novelnext Chapter 11 My First Job Not for Money
Chapter 11 My First Job Not for Money
Leo turned off his computer and stood up.
The hunger was still there, but it had been suppressed by something more powerful.
That's a clear sense of purpose.
He walked out of the apartment building and headed towards the community center that was about to be auctioned off.
The scene on the street was exactly the same as the one he had just walked through, full of decay and desolation.
But at this moment, in his eyes, these are no longer unchangeable realities, but rather positions that need to be conquered.
He stood at the entrance of the steelworkers' community center.
This is a three-story red brick building with a rugged style and no superfluous decorations, just like the steelworkers who built it.
On the front wall of the building, you can still see the metal badge of the Steelworkers Union. Although it is covered with rust, the arm that is tightly gripping the hammer is still full of power.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door and went inside.
Many black and white photographs hang on the walls of the hall.
The photos depict the golden age of Pittsburgh's steel industry, showing workers at blast furnaces, union-organized marches, and community picnics.
These photos are telling a story of a forgotten history.
The hall was quiet, with only the sounds of children laughing from one room and the intermittent sound of typing coming from another.
An elderly woman with gray hair was sitting behind the front desk, organizing a pile of documents.
She was wearing reading glasses and a faded sweater, her expression focused.
When she saw Leo come in, she looked up and scrutinized him with a critical gaze.
"What is it, young man?"
"My name is Leo Wallace," Leo began. "I saw the notice on the city government website about this place being auctioned off."
The old lady's eyes immediately became wary.
"Are you a reporter?"
"No."
"Were they sent by the city government?"
"No, not exactly."
"Then who are you? A real estate speculator trying to get a bargain here?" Her tone became sharp.
"No, not at all," Leo said. "I live in this community, and I just wanted to get a feel for the situation and see if there was anything I could do to help."
The old lady squinted and continued to scrutinize him, seemingly trying to determine the truthfulness of his words.
"My name is Margaret Davis," she said. "I'm the head of this center. There's nothing I can help with here unless you can conjure up $50,000 in property taxes in a week."
After she finished speaking, she lowered her head and continued reading her documents, clearly not intending to say another word to Riodo.
"Don't rush to say what you can do," Roosevelt's voice rang out. "Remember what I said, listen first. Listen to their stories, feel their anger and helplessness."
Leo did not leave.
He sat down on a worn-out sofa in the lobby.
Margaret ignored him.
After a while, several elderly people, around the same age as Margaret, came out from one of the activity rooms inside.
They were holding knitted sweaters and handicrafts they had made, clearly having just finished a senior citizens' activity group.
Upon seeing Leo's unfamiliar face, they all cast curious glances their way.
One of the tall, elderly men walked up to Leo.
"Whose child are you?" he asked, his hands covered in calluses and scars, permanent marks left by the steel mill.
"My name is Leo Wallace." Leo stood up. "My father used to work at the Homestead factory."
Upon hearing "Holmstead Factory," the elderly people's expressions immediately brightened.
The tall, elderly man said, "My name is George. What are you doing here?"
"I saw the auction announcement," Leo repeated.
George sighed, his wrinkles deepening.
"Yes, they want to take away even this last bit of our land."
"them?"
"The mayor and his wealthy friends," another old man interjected, "they've had their eyes on this land for a long time. They think we poor bastards are just an eyesore here."
And so, Leo began chatting with these elderly people.
He spent the entire afternoon sitting on that sofa listening.
He heard George recount how the community center provided him with free computer training after he lost his job, enabling him to learn how to use the internet and video chat with his grandson who lived in another state.
He heard an old woman named Rosa tell the story of how, after her husband passed away, the day care service here helped her escape loneliness and find new friends.
He heard from a retired electrician named Mike that he came here every week to repair appliances for the elderly in the community for free because it made him feel like he was still a useful person.
Each of them regarded this place as their home.
They spoke of what the center meant to them, their anxieties about the future, and their anger toward the city government and the real estate company.
Leo didn't interrupt or offer any suggestions; he simply listened attentively, memorizing every story and detail they told.
Night falls.
The lights in the community center lobby came on.
More and more residents are coming from all directions.
Most of them are elderly people like George and Rosa, the forgotten half of this city.
Tonight, a mobilization meeting will be held here in preparation for the protest.
Margaret Davis stood in the center of the hall, using a megaphone to explain the situation to the dozens of residents who had gathered.
Her voice wasn't loud, but it was full of strength and determination.
She told everyone that they had contacted the local television station and were preparing to hold a peaceful demonstration in front of the city hall before the auction next week.
She encouraged everyone not to give up and to fight for their homeland until the very last moment.
The atmosphere at the mobilization meeting was somewhat heavy. Although everyone was angry, there was a greater sense of powerlessness.
They all knew that against the municipal government and powerful real estate companies, their limited strength was like a mantis trying to stop a chariot.
At the end of the meeting, Margaret saw Leo still sitting in the corner.
She hesitated for a moment, then raised the megaphone and spoke to Leo.
"Young man, you've been listening here all afternoon. Is there anything you'd like to say to everyone?"
All eyes were on Leo.
Leo felt his heart start pounding.
This was the first time he had to give a speech to a real audience, instead of typing on a keyboard through a screen.
He stood up, feeling his legs were a little weak.
"Relax, son," Roosevelt's voice echoed in his mind. "You don't need to be an orator; you just need to be their voice."
"Take the stories you heard this afternoon and retell them in your own words. Then use your knowledge to show them that this battle is not without hope."
Leo took a deep breath and walked to the center of the hall.
He didn't bring a megaphone.
He cleared his throat and then began his first speech.
"Good evening, everyone. My name is Leo Wallace."
"This afternoon, I was here and heard the story of Mr. George, the story of Ms. Rosa, and the story of Mr. Mike."
He recounted the stories he had heard in the simplest language.
He talked about computer training, day care, and free appliance repair.
The residents in the hall listened quietly, their eyes gradually shifting from initial curiosity to recognition and resonance.
Because what Leo was talking about was their own life.
"These stories tell me one thing," Leo continued, "This place is a home, a home that our community built for itself after the steel factory closed down."
"But now, someone wants to demolish our home. They say it's because we owe taxes."
His tone suddenly shifted and became sharp.
"As a history and law student, I also reviewed the relevant city government regulations this afternoon. Our community center, as a non-profit organization, is fully eligible to apply for property tax relief. Why has Ms. Margaret's application been repeatedly rejected by the mayor's office?"
"I also found out that Summit Development Group, which is preparing to buy this land, is Mayor Cartwright's biggest campaign donor. Why was there only one bidder in this auction? Does this comply with the procedural fairness of a public auction?"
The question he asked stunned everyone present.
They only knew how to be angry, but never considered that there might be illegal operations behind it.
Leo's voice rose to a high pitch at that moment.
Roosevelt's voice, in his mind, provided him with the most powerful summary.
"They want to demolish more than just an old house!"
"What they want to tear down is the memory accumulated by generations of this community, the mutual support we built up during difficult times, and our last vestige of dignity as workers!"
"They want to bury the history of us Pittsburgh steelworkers completely with cold steel and concrete!"
The speech has ended.
The entire hall was silent for a few seconds.
Then, applause erupted like a tidal wave.
It wasn't just polite applause; it was heartfelt, enthusiastic, and hopeful applause.
Grandma Margaret Davis walked through the crowd and stood before Leo.
She looked into Leo's eyes, and his gaze had changed from initial suspicion and wariness to trust and expectation.
She held Leo's hand tightly.
"Kids, we're all old bones. All we know is how to shout slogans. We don't know how to deal with those people in suits."
"We need a leader who understands the law and knows how to communicate effectively. Would you be willing to help us?"
Without waiting for Leo's reply, she took an envelope out of her pocket and stuffed it into Leo's hand.
"We've pooled together some money, it's not much, but it's all we have. We'd like to formally hire you as our legal counsel for this protest."
"This is your first payment."
Leo looked down and saw that inside the somewhat worn envelope were dozens of loose one-dollar, five-dollar, and ten-dollar bills.