward the demonstration site.
Garment District.
Just like yesterday, both organizations were there to support the protest.
The action-driven ILGWU.
The sponsoring WTUL.
With both organizations backing them, the protesters put strong pressure on the garment factory owners. The WTUL also made a significant announcement today, stating that they would cover legal fees for lawsuits over ownership of sewing machines.
Could the swindler Yu Family really handle the WTUL's endless legal expenses.
What's more, with the WTUL's support, the press, which had been teetering between the capitalists, finally started to publish balanced articles. The mood was shifting.
That afternoon, after the protest.
I took the Slugger crew and headed to the patent attorney's office.
"Gavin, I think you should take off your hat."
"Yeah? You think so?"
The five of us clomped up the stairs and walked into the office on the second floor.
Clack.
Two men on the sofa looked startled when they saw us.
One of them was Attorney Marvin, whom I'd seen that morning.
Their eyes shifted from Gavin, who had a bloodstained bandage around his head, over to me.
"Wh-what brings you here?"
"You've finished drafting the documents to submit to the Patent Office, haven't you?"
As I spoke, I headed to the table in the center of the sofa arrangement.
There were the documents I had written.
"Ah, something urgent came up today, you see."
"I see. So, what were you two discussing while looking over my documents?"
Were they plotting to take it for themselves?
It's not common, but there have been occasional cases where patent attorneys or legal representatives have stolen patents.
All the victims have been social minorities, such as poor immigrants or women inventors.
"So basically, damn it, you haven't even touched the paperwork yet, have you?"
Gavin pulled out his club and, like a lunatic, swung his bandaged head around while looking for something in the office to smash.
The other guys also seemed ready to bust something up.
It was clear this wasn't their first time.
"You guys—do you realize where you are right now? If you resort to violence in a patent attorney's office, legally speaking…"
"Law, huh? So, what—should we come back at night to break things instead?"
Realizing we weren't the type to discuss things calmly—
"…I-I promise, I'll have it all written up by tomorrow. This guy here is an expert in the clothing field, so I needed to consult with him."
Marvin stammered, making a flimsy excuse.
He claimed they were just discussing with a partner about whether it was realistic to actually file this application.
"And? What's the verdict?"
"It looks promising. Actually, I think there's a very good chance your patent will be approved."
Whether he was sincere or not.
"That's a relief. In any case, since you broke your promise, please return the money."
"Of course, I should. Sorry, I've just been swamped with work lately... But, five dollars?"
"I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."
"..."
I got my five dollars back and left the office. Then I gave one dollar to each of my colleagues.
"You'll be back tomorrow, right?"
"I hope those guys don't actually do any work."
"No way."
The next day.
As promised, the patent attorneys prepared the patent application documents.
"Then please show me the Patent Office receipt tomorrow."
"Y-You're coming again tomorrow?"
Over a span of three whole days, we finished everything from preparing the documents to submitting the patent application.
The results wouldn't be out for several months, but the work had been done more quickly than at any other patent attorney's office.
"I look forward to working with you in the future."
"You're filing for another patent?"
"That's not all. If you do business with me, you'll see some good things come your way eventually."
Of course, neither of them looked even remotely hopeful.
They just opened the door quickly, eager to get rid of the troublemaker.
Violence and threats aren't a cure-all, but sometimes, like this time, they're necessary.
Once outside, Gavin asked,
"So, what kind of patent is it?"
"Took you long enough to ask."
When I said it was for women's underwear, everyone scoffed. They made ignorant comments, wondering who would file a patent for something like that.
"Anyway, I can't come here tomorrow."
"I was just starting to get attached to those patent guys."
"It's that day, anyway. Even if you wanted to come, you couldn't."
Ah, that's right—tomorrow is the day.
The day after we finished filing the patent.
On June 5, 1917, draft registration was conducted simultaneously across America.
If anyone held a protest on a day like this, it would backfire. So, just for today, we decided to take a break.
With the patent application complete, I had breakfast and then got down to really preparing the brassiere business with my mother.
"Pretend I'm Anne Morgan and pitch it to me."
My mother explained the product in a really awkward and unorganized way.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. You should look for investors elsewhere."
"That's too harsh."
"If you go in like that, that's exactly what you'll hear, Mom."
Breaking the ice and drawing in investment is no simple matter. Roa joined in, too.
"Roa, I can hardly hear your voice, either. You have to speak with confidence, okay!?"
"Uh, okay, really?"
Roa acted as the investor, giving critiques, while Liam—
"Hey, stop working out and come over here."
"You guys will do fine without me. I'm busy."
We need to do something before he fully turns into a workout fanatic.
He's way too into exercise.
But then, Roa came up with a clever idea.
"Mom, just put it on and show them yourself. Sometimes the salesmen who come by just show the product right then and there."
She said that the knife sharpeners, in particular, would cut through wood blocks or anything else, acting like they could slice through metal, just to prove their point.
"Big Brother did that once, and it worked."
"...That was just a one-time thing."
"If it had gone well, you would've kept at it, right?"
Roa can be a bit annoying sometimes.
She also has these flashes of real cleverness now and then.
Just like Roa said, nothing is more convincing than actually wearing the product and showing it off, instead of just presenting the finished item.
While Mom was being led to her room by Roa, someone knocked at the door.
"It's Leo!"
I pressed my ear against the door and asked,
"Prove you're Leo."
"Are you nuts?"
"That's good enough for me."
Click.
Leo was standing there without his tool bag slung over his shoulder.
"What brings you here so early?"
"Let's go watch. Who knows, we might be the ones doing this ourselves sometime."
The next year lies ahead.
Even after World War I ends, the second one won't come for another 21 years.
I'll never be called up, but it's good to get a feel for the atmosphere.
Leo tried to drag Liam along too.
"I'm busy right now."
"What are you even doing at home?"
"Working out."
Liam just happened to be doing squats, working his lower body.
"That's exercise? Why bother?"
"A lot changes if you do."
"Unbelievable."
Snorting at Liam, I stepped outside with Leo.
According to the passed conscription law, all men between ages 21 and 30 must register, regardless of marital status, financial situation, or job.
Registration centers were set up in each city hall, school, and public building, and thousands of officials and volunteers managed the process.
A public school on Hester Street. PS 42 Benjamin Altman School. It's the registration site set up for men living in the Lower East Side.
On the way there, shuffling along with a crowd of gloomy, sullen men, I spotted some familiar faces.
It was Gavin and Cory, my colleagues from the Marginals.
They were both exactly twenty-one.
"If only my folks had waited just one more year before having me. What was Dad in such a hurry for?"
"Maybe it was your mom who was in a hurry. Anyway, good for you, Rookie. Hold down the block while we're gone."
"Anyone hearing you would think you're leaving today."
Who would actually get sent off to war out of those registered would be decided on July 20th.
The selection would happen by lottery in a building near the Capitol Building in Washington D.C.
While I chatted easily with Gavin and Cory, Leo kept silent and quietly followed behind us.
Glancing around, Gavin clicked his tongue.
"Looks like every punk in the neighborhood's out today. Not every day you see this."
A group swaggered along in a straight line, getting in the way of pedestrians.
"They're Pearl Buttons—a gang that actually gets along with us. Sometimes we even team up when dealing with those Hudson Dusters punks."
Then there were the Potashers, Boodles, Fashion Plates, and more.
Through Gavin and Cory, I was reminded just how many gangs were around.
And when another group appeared, there was a hint of conflicted emotion in both their voices.
"Those are Five Points guys."
Five men were approaching from across the street.
The one in front fixed his eyes on me.
He was Salvatore—the same man who once collected ten cents in protection money from Meyer.
Noticing him, Gavin asked,
"Rookie, have you had any trouble with that guy? The way he's looking at you isn't normal."
"We just happened to bump into each other on the street."
"That's it? He didn't take your money or anything like that?"
"You really think I'd let something like that happen?"
"…Right. You'd probably be the one taking from him. Anyway, those Italian bastards—I can't stand them. I should shove a spaghetti noodle right up their—"
Gavin broke off mid-sentence, frowning as he stared at something down the street.
"Over there—those guys are even worse."
Another crowd was closing in from a different direction.
It was the Hudson Dusters—a gang who had already collapsed before they could even start fighting the Marginals.
Benjamin Altman School.
People of different races and factions gathered at the draft registration office.