The Payslip and the Revolving Lantern

Old Ma, whose proper name was Ma Desheng, felt he'd lived a rather "failed" life. His parents gave him the name for good luck, hoping he'd amount to something. But those characters "Desheng," meaning "victorious," felt somewhat ironic attached to Old Ma. He'd been drifting along for nearly thirty years in a half-dead neighborhood factory in the north of the city. The factory's fortunes were waning year by year. And him? Just a gatekeeper, handling mail on the side, earning a pittance each month – enough to keep him from starving but never full.

This day, the sun beat down fiercely. The asphalt road went soft under the heat, giving off a scorched smell. Old Ma was slumped in the creaky old rattan chair in the gatehouse, fighting off drowsiness, when Ah Qiang, the young guy from the repair shop next door, rushed in like a gust of wind, holding up his phone.

"Uncle Ma! Uncle Ma! Look at this!" Ah Qiang's voice was bright, bursting with fresh excitement, as he shoved the phone screen in front of Old Ma's face.

Old Ma squinted against the glare. He focused and saw some kind of post, its bright red title jarringly conspicuous – "Look at Pang Dong Lai! This payslip will make you cry with envy!" Below was a photo of a censored payslip, but the key numbers were crystal clear: base salary, performance bonus, various allowances... added together, holy cow, it was more than Old Ma earned in a year!

"Pang Dong Lai? What's that?" Old Ma smacked his lips, spitting out the cigarette butt he was chewing, a knot forming in his chest. In his whole life, he hadn't heard of Pang Dong Lai, let alone 'Thin West Go'.

"A supermarket! Their supermarkets have great service, authentic goods, and most importantly, they're incredibly generous to their employees!" Ah Qiang sprayed spittle as he talked. "Look at these numbers, hey! If I could get in there, forget being a gatekeeper, I'd happily clean toilets!"

Old Ma didn't reply, but something nudged him inside. He pushed Ah Qiang's phone away and slumped back into the rattan chair. But those numbers, like a branding iron, were seared into his mind. Pang Dong Lai, Pang Dong Lai... the name itself sounded prosperous. Then he thought about his own situation, guarding this dilapidated factory like a living fossil. He'd had dreams when he was young, thought of opening a small shop, having a wife, kids, a warm home. But reality? Reality was this tiny gatehouse, stuffy in summer, drafty in winter, and the dust that could never be completely swept away.

For the next few days, Old Ma was somewhat distracted. At work, his gaze kept drifting outside, watching people come and go on the street, wondering: Were any of them working at "Pang Dong Lai"? Were they like him, wearing faded old jackets, but with pockets heavy with hope?

He started paying attention to the supermarkets on the street. Before, they all seemed the same – groceries, oil, salt, soy sauce, vinegar, tea. Not anymore. He'd deliberately detour to wander near the entrances of those bright, fancy-looking large supermarkets, secretly observing the employees' attire and complexion. Seeing those young people in uniform, full of vigor, made Old Ma's stomach churn with envy. He even, possessed by some impulse, took an hour-long bus ride one weekend to find the nearest large chain supermarket. It wasn't Pang Dong Lai, but close enough.

The supermarket air conditioning was strong, the lights blindingly bright, and the goods on the shelves were dazzling, piled up like small mountains. Customers pushed carts, browsing leisurely, faces showing comfort and satisfaction. Old Ma wandered around twice, not knowing where to put his hands. He looked at the shelf stockers and cashiers in their clean uniforms, imagining the moment they received their payslips. What kind of security would that feel like? What kind of dignity?

He walked to the fresh produce section, looking at the vibrant fruits and vegetables. The numbers on the price tags made his heart clench. He thought of the refrigerator at home, used for over ten years, its door not even closing properly, its cooling effect like an old ox pulling a broken cart. If... if he had a Pang Dong Lai salary... could he buy a big new fridge for the family? And buy his wife that cashmere sweater she'd been mentioning for so long?

Once this thought sprouted, it grew wildly like weeds. Old Ma started complaining – complaining to the old neighbors who came to see him about the factory being stingy, complaining to his wife about their life having no prospects. His wife was a practical woman, and got annoyed after hearing too much: "Alright, alright, that's them, we live our lives. You keep muttering here, will money fall from the sky?"

Yes, money wouldn't fall from the sky. Old Ma knew this better than anyone. But that payslip, like a ghost, kept hovering before his eyes. Lying in bed at night, tossing and turning, his mind was like a revolving lantern. One moment, Pang Dong Lai's high salary; the next, his own empty wallet. One moment, the supermarket's bright lights; the next, the dim bulb in his gatehouse. One moment, Ah Qiang's excited face; the next, his wife's helpless sigh.

He even started dreaming. He dreamt he was wearing a brand-new uniform, a work badge pinned to his chest, printed with the three large characters 'Ma Desheng'. He was busy in a bright place, not guarding a gate, but seemed to be... right, stocking shelves! Customers politely asked him where items were, and he guided them with a smile. Then, payday came. He received a thick payslip, the numbers on it making his heart bloom with joy! He clutched the money, jogging all the way home, wanting to give his wife a surprise...

"Bang!" A noise startled him awake from the dream. It turned out the window had blown open. Rain had started sometime during the night, and cold wind carrying drizzle gusted in. Old Ma shivered, touched his forehead – covered in cold sweat.

The revolving lantern went out.

He sat up, looking out at the pitch-black night outside, raindrops drumming against the glass. Pang Dong Lai's payslip was like a neon sign in the rainy night – distant, beautiful, tempting, but ultimately, someone else's scenery. His own path still had to be walked, step by step.

The next day, Old Ma sat in the gatehouse as usual. The sun came out, the rain stopped, and the air smelled fresh with earth. Ah Qiang came again, this time complaining that the repair business was slow. Old Ma handed him a cigarette and listened silently.

"Uncle Ma, why is there such a big difference between people?" Ah Qiang asked, blowing smoke rings, a look of confusion on his face.

Old Ma took a deep drag on his cigarette, slowly exhaled. Amidst the swirling smoke, his gaze had calmed considerably. He didn't answer Ah Qiang's question, just patted his shoulder and said slowly: "Life... has to go on. Living life is like this cigarette. You breathe in worry, you breathe it out, and that's that. Just gotta endure, kid."

After speaking, he picked up the large enamel mug from the table, went to the tap, filled it with cool boiled water, and drank it down in big gulps. That payslip still seemed to flicker faintly in some corner of his mind, but it no longer burned like a branding iron. It was more like a mirror, reflecting his desires, and also reflecting the reality he had to face.

This revolving lantern of life, no matter how fast it spins, probably only leaves behind a sigh in the end, and that plain, down-to-earth phrase "Just gotta endure". As for victory or failure, who can really say? Perhaps, being able to recognize oneself amidst the spinning of the revolving lantern already counts as a kind of "victory". Old Ma thought, then picked up the broom again and began sweeping the patch of ground in front of the gatehouse, still damp from the rain. Dust, it could never be completely swept away; and life, it always had to go on.