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Chapter 11: The First Job That Isn’t About Money
Leo shut off his computer and stood up.
The hunger was still there, but it had been overshadowed by something far stronger.
It was a sense of clear purpose.
He stepped out of his apartment building and headed toward the community center slated for auction.
The streets looked exactly as they had moments before—decayed, desolate, and forsaken.
But now, in his eyes, these were no longer immutable realities. They were battlegrounds waiting to be conquered.
He stopped at the entrance of the Steelworkers Community Center.
It was a three-story red-brick structure, rugged and devoid of unnecessary ornamentation, much like the steelworkers who had built it.
On the facade, the metal emblem of the Steelworkers Union was still visible, rusted but unmistakable—a clenched fist gripping a hammer, radiating strength despite its corrosion.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The walls of the lobby were adorned with black-and-white photographs.
They depicted Pittsburgh’s golden age of steel: workers standing before roaring blast furnaces, union-organized marches, and community picnics filled with laughter.
These images spoke of a history long forgotten.
The hall was quiet except for the distant giggles of children from one room and intermittent typing sounds from another.
An elderly woman with silver hair sat behind the reception desk, sorting through piles of paperwork. She wore reading glasses and a faded sweater, her expression focused.
When she noticed Leo enter, she looked up, scrutinizing him carefully.
“Can I help you, young man?”
“My name is Leo Wallace,” he began. “I saw the announcement on the city government website about this place being auctioned.”
The woman’s gaze immediately turned wary.
“Are you a journalist?”
“No.”
“Sent by the city government?”
“No.”
“Then who are you? A real estate speculator looking to make a quick buck?” Her tone sharpened.
“None of the above,” Leo replied. “I live in this community. I just wanted to come by, learn what’s going on, and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Margaret Davis squinted, studying him intently, trying to discern the truth in his words.
“My name is Margaret Davis,” she said finally. “I’m in charge here. There’s nothing you can do unless you can magically produce fifty thousand dollars’ worth of back property taxes by next week.”
With that, she returned her attention to her papers, clearly signaling the end of their conversation.
“Don’t rush to say what you can do,” Roosevelt’s voice echoed in his mind. “Remember what I told you—first, listen. Hear their stories, feel their anger, their helplessness.”
Leo didn’t leave.
Instead, he sat down on a worn-out sofa in the lobby.
Margaret ignored him.
After a while, several elderly people around Margaret’s age emerged from an activity room. Their hands were full of knitted sweaters and handmade crafts, evidence of a senior group meeting just concluded.
Seeing Leo, a stranger, they cast curious glances his way.
One tall, broad-shouldered man approached him.
“Whose kid are you?” he asked, his hands calloused and scarred—the permanent marks left by years in the steel mills.
“My name is Leo Wallace,” Leo stood up. “My father used to work at the Homestead plant.”
At the mention of “Homestead,” the elders’ expressions softened instantly.
“I’m George,” the tall man introduced himself. “What brings you here?”
“I saw the auction notice,” Leo repeated.
George sighed deeply, the lines on his face deepening further.
“Yes, they want to take away the last bit of space we have left.”
“They?”
“The mayor and his rich friends,” another elder chimed in. “They’ve had their eyes on this land for years. To them, we’re just poor folks cluttering up the neighborhood.”
And so, Leo began talking with these elders.
He spent the entire afternoon sitting on that worn sofa, listening.
He listened as George recounted how the community center had provided free computer training after he lost his job, teaching him how to use the internet and video chat with his grandchildren living out of state.
He heard Rosa, an elderly woman, describe how the center’s daytime care services helped her overcome loneliness after her husband passed away, allowing her to find new friends.
He listened to Mike, a retired electrician, explain how he came here every week to repair appliances for the community’s seniors for free because it made him feel useful again.
Each of them regarded this place as home.
They shared what the center meant to them, voiced their fears about the future, and expressed their anger toward the city government and the real estate company.
Leo didn’t interrupt or offer suggestions. He simply listened, committing every story, every detail, to memory.
As night fell, the lights in the community center’s hall flickered on.
More residents began arriving from all directions.
Most were elderly individuals like George and Rosa—the forgotten half of the city.
Tonight, they were holding a rally to prepare for an upcoming protest.
Margaret Davis stood in the middle of the hall, addressing the gathered crowd of several dozen residents through a megaphone.
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried strength and determination.
She informed everyone that they had contacted local TV stations and planned a peaceful demonstration in front of City Hall before the auction began the following week.
She encouraged them not to give up, urging them to fight for their home until the very last moment.
The atmosphere of the meeting was heavy. Though angry, most felt powerless.
They understood that against the city government and a powerful real estate company, their efforts seemed futile—like an ant trying to stop a chariot.
At the end of the meeting, Margaret spotted Leo still seated in the corner.
Hesitating briefly, she raised the megaphone and addressed him.
“Young man, you’ve been listening all afternoon. Do you have anything to say to everyone?”
All eyes turned to Leo.
His heart began racing.
This was his first time addressing a live audience—not hiding behind a screen or keyboard.
He stood, feeling his legs wobble slightly.
“Relax, child,” Roosevelt’s voice sounded 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 fight isn’t hopeless.”
Leo took a deep breath and walked to the center of the hall.
He didn’t pick up the megaphone.
Clearing his throat, he began his first speech.
“Good evening, everyone. My name is Leo Wallace.”
“This afternoon, I sat here and listened to Mr. George’s story, Ms. Rosa’s story, and Mr. Mike’s story.”
He recounted the stories he’d heard earlier—computer training, daytime care, free appliance repairs—all in the simplest language possible.
The residents listened quietly. Their expressions shifted from initial curiosity to recognition and resonance.
Because what Leo described was their own lives.
“These stories tell me one thing,” Leo continued. “This place is a home—a home we built ourselves after the steel mills closed down.”
“But now, someone wants to tear our home down. They say it’s because we owe taxes.”
His tone sharpened.
“As someone who studies history and law, I spent this afternoon reviewing relevant municipal regulations. Our community center, as a nonprofit organization, is fully eligible for property tax relief. So why has Mayor Cartwright’s office repeatedly rejected Ms. Margaret’s application?”
“I also discovered that Summit Development Group, the company planning to buy this land, is one of Mayor Cartwright’s biggest campaign donors. Why does this auction have only one bidder? Does that comply with the principles of fair public bidding?”
His questions stunned the crowd.
They knew they were angry but had never considered the possibility of illegal operations behind the scenes.
At that moment, Leo’s voice rose passionately.
Roosevelt’s voice provided the strongest closing line in his mind.
“They don’t just want to demolish an old building!”
“They want to destroy the memories accumulated over generations in this community, the mutual aid we built during hard times, and the last shred of dignity we have as workers!”
“They want to bury the history of Pittsburgh’s steelworkers under cold steel and concrete!”
The speech ended.
For a few seconds, the entire hall fell silent.
Then applause erupted like a tidal wave.
It wasn’t polite clapping—it was heartfelt, enthusiastic, and brimming with hope.
Margaret Davis pushed through the crowd and approached Leo.
Looking into his eyes, her gaze had transformed from suspicion and caution to trust and expectation.
She firmly shook his hand.
“Son, we’re just old bones. All we know how to do is shout slogans. We don’t know how to deal with those men in suits.”
“We need someone who understands the law, someone who knows how to speak. Will you lead us?”
Without waiting for an answer, she pulled an envelope from her pocket and pressed it into Leo’s hand.
“We pooled together some money. It’s not much, but it’s all we could scrape together. We want to formally hire you as our legal advisor for this protest.”
“This is your first payment.”
Leo looked down at the slightly worn envelope. Inside were scattered bills—ones, fives, tens—a modest yet profound token of trust.
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