On a wet winter's day, a teenager approached The Daily Planet. Though not as large as New York City, Metropolis was huge, with slightly over five million people in it's city limits, it had lost out to having the World's Fair to The Big Apple by a hairs breath. He looked up at the Planet from across the street. As he saw the globe on top of the building, a fleck of snow got into his eye. He glanced down in time to see a middle aged woman slip on some ice and fall headlong into the street in front of an oncoming taxicab.

Without thinking, the boy jumped into the street. Reaching down, he scooped the woman up around her waist and pulled her back to the curb. As he was getting her to the curb, the taxicab's bumper struck her in the lower leg. The woman screamed and collapsed onto the sidewalk.

People gather around to hear her cries as someone yelled, “Get an ambulance.” Suddenly there was the cry of “Margaret!” A white haired middle aged man rushed to her side.

“Perry! My leg. I think it's broken.” she cried.

"Is someone getting an ambulance?” he shouted. The police arrived a few minutes later as did the ambulance. As she was being loaded into the ambulance, the older man turned and faced the boy. “I saw you save my wife's life from across the street. Thank you! Kent!” he called out to a tall husky man with glasses who had just crossed the street. The husband pulled out a five dollar bill. “Take this young man over to a restaurant for lunch. I want to talk with him when I get back.”

“That's not necessary, sir. I was about to go into the Planet and apply for a job..." he started.

“A job! Have you ever worked for a paper?” the man asked just as the first door of the ambulance is closed.

“I was a copy boy and photographer for The Chinatown Gazette,” the youth answered quickly as the older man started getting into the ambulance.

“Kent, take this kid to personnel and get him assigned to the day shift as a copy boy, Olsen's wage,” the older man said as the ambulance door closed.

As the ambulance pulled away. the youth asked Kent, “Is he the boss of the Planet?”

“That is the Editor-In-Chief of The Daily Planet, Perry White,” he turned to the youth and offered his hand. “Clark Kent.”

“Paul Bell,” the youth answered shaking Kent's hand. “So, what should we do now?”

“Well, the Chief told me to feed you and to get you signed up, so let's step around the corner to a nice little burger joint that a lot of Planet staff frequent and we will go from there,” Kent said.

As they sat at a table in the restaurant a middle-aged waitress came up and took their order and said offhandedly as she filled their coffee mugs, “Who is your Turkish friend?”

“Dahlia, this is Paul Bell. He is a new copy boy at the Planet,” Kent said. “This is Dahlia.”

“Hello, Paul I am glad to meet you and I am so glad that Turks are considered Whites,” she said as she took the order to the kitchen.

Kent grimaced. “I hadn't thought of that.” He glanced at the Whites Only sign over the counter. ”I don't even see that sign anymore. I'm sorry.”

“Nobody ever gets my race right anyway,” Paul said. “Enough about me. How long have you been with the Planet? Wait a minute! Clark Kent. I've read some of your work. You're good, really good. My last editor in chief was really impressed with a lot of your stories.”

“Thanks, Paul. I've been with the Planet just over three years, now. I was born in Cleveland and was adopted by a Kansas farm family when I was a baby,” Kent answered.

“I'm Metropolitan born and raised,” Paul said. Paul looked around. A few people stared at him curiously, but no one said anything. Dahlia came and filled their mugs and she smiled at them and left.

“Obviously, she doesn't mind "Turks” eating here,” Paul said quietly.

“Obviously not,” Kent agreed.

After lunch, Kent and Bell went to the Planet. Kent took the new hire up to personnel and gave them White's message. While there, Kent suggested that he be given a press badge while he was there. The staff in personnel assumed that was part of White's instruction and gave one to Bell.

As soon as he was punched in, Paul asked, “Why the press pass?”

“I heard you say that you used to be a photographer. That means that you will be looking for a chance to be one here. It is just saving a little time,” Kent answered.

Kent then took him to the newsroom and introduced Bell to Assistant Editor Lawley. “Let me know how you are doing in a couple of days, Paul. I have to get back to my story.” Kent left the busy room.

Lawley, a short, slightly overweight, bald man with a huge cigar in his mouth looked Bell over. “So Perry hired you, eh? Fine! I don't care what color you are as long as you work. You ever work for a paper?”he asked.

“Yes sir. I was both a copy boy and a photographer for The Chinatown Gazette,” Paul answered.

Someone brought a document for Lawley's attention. Paul stood quietly while Lawley looked the document over. To the person who brought the paper he said, “Tell Ainsley that this is fine,” and he hands the paper back.

“Chinatown Gazette, huh? Not a bad community paper. I saw a copy, from time to time. Any truth to the arson rumor? I heard that some tong racketeers torched the place?” Lawley asked

“It was only a matter of time before that old boiler blew,” Paul answered.

“Good. Don't get me wrong! I'm sorry the place burned. I just have a deep seated hatred for racketeers, An honest accident is much better. Back to task.” He put out his cigar in a nearby ashtray. “Walk with me,” he commanded.

They walk through a crowded newsroom, the sounds of telephones ringing, typewriters and teletype machines competing to make the most noise. A haze of tobacco permeated the air. “How big was your daily print?” Lawley asked.

“Seventy-five hundred,” Bell answered.

“We print eight hundred thousand copies twice a day. It is a lot more intense here than what you are used to but the basic principles are the same, just at a significantly larger scale. You already know what a deadline is. Work hard and work as fast as you can. Olsen! over here!” Lawley called out to a freckled red haired youth about Paul's age.

“Jimmy Olsen, Paul Bell. Bell is a new copy boy. Your job is to work with him for the rest of the day and tomorrow and show him the ropes, Got it?”

“Yes sir,” Jimmy said.

Turning to Bell, Lawley. said, “Olsen know what he is doing. Listen to him and you should be fine. Now get to work.”

Bell spent the rest of the day helping Jimmy run errands, taking articles from one person to another depending on where it needed to go in order to get the evening edition out on time. There was a bit of shift overlap. Once the evening edition was put to bed, the day shift started to help the swing shift put out the morning edition until it was time for the day shift to go home.

When he got off work he was tired, but happy. He went to the subway station to see what the connections he'd have to make to get home. It took him almost an hour to get there. The last connection was a bus that took him within two blocks of his house. The house was a modest three bedroom with a tiny yard. He knew that most of Chinatown considered his family to be well off because they owned a house, even if it was that small. Only about a quarter of his neighborhood lived in houses. Most lived in apartments of some sort. Very few actually lived in tenements.

His mother had some stew on the stove waiting for him. She was in the living room listening to Christmas music while she was crocheting. His father was sitting at the dining room table with his brother, helping him with homework. After Paul ate, he washed his bowl and spoon, put them away and went and sat next to his mother.

“So they put you to work, right away. That's definitely an answer to prayer,” she said.

“Yeah. I'm making about fifty percent more than I was making at the Gazette, but I am working for it,” he replied.

“Where's Beth?” he asked referring to his thirteen year old sister.

“She's at Mary's. She said that she'd be home by 8:30,” his mother answered.

Nodding towards the table, he asked, “I suppose that he is nowhere near done?” One of the family rules was that there were to be no comedies or dramas on the radio until all of the homework was done.

“Doubt it. Besides, one of your magazines came in, today. I put it on your bed,” she said.

“Great. Thanks,” he went into his room, turned on the light and closed the door. The door had been open for the drift heat. He glanced over to the window. He couldn't see anything out of it even if he opened th curtain. The window had plastic covering it to block out the winter's cold. Habit mostly. On a summer night, they would have the window open with a fan in it to get some air moving.

He pulled the magazine off of his bed and sat. It was the latest Doc Savage magazine. He curled up on he bed to relax and enjoy himself. About half an hour later, his mother knocked and opened the door poking her head into the room. “They're done,” she said.

When Paul entered the room, he found that his brother had turned the radio to a hockey game. “Lux Theater at eight,” Paul told his brother.

“Dad already called it,” he replied.

His father came in with another bowl of stew. “Paul, Your mother tells me that you got on at the Planet. What's the story?”

Paul spent the next several minutes telling his parents about his day.

“I'm glad that you didn't hurt yourself. You did the right thing. I'm also glad that you didn't know who she was. that means that you did it for the right reasons,” his father said.

When he told of he rescue, his mother's hand had gone to her breast. “It is hard to realize that you aren't the little boy that you used to be,” she said. He walked over and threw one of his arms around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug.

Paul's sister came home just before eight o'clock and they listened to a radio show together. Paul's father advised him to go to bed early and skip Orson Wells that night, at least until he got used to working at the Planet. He grumbled a little, but he knew that his dad was right. He set his alarm, and to his surprise, he found himself drifting off to sleep in short order.

Historical note:

Superman first appeared in the comics, in 1938. Initially, he worked at the Daily Star before he got onto the Daily Planet. He was created in Cleveland Ohio by Jewish teens Jerome Siegel and Joseph Schuster. You know the rest of that story.

Since Metopolis is fictional, so is this Chinatown. The reasons for the differences in the Metropolis Chinatown and the real Chinatowns of the East coast of that time will be explained in future chapters.