8 posts tagged with "Lu Xun style"

Wang Er from the street corner is dead.

The old library in the east end of the city had seen some years. Its dusty grey brick walls and tall windows exuded a quietness, but also a stubborn sense of being out of step with the times. Most people who came here were familiar faces: retired old gentlemen and ladies seeking a quiet spot to read the newspaper; students preparing for exams, hunkered down all day; and idlers like me, with nowhere else to go, who came here pretending to still be seeking knowledge, but really just killing time, staring blankly at the old locust tree outside the window.

Section Chief Wang had grown somewhat gaunt lately, his eyes sunken, as if something were gnawing at his spirit day and night. Those familiar with him merely assumed he was "busy with official duties, toiling for the nation." When occasional inquiries about his well-being were made, he would just wave a hand, revealing a smile that was both bitter and seemingly profound. No one knew that what truly robbed him of sleep and appetite wasn't the mountain of files piled on his office desk, but a silent, crouching "beast" in the basement of his old apartment building.

I stare at this outdated gadget in my hand, its screen edges curving elegantly downwards, like the hem of a shy girl's skirt, or perhaps less flatteringly, like chronically malnourished ribs. Once upon a time, this curve was touted as a rainbow bridge to the future, the ultimate embodiment of technological aesthetics. Salesgirls, spitting effusively, claimed this arc held the universe's mysteries, allowing you to feel the pinnacle of ergonomic care in your grip, as if this phone wasn't for scrolling short videos and checking food delivery reviews, but for direct calls to God. I must admit, I believed it back then. Or rather, I wanted to believe. People have to believe in something, even if it's just a curved piece of glass. Just like when I was young, I believed love could last forever, only to discover it was even less resilient than this piece of glass.

In the Beijing summer, under the vicious sun, the asphalt roads softened, making you worry about peeling off a layer of tar with your soles. Even on a day like this, in a nook near Xizhimen, a small lunchbox stall always stood its ground, unwavering.

Let me tell you, that day was hot like a giant, clammy hug. The air was thick enough to paste up your throat. Fatty and I were walking down the road to the border, feeling like two slabs of melting butter. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst was, we were covered in "things". Not pimples, not tumors, but live, hard-shelled, still-wriggling turtles. Twenty-eight in total, no more, no less, strapped tightly to our bare chests and backs with wide tape and strips of ragged cloth. Fourteen on me, fourteen on him, like some kind of bizarre, symmetrical torture.

Old Ma felt quite content. A man in his fifties, finding a gig at a respectable place like 'Sam's Club', handing out small pieces of freshly grilled steak or tiny cups of new-squeezed orange juice to the 'members' coming and going, wearing just the right amount of warmth on his face—this job, compared to pedaling a tricycle at the alley entrance or hauling sandbags at a construction site, was worlds apart. He mulled it over himself: 'food sampler', what a novel title!

Wang Er got himself a new phone, shiny like a spring roll wrapper just fished out of a wok. But that wasn't important. What mattered was the app inside called "Omniscient and Omnipotent Life Assistant." The name sounded like an ancient emperor's title, exuding an air of undeniable authority. Wang Er liked that kind of thing. He felt life should have a bit of that "who else but me" swagger.

This app really had something. In the morning, it would remind Wang Er to get up like a gentle female secretary, casually telling him the weather and which route had the least traffic—even though Wang Er rode a rickety old bicycle where everything rattled except the bell. It could also, based on Wang Er's search history for "how to make braised pork less greasy" the previous night, push him a coupon for the highest-rated deli nearby, adding a note: "According to your health data, your recommended fat intake for the week has reached its limit, but occasional indulgence is good for mental well-being!" Wang Er felt this app understood him even better than his own mother, especially the "occasional indulgence" part—that really hit home.