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.
Old Wei stopped the car under a lamppost and turned off the engine. Not to pick up a fare, but to take a breather. Dusk was just settling in, the evening rush hour hadn't fully died down, and the car headlights on the street merged into a dazzling river. He leaned back against the seat, neck tilted up, eyes fixed on the patch of worn-shiny velvet on the car's ceiling. After driving all day, his back felt too stiff to straighten.
At one point, Li Wei's life was carved up by an almost standardized rhythm. Like most of the "digital laborers" busy in the office buildings of big cities in this era, his coordinates were clearly fixed between his commuting route, his cubicle, and that small but "fully equipped" rented apartment. And along this seemingly monotonous line, there were always some tiny, shining nodes offering him brief solace and energy. One of them was buying a bag of Lay's cucumber-flavored potato chips at the convenience store downstairs after work every Friday.
It was a ritual. The crisp "crinkle" sound when tearing open the bag was his trumpet call announcing the end of the work week; the "crunch" sound as his fingers picked up the first thin crisp and brought it to his mouth was a tiny rebellion against the heavy pressure of life. Potato chips, this cheap happiness mass-replicated on industrial assembly lines, for Li Wei, were not just snacks, but more like a stabilizer, a small, precisely predictable happiness in a world full of uncertainty. He could even clearly recall pulling all-nighters to finish papers in college, surviving on bag after bag of Lay's in various flavors. This brand had accompanied him through almost his entire youth and the first few years after entering society, like a silent old friend.
These days, even eating a meal can lead to philosophical reflection.
These days, even sleep has become a luxury.
Can climbing Mount Tai these days really make you a fortune? Have you heard? A 26-year-old guy made over 300,000 yuan in a year by accompanying people climbing Mount Tai. This whole thing feels novel, and also a bit strange.
Li Ersao has been a little annoyed lately.
The spring of 2024 arrived with more clamor than usual. During the Two Sessions, Zhang Kaili's mention of the "35-year-old employment threshold" was like a pebble tossed into a calm lake, creating ripples that eventually converged into a surging wave of public opinion. This is no longer simple entertainment gossip, but a collective eruption of the anxiety of the times.
These days, even "gods" have become cheap. Tell me, what can you buy with 1.88 yuan? Back in the day, maybe you could buy a pack of "Hademen" cigarettes, and smoke your loneliness away. But now, this money can buy you a "god" – an exam "god".
It was in the newspaper, some "exam artifact", with 600,000 units already sold. I rubbed my blurry eyes, thinking I had misread. 600,000! What kind of concept is that? How many children must be desperately relying on this thing, trying to get ahead in the exam hall?
The southern sky was damp, humid like a freshly wrung towel hanging overhead. At the street corner, the old camphor tree, its leaves a dark green, stood silently. Old Zhou, carrying a chipped bamboo basket, ambled to the little shop at the mouth of the alley.
The shop belonged to Wang Saozi and had been open for some years. A faded blue cloth curtain covered half the doorway. When the wind blew, the curtain fluttered limply, revealing the soy sauce bottles, vinegar jars, and a basket of bright yellow eggs arranged inside.