The delivery from the mailman was a bundle of bad news. There were two rejection letters from prospective employers. One letter read they (the employer), regrets that I was not a qualified candidate to head a marketing department for a local hospital. The other letter stated I was overqualified to write print copy, for a catalog company. My former employment position was as an account executive for an advertising company. Since the company's downsizing six months ago, I haven't been able to find any work.

Another letter in my bundle for the day came from the unemployment office notifying me that my next compensation check will be my last. Though the compensation amount was but fifty-five percent of my regular take home pay, it was a welcome every two weeks. Now it is gone. The last bit of mail was from the counterpart of the unemployment office, being the employment office. In order to receive compensation, one has to register with the employment office to show that they are actively seeking work. For the first time in the six months of having to go in and show proof of applying for at least one job each week, I received a job referral for a part time job.

I looked at my savings account balance. It was an impressive balance when I was employed. By my expense budget calculations I would exhaust my savings in five months. This depressed me as I sat at my desk staring at the pile of shit mail I had just gone through. I probably would have sunk to an even lower state of mind if it had not been for the phone ringing. It was my long time friend Ramal.

"What'sup Ramal?"

"You're invited to a party,"

"Who's giving it?"

"DWB. Don't worry 'bout it. Bring a date."

"What do I wear?"

"Look sharp. EM style. I'll pick you up at seven, Saturday."

Ramal disconnected the call with those words. He and I have been friends for years, and have been through a lot together. The latest setback came when LCAA, downsized and we became victims. The L.C. Arts and Advertising agency is one of a few advertising agencies owned and operated by blacks in the country. The local office in Odelot, Ohio suffered the largest number of employees affected by the downsizing. The local office now operates with a minimal staff.

I was an account executive at LCAA. Ramal was a graphics design engineer. We made an impressive team, but that didn't stop us from moving to the unemployment line. When company politics became obvious and we saw the white account executives striving, it became apparent the company had a color preference -- money green. Ramal and I became expendable, along with a few other blacks. While collecting unemployment, I returned to my personal interest of freelance writing.

The drive to the party was in Detroit, an hours ride from Odelot, Ohio. It was a long ride, for personal reasons. My choice for a date was Courtney Knowing, the white, executive secretary for the local Branch Manager of LCAA. She and I have maintained contact over occasional lunches and phone calls. I like Courtney platonically, for helping me when I started working for the agency. Whenever I needed some inside information, Courtney was in the know. She encouraged me to read the Wall Street Journal and Ad Age an advertising trade magazine, in order to broaden my business sense.

Ramal didn't have a problem with Courtney's ethnicity, but his date Melanie did. Melanie chose to remain silent during the entire ride, despite the conversation going on around her. Finally arriving in Detroit we drove through a neighborhood with houses that got bigger and bigger as we drove along. Ramal said we were in the subdivision called Palmer Woods. The value of the houses in the subdivision ranged from five hundred thousand dollars and up.

The house we approached appeared to be worth millions. It was lined with luxury cars in front and along the street. Ramal's 560SEC blended in perfectly. A maid wearing a French uniform, with the petite white apron about her waist greeted us at the door. She escorted us to a room I could only describe as being a small ballroom.

In the room were fifty to seventy-five people mingling. There were a number of interracial couples, all white women paired with black men. It was the latter that caused me to hold my breath instead of letting out a sigh of relief. When I queried Ramal about the occasion that brought us to the party, he remained stoic. Ramal had downed a few drinks and hors d'oeuvres before he approached me to follow him into the study where several other men had gone.

"Ramal, I'm letting you know now; I do not do kinky and I don't mess with drugs."

"Sounds like a 'PP', personal problem to me. This is business."

The door was closed and locked behind us by a man who remained silent. I was one of eight black men, varying only in our hues, hair and how well we were dressed. An odd pairing took place after we refreshed our drinks. At the bar I tightened my B&B neatly in the oversized sifter and took a stand near Ramal. We all politely waited for an invitation to sit. A nondescript man took a stand at center stage in front of the fireplace.

"Please, have a seat gentlemen," he said. "This is called a golf course meeting."

I was familiar with the reference. It is referred to as a professional protocol that will never be documented or openly discussed. A golf course meeting is where the majority group makes the majority of business decisions, ranging from personal loans, promotions, raises, merges and takeovers. And they usually take place on the greens of a golf course. When a formal meeting is held at the office or in the boardroom, the roles are then simply played. As well rehearsed as we think we are to present our sides of any issue, our actions are considered impromptu by the decision-makers.

"For you gentlemen to be here is a compliment to your talents and integrity. Either by your invitation or whomever selected you, you are also regarded as being trustworthy and should be commended," the speaker said.

I glanced at Ramal, but he didn't look my way. Nonetheless, I appreciated the speaker's words. Then thought for what? I still had no idea why I was at this meeting.

"Gentlemen, we are on the seventeenth hole. This gathering is the tee off. A great undertaking has been made up to this point. It is a dream and vision of one man, but brought about by many devoted supporters and truly gifted individuals. Now it is your turn to contribute to making this dream come true."

The speaker nodded and the silent man in the room moved per his cue. I was expecting any moment to be handed a brochure on some get rich pyramid scheme. The man moved to the back of the room, and the speaker picked up a remote from the mantel and pushed a button. A movie screen lowered from the ceiling. A projection light with a picture came from the back.

There it was. A picture appeared of the most magnificent automobile I have ever seen. I kept trying to compare it with something I had seen before, but couldn't come up with an equal match. The sketch was of a luxurious, sleek, smooth and polished automobile. I was not alone in my appreciation and amazement of the vehicle's design. The other men were gasping and remarking of the car's splendor.

"Well gentlemen, maybe this will be too easy of an assignment. What you see before you is the first car designed by an African American man for African American people." His words brought about a round of applause. "It is your jobs to name and create the marketing pitch for this vehicle. You have two weeks."

On cue, the silent man handed out three large envelopes. I received it for Ramal and me. We were instructed not to open them until we were in the sanctity of our homes, not our offices. That would be no problem for Ramal or me. I looked closely at our competition, and recognized one man from an LCAA newsletter as once being the Top AE of the Year. I imagine the other guys were the top men from their respected ad firms. Now I knew why Ramal and I were there.

There existed one major problem. When the other two groups returned, they would have the affiliated support of their respective agencies and departments, along with staff and equipment. Ramal and I were on our own. I made a mental note to suggest to Ramal the name for our pseudo company to be "O Squared," representing On Our Own.

The group of men rejoined the other guests in the ballroom who were dancing to the live music supplied by a small jazz quartet. Ramal didn't utter a word. Courtney made the inquiry.

"So where did you guys disappear to?"

"Bathroom."

"Both of you?"

"If women can go together, why can't men?"

"Whatever . . . let's dance." We engaged in a slow groove. While asking a question Courtney informed me as to whom the host of the party was. "So how do you and Ramal know the vice-president of marketing and advertising of General Motors?"

"Who?"

"I see you haven't been keeping up on your reading since you left. Lamar Warrington was appointed to vice-president of marketing and advertising right after Theodore Prescott became the first black president of GM."

I remembered the media blitz when Prescott's appointment was announced. He was the first black to head one of the big three automakers. In fact, I wrote an editorial about his hiring. It was titled "First and Last." I wrote about the way the word "first" still preempts titles held by blacks to this day. The editorial also addressed the way the word could be synonymous with "last" for blacks to follow in another's shoes.

Theodore Prescott had a Ph.D. in Engineering, but made his mark in the automotive industry by owning and operating a top rated luxury car dealership. He said the late Bob Ross, the first African American to own a Mercedes dealer, had paved the road. Prescott may have viewed selling cars easier than building them. GM had fallen to number three among the big three, and was losing ground to a few importers. Prescott was brought in to turn the slump in sales around.

Controversy erupted over Prescott's appointment among board members. He was approved by a slim margin. Most newspapers were critical of his appointment, while the black presses were supportive.

Prescott's first press interview may have set the tone for his new and challenging career. "Upon accepting the position of CEO of General Motors, I do so not only as a man, but as an African American man. As responsive as I will be to the board of directors and to the stock holders, I will also be to the African American people," he said in an acceptance speech.

There is where lines and divisions became drawn. GM's stocks took a nosedive the next day, nearing record lows. Auto sales remained moderate. It wasn't until Prescott directed a plan to make financing more obtainable for minorities, did sales show an increase. It was the leak to the press from an unknown source of an email originating from Prescott that brought him under intense scrutiny. The email was said to have been selectively distributed to black engineers at the company. An attachment to the email was from an article written by Calvin Mackie, Ph.D. a Professor of Mechanical Engineering at Tulane University. The article was titled "The African American Engineer in the 21st Century: A Burden, Challenge, and Opportunity." An excerpt of the inspirational article was published to suggestively show its racial slight instead of its motivational intent.

Cautiously, I asked Courtney if she had read about any new developments at General Motors and she had not. That confirmed my suspicion that this project was not publicly known. This prototype was designed without public knowledge. I was honored to be on the seventeenth hole of the project stage. Then I wondered about Ramal. What contacts did he have to get us in on the deal?

The large envelope received at the meeting contained several images of the car and a list of standard features and accessories that included CoachÔ leather interior, with heated seats, sunroof, on board digital cellular phone, AM/FM stereo, tape deck with six-disk CD changer and Bose™ speakers.

There was a smaller envelope within the big one, which contained $1,500 in cash. When I showed Ramal, he simply wanted his half.

"What do you think about all this Ramal?"

"Black people are finally getting a chance to make a difference in this country, by making our own choices and decisions. That's why it's important we support one another."

"What about the advance money?" I questioned.

"I might have mentioned the need for some up front money to cover administrative costs."

"Oh did you? And just how did you get us in on this?"

"DWB."

"Why did you choose me to be your partner?"

"Because you don't have a job."

And with that answer, Ramal and I began to work on the campaign. The administrative costs Ramal "might have mentioned," would amount to time only. Ramal had invested in his art and craft by purchasing the state of the art computer, scanner and color laser printer equipment for his home use. We would be literally doing everything in-house. So the money kept me from dipping into my savings. Still, there was the matter of securing the ad campaign.

"Any ideas?" I posed to Ramal.

"You're the idea man. I draw the pictures. But, if you want my input, we should compose a campaign around this being the first of its kind, by God's first people, Africans . . . for his first people, African Americans."

"No. I'm sick and tired of everything we do as African American's focused as being the first. This isn't the first car ever designed and I'm sure it's not the first one designed by someone black."

"I think you are taking this too seriously."

"We should design a campaign around the fact that this is a new and innovative car design and idea. It's bringing new life to the industry. We also need a visual image that blacks can identify with.

"How about an ankh? You know the African symbol for life. It could be the hood ornament."

"I like it. 'Bringing life to the road.'"

Ramal went to work digitally designing an ankh on his computer. I started on some concept ideas. We had finished in three days time.

In two weeks Ramal called me with an invitation to return to the home of Lamar Warrington. The same maid greeted us at the front door. This time she took us to the study. The other two teams had already arrived. Ramal placed our presentation on the supplied easel. Each agency was given a half-hour to pitch. At the end, we were told that we would be contacted once a decision was made. I could not figure whether Warrington was the go between for Prescott or the man in charge.

O3	The Faulkner Group	L.C.A.A.
Elan	Urbane	Ultimate 1
	Bringing New Life to the Road!	The Only Way to Arrive.	It's not just another ride; it's the Ultimate One.

Two months had passed. I made a substantial dip into my savings. Instead of rejection letters from potential employers, I was receiving nothing. That applied to Lamar Warrington as well. No news is good news they say. I tuned in the morning news to catch up on the night's event.

"Repeating our top story . . . Theodore Prescott, the first African American CEO of GM was admitted to Harper Hospital in Detroit late last night suffering from chest pains. Mr. Prescott was attending a benefits dinner and was rushed to the hospital, where he remains in critical condition."

I called Ramal and told him we were going for a ride. We were on our way in about an hour. We were quiet at first. It was like hearing the news of another black leader fallen prey to assassination or scandal. I broke the deafening silence in the car.

"He was doing too much too soon. He had the top job. All he had to do was sit back and get paid, live large and easy." It was about two minutes before Ramal commented.

"Who do you think lives better and who sleeps better, the house slave or the field slave?"

"Of course the house slave lives better."

"Right."

"So."

"The field slave works hard all day, sweating, carrying a heavy burden. At night he's exhausted and he sleeps better. A house slave might not work as hard, but they are under close watch by the master and may have to sleep with one eye open to feel safe."

"And?"

"Prescott is a slave in a corporate house."

Enough said. Ramal didn't say much, but when he spoke it was worth the few words. Responsibility at the top can be more work and pressure than producing on the assembly line in a plant. Break through the well-known glass ceiling and you are bound to get cut.

We arrived at the hospital around 10:00 am. Ramal and I found the waiting room where the Prescott family and friends had gathered. There was a large group of people crowding in and about the room. It was apparent that this man had the love and respect of many people. I felt the same for him and we had never met. There was a lone white man in the room who I recognized as being the General Motors' chairman of the board. Lamar Warrington was among the group. He appeared to be comforting Mrs. Prescott. I offered my well wishes to her. A Reverend Lowdown began a prayer for Theodore Prescott.

"Lord God our Father, we come to you and ask for Thy healing hand to lay on your servant Theodore Prescott. Father we know you have placed a heavy burden on this man, just as you did Simon of Cyrene, a black man, who carried the cross for your son Jesus Christ. Like Simon, Theodore has accepted the burden and will carry it through. While carrying the cross, you washed Simon in the blood of Jesus. Dear Lord we ask that you wash Theodore in the same blood of grace and mercy and bring him back to us whole. Amen."

After the unison amen from those gathered, Mrs. Prescott began to cry again. A crying small boy who was Prescott's grandson looked up to his mother.

"Is grand daddy going to be alright? He said he was going to build me a car."

His mother grabbed and pulled the child to her. The room was quiet except for sobs and sniffles. The board president who had been mute up to this point, walked over to Warrington and I. With tear-filled eyes and red nose, he gave his nod.

"Warrington, that project Teddy was working on, make it happen." Then he left the room.

Theodore Prescott was discharged from the hospital in six weeks on a healthy road to recovery. While he was taking his personal journey ride, his brainchild of an idea was about to hit a road of a different kind. This one was paved with the innovative history of Africans, the sweat of African-Americans and the tears of a child. The automobile, which was shown on a projection screen four months ago, was now on the assembly line. O3 was awarded the advertising campaign. More importantly, Ramal and I became gainfully employed as product marketing manager and marketing communications specialist respectfully, for GM. A successful marketing campaign of media kits and press releases went out to announce "Elan 'Bringing New Life to the Road'," a full line of affordable luxury cars. Millions of the automobiles were sold on the buying power of African-Americans.