Four in the morning in New York, like an ink-soaked sponge, damp, cold, and heavy. The halos of streetlights diffused in the thin mist, barely outlining a long, winding queue snaking alongside Fifth Avenue. It wasn't a line for relief supplies, nor for some celebrity autograph session, but to snag a "Hummingbird" brand camera from faraway China.
Old Wang, or as the neighbors more familiarly called him, "Master Wang," ran a tiny watch repair shop. It felt like an old-fashioned pocket watch forgotten in the city's breast pocket, its hands lazy, yet stubbornly recording the passage of time. Squeezed between a noisy Mala Tang stall and a clothing store perpetually having a clearance sale, the shop seemed out of place, like an old scholar insisting on writing letters in archaic script.
Liu Wenhai, or Teacher Liu, as he was more accustomed to being called, was counting down silently in his heart. Forty-seven days left. In forty-seven days, he could step down from this lectern he had stood behind for over thirty years, clutching the pension—not hefty, but enough for him to retire to the countryside—and tend to the small vegetable garden he had long planned. Sunshine, soil, and the freedom of doing nothing—for an old teacher earning two thousand yuan a month and renting a cramped room on the city's edge, it was practically a preview of paradise.
Li Wei felt that ever since he and Xiao Fang broke up, his desktop WeChat had turned into a malevolent ghost court, and he was the sole defendant, charged with "attempting to forget."
Old Wang's life after retirement was like a gentle pastoral poem. He tended to flowers and plants every day and played with his granddaughter. His life was uneventful. Until that day, he saw the alluring blueberry advertisement online – "Freshly picked, plump, eight boxes for only XX yuan."
Li Ming felt like a locomotive abandoned by the times. He had once roared through the tunnel of youth, but now he was stuck on the rusty sidetrack of 35.
Old Li was gone, suddenly gone, just because he'd exchanged a few words with his neighbor, young Wang.
Old Wang was forced to kowtow. He didn't want to, being over fifty, his knees as hard as rocks. Kneeling on the cold bluestone was a form of torture. But the entire village, no, the entire county, seemed to be engaged in a large-scale "kowtowing performance art."
The line stretched from the village entrance to the village end, and from the village end extending to the main road of the county town, seemingly endless. People were dressed in their new festive clothes, but their faces carried a strange numbness. Old Wang recognized a few familiar faces; their eyes were empty, as if controlled by some invisible force. The line moved slowly, each step accompanied by a dull "thud," the sound of heads hitting the ground, like some ancient sacrificial ritual.
Old Li looked at the dark, sooty thing in front of him and felt that life was indeed full of black humor. This thing, said to be a seed that had "studied abroad" on a space station, was treated like a treasure by the research institute and even escorted to their village by a special envoy. The task given from above was also very clear: he was to take good care of this "cosmic visitor" and strive to make it bloom and bear fruit on its native soil.
Li Ming felt like his legs were practically part of his electric scooter. Raindrops, like cheap beads from a clearance sale, hammered his helmet, trickled down his neck, and seeped towards his hot, aching back. This city, this steel jungle, always had a way of throwing cold water on you—literally and figuratively—right when you were most exhausted.