Hades' Melody. JD Belcher
chance to leave the office.
The manager of Technical Services was a petite, elderly white woman named Donna, who had the responsibility of managing the other members of the team—Rich, Justin, Steve, Darrack, Bob, Mike, and myself.
Donna would buy bagels and cream cheese for us to eat before morning meetings, and during the day, she allowed us to listen to Howard Stern on the radio. Every day, we were given rush requests from the engineers and architects via Donna on small blue sheets we called blue slips. One of the guys would take a request, which usually entailed a large drawing project on AutoCAD, a smaller revision or an amendment to an existing plan.
After the corrections were made, they were sent back to Donna for review and then finally sent to me to make blueprints and then often a delivery.
All the members of Technical Services were white, so I was the singular standout. My olive skin and dark hair separated me from the rest, especially during conversations when praise was given to Bob’s Irish herit-age, Rich’s Slavic background, or Steve’s home-cooked Italian dinners. I had never claimed relation to another country; the only accurate thing I truly knew about my family was that I was a pure, native American mutt.
Nevertheless, we were a tight knit group, set apart from the rest of Facilities Management. I thought we all got along well. One of my favorite things to do while at work, of course, was to take smoke breaks. There were usually three: 10:00 a.m., noon, and once in the afternoon before the 4:30 p.m. leaving time. I’d ride the elevator down from our third-floor office to the first floor, go out the front doors to the parking lot on the side of the building, and face Forbes Avenue. Sometimes, Rich or Justin would meet me there, and we’d talk office politics, observe which employee drove what car, or watch the college girls pass by on warm days. Smoke breaks offered a change from the hustle and bustle of meeting deadlines and was an accepted behavior at the office.
Not many people smoked at the Eureka Building, and no one seemed to care about us as long as we were outside.
All of us in Technical Services had desks and computers, and when we didn’t have work to do—or even sometimes when we did—we wasted time by surfing the Internet. We subtly competed for the coolest screen-savers and offered each other suggestions on the most interesting websites to visit. Some kept in touch with friends and family by email or chatting. I spent a lot of my downtime sending and receiving messages, reading the news, particularly about the recent turmoil in the Middle East, taking quick peeks at Internet porn and fantasizing about the possibility of a Y2K meltdown.
Every now and then, the chancellor would call for a special order. She’d make a personal appearance to the office, and the place would immediately fall silent.
We’d quickly drop everything we were doing to accomplish whatever task she needed done. She was the queen of the department, the “big joker” in the Facilities Management deck of cards. Her orders trumped all other requests. Once, I had to stop a project I was working on just to warm up her car.
The guys often complained about the on-the-job hu-miliation and degradation we sometimes faced, bitched about their salaries, and whispered about the difficulties of working for a woman. Even Donna, who, by nature, offered much-appreciated motherly qualities, would oftentimes put on the attire of her authority and play the role of an evil stepmother. She checked and double-checked our work with Gestapo-like precision.
Whenever she called off, the day took on more of a noticeably relaxed atmosphere.
After Donna’s husband died, I watched the office slowly fall apart. She had used vacation time to take more than two weeks off before finally announcing her resignation. The aroma of change filled the air, and in the buzz of anticipation, we all discussed what might happen to Technical Services once she was gone. Some said Mike, the assistant manager and computer whiz, would take Donna’s place. Others disagreed, citing his lack of professionalism. It was even rumored that one of the engineers or architects could possibly take over her responsibilities as manager. When the upper echelons of Facilities Management announced an outsider to the position, for reasons I didn’t understand, one by one, the team slowly began to disappear. Bob was the first to leave. Then Justin moved out West. Darrack took another job. Steve was next to go. Before long, the only people left were Rich, Mike, and I. With no manager, all the requests came to Mike, and when Mike wasn’t around, they came to me.
Because of the heavy workload and lack of person-nel, it wasn’t long before Mike was authorized to hire a couple of draftsmen prior to the new manager’s arrival.
Two new additions were quickly signed on, and once they became amalgamated to the office system, Rich finally pursued other employment. Mike and I were the only remnant of the glory years of that team. Then, it was my time to go.
CHAPTER FOUR
I never had a clear understanding of my relationship to the church. During my early years, my mother’s side of the family had passed down all the spirituality—from my great grandmother and probably whoever preceded her, to my grandmother, to my mother, and finally, to me and my brothers. I can remember listening to cassette tapes of Kenneth Copeland, Billy Graham, and Jimmy Swaggart for hours on end while riding in the backseat of the car as my mother drove around Monroeville running errands, and especially during the six-hour summer trips through Ohio from Pittsburgh on the way to Fort Wayne, Indiana to visit relatives. My mother had gone through a phase where nothing was holy. It was a time when my brothers and I were forced to watch Christian cartoons like Superbook and The Flying House. It was a time when we had to be in bed before dusk, a time when all my He-Man figures were thrown in the trash because they looked too demonic.
On the Sabbath, she dropped us off at Sunday school in an Assembly of God Church, and as I grew into my preteens, I’d attend Episcopal services with Brian and his family, something I always looked forward to doing.
The dry drones of the priest, the pungent incense that filled the sanctuary, and the real wine even us children got to drink during communion still couldn’t top the free cookies and hot chocolate that was provided during the meet and greet following the service. Then finally one summer at the age of twelve, I made my confession of faith in Jesus Christ before an entire congregation at my aunt Cheryl’s Pentecostal Church in Fort Wayne, publicly accepting him as my Savior.
God had always been an important part of my life—despite periods of prodigal living—and even more so as I grew into young adulthood. For the most part, I made it a habit to pray, read, and study the Bible on a regular basis. Even while working for Facilities Management, when I wasn’t surfing the net, I often read the Through the Bible website created by a preacher named Les Feldick. He talked about Christ not only as the Son of God and Savior of mankind, but also as the prophesied Messiah of Israel. His teaching opened a new interest in scripture I never had until reading his books. He took verses from the Old and New Testaments and put them together like pieces of a puzzle, giving a big picture of what the Bible was really talking about.
When my mother became a member of The Covenant Church of Pittsburgh (CCOP), a ministry situated on Wood Street in the borough of Wilkinsburg, just outside the city limits, I’d go with her to its festive Sunday services known throughout the city for their praise and worship. I loved to sing at the top of my lungs and clap my hands to their charismatic music in my favorite place—just above the sanctuary in the balcony. It was at that church where my true test of faith had been birthed, when I became involved in a vibrantly flourishing mentoring program called Brothers Keepers (also known as BK for short) under the leadership of a black man named Brother Leon Haynes.
Brother Leon had all the outward characteristics of a person with power. He was six feet tall and his youthful, mahogany brown skin made him look younger than his forty-plus years. His broad shoulders remained as tokens of his athletic past as a basketball player, and he rarely was seen in anything less than a tailored suit. He had the demeanor of a suave businessman or politician—he always seemed to be shaking hands and kissing babies.
I sensed an air of royalty about him, like he was a king with hidden treasure; in his spoil was Brothers