HPDBC Chapter 8 Lend Me Your Hands and Feet
Chapter 8 Lend Me Your Hands and Feet
When Roosevelt's voice uttered those words in Leo's mind, all the grand plans, all the historical images, and all the impassioned declarations vanished in an instant.
Leo's consciousness plummeted from that epic future war against the entire American ruling class, crashing back into his own weary, real body.
He looked down at his hands.
Those were hands that were slightly thin due to long-term malnutrition and lack of exercise.
His knuckles protrude, his skin is pale, and his wrists are so thin they look like they could break at any moment.
These hands are most adept at typing out angry words on a keyboard, or carrying plates in a coffee shop.
This is by no means a hand capable of shaking the world.
His gaze then fell on his feet.
Those Converse sneakers he had worn for three whole years, the edges of which were worn and cracked.
The shoelaces were filthy, and the rubber soles were almost worn down.
These shoes couldn't even support him for a short distance on his way to find his next minimum-paying job.
"Me?"
A dry, self-deprecating laugh came from Leo's throat, sounding particularly jarring in the quiet library.
"Mr. President, you saw it. The last scene of the movie is me. A loser who can barely afford rent and can't even find a job. A keyboard warrior who gets banned by the entire system for typing a few lines on the internet."
He stretched out his powerless hands, facing the empty space ahead.
"How could I possibly do all that?"
This is reality.
A grand revolutionary blueprint must ultimately be implemented by a specific person.
And this person, at this moment, has nothing.
The voice in my mind fell silent for a moment.
When Roosevelt spoke again, the authority, anger, and determination in his voice had vanished, replaced by a gentle strength.
The voice seemed to transcend time and space, returning to the moment when he sat in front of the fireplace in the White House, delivering a "fireside chat" to the nation via radio waves.
"No, child, you are wrong. What you see is only who you are now."
"What I see is your future self."
Roosevelt's voice carried a hint of self-deprecating helplessness: "I possess the most sophisticated political skills in the history of this country. I know how to give inspiring speeches, how to negotiate to undermine opponents, how to divide enemies, and how to unite all allies that can be united... But all of this is now just a restless ghost, a memory trapped in your mind."
"I can't pick up a phone to persuade a swing voter, I can't sign a document to enact a new bill, and I can't even reach out and shake your hand like an ordinary person."
"And you, you have the ability to act." Roosevelt's tone shifted, becoming powerful. "Although you are poor, you are familiar with the rules and tools of the 21st century. You have the same inextinguishable flame in your heart as I do. You have a heart full of anger and ideals, but you don't know how to push open that first door."
At this moment, Roosevelt's voice was full of sincerity as he extended an invitation to Leo.
"Leo Wallace, lend me your hands and feet."
"I, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, will lend you my brain and my experience."
"Let us fight side by side to accomplish a feat that has never been done before, and will surely never be repeated—"
"—In the heart of capitalism, establish a nation that truly belongs to the people."
These words, like a bolt of lightning that swept across the sky, instantly cleaved away all of Leo's inferiority, confusion, fear, and despair.
He is no longer the loser crushed by the system.
He is no longer that isolated and helpless keyboard warrior.
He is no longer the young man crushed by debt.
He is a partner in history.
He was an executor of the revolution.
He was Franklin Roosevelt's chosen hands and feet.
Leo Wallace jumped up from his chair.
His chest heaved violently, and his eyes burned with a light he had never seen before.
He looked around the empty library archives, which were filled with the dust of history.
Then, facing the empty space before him, he solemnly and firmly extended his right hand.
He is having a handshake with a great ghost, an immortal will, a handshake that no one will witness, but that will shake the entire world.
Leo's outstretched right hand hovered in the empty air of the library's archives.
There was no physical touch, but in his mental world, a warm, dry, and strong hand held his hand tightly.
That hand was full of power, as if it could hold the fate of a nation in its palm.
An alliance that transcends life and death was officially established in this silent, unwitting union.
He solemnly withdrew his hand and sat back down in the cold chair.
Just minutes ago, this chair represented his hopeless life; now, it has become a command post about to set sail.
The excitement that had surged through my body like lightning gradually subsided.
After the adrenaline subsided, a cold, hard reality confronted him.
"us……"
He spoke, his voice still a little hoarse, but the confusion and self-deprecation he had shown before were gone.
"How should we begin?"
Yes, how do we begin? Declare war on the entire ruling class? Establish a true people's state?
These goals are too grand, as grand as distant stars—visible, yet we don't know how to begin.
In his mind, Roosevelt's voice chuckled softly.
That laughter was filled with an air of complete confidence, as if he were in control of everything.
"Of course not, we're not going to storm the White House tomorrow, kid," he said in a cheerful tone. "nor are we going to Wall Street to hand out leaflets and recite our Second Bill of Rights to those bankers. That's child's play, not a revolution."
"Remember this, Leo: Rome wasn't built in a day, but equally importantly, it didn't start in the very center of the Roman Forum. It started on the banks of the Tiber, from a few muddy little villages."
"What we need to do is start from the worst places, from those corners forgotten by the whole country, and light the first fire, a fire bright enough for everyone to see."
Roosevelt paused for a moment, then said a place name.
"Let's start here, in Pittsburgh."
"A city completely enveloped in rust and despair, a place filled with unemployed workers, broken families and abandoned factories, a perfect starting point."
Leo was stunned.
Pittsburgh?
"What can Pittsburgh do?" His first reaction was still the traditional methods of protest: "Organize a strike by unemployed steelworkers? Or continue writing articles online to expose local problems?"
"No." Roosevelt flatly rejected his idea. "That's too slow and too weak. Public opinion is like water; it can carry a boat, but it can also capsize it. But until we have our own boat, no matter how large the water is, it has nothing to do with us."
"We need to seize power, even the most insignificant grassroots power. That will be our first leverage, the first platform that will allow us to put all these blueprints into practice."
Leo's heart began to race inexplicably, and he vaguely sensed that a crazy idea was about to emerge.
"Your first target, Leo."
Roosevelt's voice carried an unquestionable authority.
"—Running for the next mayor of Pittsburgh."
"The mayor of Pittsburgh?"
Leo thought he had misheard.
This idea is a million times crazier than the fact that a dead president has taken up residence in his mind.
The mayor? Him? A history dropout in his early twenties burdened with $130,000 in debt, who had just lost his job?
He almost immediately wanted to refute it, to loudly proclaim a hundred impossible reasons.
He had no money, no connections, no political experience, and he didn't even own a decent suit.
But before he could even speak, Roosevelt's voice, brimming with absolute confidence, had already anticipated and answered all his questions.
"Yes, Mayor."
"Don't worry, child."
"From today onwards, your campaign manager is Franklin Delano Roosevelt."
"We...will not lose."