I’m afraid you’ll forget these stories, the way I’ve forgotten so many of my own—so much that only a hard knock brings back a blur. Let me tell you what happened this year. You may come back to it more than once, check the visitor count, read the comments, answer them one by one, and thank the people who cared. More important, you’ll remember what this year held: the laughter, the sadness, the people to thank and the people to hold close. Whatever you turn into, I think we can still talk by candlelight until the light goes out. I know you—that kind of knowing doesn’t come from swearing brotherhood. All right, no more rambling, or you’ll delete the extra parts.
On New Year’s Day 2012 I stood all night with Shi Jun and Xu Qiuqiu, then got back to Wuhan around noon and sent a mass text to everyone I knew there. I returned to the familiar No. 4 dorm, washed my face, went out to eat, grabbed a milk tea, called Jianjian, and wandered the empty campus. The wind was cold. We sat on the stone bench by the South Building and thought about where to go next.
My return ended Lao Qian’s run as the only one left in the room. We each had a Milestone phone and used CMCC to watch the New Year’s gala, complaining about everything. The next day we took a bus to Jianghan Road, wandered, and spun ridiculous theories that didn’t matter.
One day, scrolling on my phone, I saw Li Chao’s update: ‘Yesterday afternoon I went out to look for a job, walked along, and ended up playing chess with an old man by the road all afternoon.’ I marveled at the talent, called him, and got the usual ‘ge ban ma’ Wuhan greeting—the kind that sounds rude but means affection. I was used to it; over the years I’d picked up a lot of blunt Wuhan talk from him. He could stay in Beijing for years and still not lose it. He’d said he’d come back after National Day and treat me to hot pot, and he was the same as ever—no image to keep up with his own people. We agreed to look for work together the next day.
Early in the morning I went to Qiuchang Street on Jiefang Avenue. I saw him from far away, breath white in the cold, and when we got close there was the usual round of gossip. According to his information, we crossed the road, climbed what felt like several hills, and with Google Maps found the out-of-the-way Changyang Xincheng. Upstairs, it turned out to be a place trying to rope in middle-school kids for tutoring. We used the lunch break to escape to the red bean porridge shop by the Miaoli Road overpass and drank porridge. The afternoon sun was warm, and the two of us just let the time pass. Eventually we felt a little guilty, so in the name of job hunting we went to No. 6 Middle School to look at girls—and accidentally spotted something genuinely edible: Jingwu duck neck. We followed the hiring notice, made a call, and went for an interview the next day. No need to say much: we got in smoothly and started selling Jingwu duck neck in the shop. We stood all day with little business, passing the time before the New Year. In idle moments we called each other and talked nonsense. Happy enough.
One memory stands out: the day before Spring Festival, after work, I took the 575. As it went over the Han River bridge, the sunlight was like thin mist, like gauze, shining on the world, light as a dream. You probably remember. If you don’t, I’ll tell you: it was like the time in Yantai when I came back from an all-nighter with She Hao, and the sunlight a little after ten in the morning looked at the world with the same gaze, full of grace. Both times I felt the urge to write it all down. Both times I got back into a dim room and the inspiration slipped away like a thread. Do you remember those mornings? I’d run several stops and still couldn’t find breakfast. When I finally found a place selling hot dry noodles, I was overjoyed and posted: ‘At this time of year, a bowl of hot dry noodles is enough to make me bow to the emperor’s grace.’ The hardship was all over that line. Then I went home for the New Year. The flowers looked the same year after year, no need to say more, but every year brought new feelings.
Around the eighth day of the New Year, about nine-thirty, Mr. Wu called and said he was coming to Wuhan to look for work. I said, ‘Sure, come on, I’ll pick you up.’ The next day he arrived with big bags and small, far too polite. I was still at Jingwu duck neck, asleep before eleven and up at six-thirty; Mr. Wu played on the computer until after one and then slept. I asked him why. He gave a bitter smile. ‘If you were me, you’d understand. I don’t know what to do with myself every day. I panic.’ Then, before Mr. Wu found work, I lost mine too. Ha. The two of us drifted around—Sanyang Road, Aomen Road, the riverside park—walking all afternoon and talking nonsense. I still remember Mr. Wu saying, ‘If I win the lottery, I’ll take a taxi back to Wuxue.’ All those pointless dreams. ‘Wake up, tomorrow you still have to move bricks’ hadn’t become a popular saying yet; otherwise it would have been the perfect reply.
After three days of unemployment I was bored to death, with no center to my life. I started looking again. Soon a call came: telephone marketing, 3G marketing. I’d run all over Wuhan in my first two years of college, but I’d been to Optics Valley less. It seemed heaven wanted me to learn the whole map of Wuhan, and looking back, that’s exactly what happened. I remember that day—slanting wind and fine rain. I took the 728 to Guanshankou, got off, and after half an hour of back and forth finally found the legendary Chuangye Street. I climbed the stairs and met Yongzhou. We interviewed together, trained two days later, and started work. They called it nine to five. I lived too far. I had to get up at six, leave at six-forty, transfer at Tongluowan to the 728. That’s how I got to know the rice-roll-with-fried-dough-stick seller: two yuan for the roll, a cup of soy milk, the standard. If the bus hadn’t come, we’d chat. Sometimes the bus came suddenly and I left without paying; the owner would wave and say, ‘Tomorrow.’ The 728 was always crowded. I’d get on and climb to the second level, holding breakfast all the way to Guangbutun; only after Zhuodaoquan would a seat open up, and by the time I got off I’d just finished eating.
At six I got off work. Fortunately Guanshan Street was the starting point, so I could take the 521 all the way to the terminal at Hanyangmen. I often slept on the bus. Sometimes I read e-books. That was when I reread Wang Xiaobo’s Golden Age and Silver Age. By the time I got home it was eight. Once in a while I complained: ‘The nine-to-five life has been smeared into an eight-plus-five shape. Hey, look at this little life of mine—interesting! Really interesting!’
If I was in the mood, when transferring at Hanyangmen I’d quietly walk to the river and watch the Yangtze in the dark, then go home without a word, as if nothing had happened, understanding that this was life. I could look at the river every day; others weren’t so lucky.
Once I knew the routes, I started changing lines. As long as I made it in time, it was fine. Unlike the 728, I often got to the office before eight and slowly climbed to the sixteenth floor, still too early. Switching to the 521 opened up a better life. Before getting on I’d buy a bowl of hot dry noodles and a cup of rice wine, eat breakfast on the bus, and throw the trash away when I transferred. The 521 wasn’t in a hurry—starting point to terminal. The only drawback was that it was often rather empty and a bit cold. The 521 passed Zhonghua Road, Yanzhi Street, Xiaodongmen, Zhongnan Road, then turned onto Wuluo Road and Luoyu Road to Guanshan Street. People called it a sightseeing line. At Simenkou there were old streets; at Yanzhi Street there were always many pretty women getting breakfast. Sunlight slipped over new leaves, full of life. Early in the morning, people felt better. The commute was long, but I saw a lot. If work had been closer, I would have slept through it.
I should mention the assault team: the Four Assault Devils—Feige, Yang Jian, Guan Er. We’re all separated now. Maybe one day I should call everyone together for a meal and a few drinks. March reminds me of the buffet on Chuangye Street, the taste I can’t forget, and those murderous days, the days when peach blossoms were everywhere. It’s a pity I didn’t stay until the company anniversary. Oh, I almost forgot: March 12 was a day off. A friend had emphysema, fairly serious, at Zhifang Hospital. Early in the morning I sat at Guqin Terrace and took the four-yuan 905 straight to Zhifang. Spring was bright all along the way, birds and fragrance, and the Culture Avenue was open and wide. Some rapeseed flowers were already out. It really was a place for a spring outing. Later I mentioned a trip to Jiangxia to Supervisor Xiaoxiong a few times, but nothing came of it.
By April, emptiness and loneliness had become a disaster. I went with classmates to Tanghu Park; the scenery was beautiful. After that I was home alone, not working, and my eating was irregular. Fortunately Hao, Xin, Taijun, and Lao Cai—a whole crowd—came to school. Every few days I went back to campus to hang out. It was good. I’d thought I’d said goodbye to campus life in the first semester of my third year, but in April I could still lie on the bed in Room 219 of No. 4 dorm for a while. Empty, idle time always slips away without a trace.
The next few months were all about running around with Liu Xizi. Before Friday even arrived, the phone calls started: ‘What are we doing this weekend?’ Every week one call: let’s go, let’s go. We really did go every week. We went to Haoledi several times and to a bar on the riverside. That’s when I realized a bar wasn’t what I’d imagined—it was just a concentration camp for losers. Nanhu was a weekly must. I miss the wind on the rooftop, cooking a big pot of noodles and peanuts, eating until my stomach was distended and I didn’t dare walk fast. Looking back, it feels good. So many things to remember. Life was rich.
In mid-June, graduation was near, and we thought we should do something. Yan Cheng had long suggested a bike trip. At first we talked about Tibet, but there wasn’t enough time. We changed to Chibi or the Three Gorges, but we only had a weekend or two, so that didn’t work either. Lao Cai said, ‘Let’s drive. I’ll drive.’ I contacted a few places, but the deposit was a problem. Then it was bicycles—a loop around Wuhan. Yan Cheng contacted the owner. I went to look at the bikes—students from Tongji Hospital school. We chatted a bit, and eight bikes were settled. The next day after work I went straight to school to gather people. I was surprised to find Li Chao had come back from Beijing. We said hello; he went home, and we went to Tongji. We got there after five, picked up the bikes, and each pushed two because some people hadn’t arrived. By about seven everyone was there: me, Yan Cheng, Lao Qian, the two Lao Cais, Xizi, Tang IE, and Chen Qiang.
We set out from Tongji, went along Jiefang Avenue to Xibeihu, turned onto Xinhua Road, came back to Zhongshan Avenue, and headed for Jianghan Road. We saw Xiaoxiong, who helped take a group photo. Then we went on into the riverside park. We rode in a straight line, camera mounted on a bike rack to film, everyone suggesting shots. The streetlights receded from near to far, the bikes in a line—it had a certain feel. Does anyone remember that we set off without even deciding the route? We went north along Zhongshan Avenue, got close to Tianxingzhou Bridge, then turned back toward the Second Bridge. The sad part: eight people with various positioning devices still couldn’t find the entrance to the bridge. I lamented, ‘Where’s the Second Bridge we agreed on?’ We circled and circled, finally saw the entrance, and there was a sign: ‘No non-motor vehicles on the bridge.’ Those words meant nothing to a pack of crazy kids. One by one we charged up. We stopped midway to look at the river and feel the cool wind; Wuhan’s night wasn’t so hot anymore. Then came the approach ramp. We didn’t have to pedal, just coasted down, and found the ramp long—more than half an hour and still not off the bridge. Lao Qian came back with news: he’d almost been caught by traffic police trying to get off; we’d go down at the next intersection. At Xudong Street we rested, locked the bikes, and ordered some late-night food. It was already past midnight. Xizi was eating, and I lost my mind for a second and sighed, ‘Jianjian, people are eating, heaven is watching!’ Chen Qiang laughed on cue. At twelve-forty, full and satisfied, we wiped our mouths and got back on the road. Someone suggested Han Street. Everyone said, ‘Sure!’ We took a few photos at Han Street, then rode to Bayi Road, along the East Lake loop by Fangying Terrace. I rode ahead to a quiet corner to take a photo, and that shameless Lao Cai rushed up from behind shouting, ‘Ghost!’ My phone almost fell into East Lake. We stopped to rest, sat by the lake, and felt the air thick with spiderwebs and heat. At four we went by the Nanwang Mountain route to Optics Valley. The sky was starting to lighten; by the roadside were people eating late-night food or breakfast—day and night touching here. At five we were at Optics Valley Square, already a bit exhausted. I suggested we go to the First Bridge to see the sunrise. We headed west. Because I usually took the bus, I thought the ride down would be easy. But no—Majiazhuang, Jiedaokou, several uphill stretches. Tired people, tired bikes, no momentum left. After the downhill at Yuemachang I realized I’d celebrated too early. Getting up the bridge was the real test. Looking back, several people should have gotten off and pushed long ago. The result was disappointing. I asked another question: ‘Where’s the sunrise we agreed on?’ So we rested, returned the bikes, and went home. I stupidly rode all the way up the Jianghan First Bridge; there was actually a road on the lower level. At Tongji we returned the bikes and went home. Someone counted: almost 100 kilometers. Enough!
One day in September, I thought I couldn’t just drift. I called a few people to do a little business. Late at night we rode bikes to Huazhong Agricultural University to scout the market, then rode straight into the campus and even into the experimental fields. Xizi kept saying it smelled like ‘Rice Field’—the song. I said, ‘Ghosts!’ Xizi said, ‘Don’t scare me.’
On September 16 I went to my brother’s school to drop something off and called home to ask about my grandmother’s condition. My father said, ‘Come back for a bit. Your grandmother may not make it… Say a few words to your uncle.’ I asked, ‘Uncle, is it true?’ He gave a bitter smile and said, ‘If you have time, come back. See your grandmother one last time.’ I had never thought about it. In primary school I’d heard others talk about their grandparents dying, but I always assumed my grandmother would never grow old. I never imagined that at twenty-four she would be leaving. In an instant, all I could see was her smile. That afternoon I had someone buy a ticket. The next morning the bus left, a day and a night, and the following morning I was home. All the way I thought, Grandmother, wait for me. At home, she was asleep. My mother and aunt had stayed up for days and looked thin. My heart was a mix of everything. Once I was home I felt calmer. I looked at her and held her hand until the last moment. It was the first time I faced death directly, and it was my closest relative. I felt empty, almost nothing. But the next day, when my cousin @-mentioned me on Weibo with four words—‘voice and face’—I lost control a little. When you face life and death directly, you see many things more lightly. Many things cannot wait.
Because of this, seven or eight cousins who hadn’t been in touch much gathered together, with no barriers. A group of us went to Hongdong for hot pot and had a warm time. Sorrow and happiness are connected.
I stayed at home for several days, just playing with the dog and cat, taking photos, visiting friends’ homes. One afternoon Lao Cai called: ‘Did you buy the ticket to Chengdu? I’ll buy it for you first.’ Okay. I went to see my grandparents first, then turned toward Sichuan.
I stayed in my hometown for three days. My little cousin asked, ‘Can you leave tomorrow instead?’ I said the bus was today—why doesn’t he come with me? He said, ‘I still have to go to school.’ Ha, cute kid. Alone, I went from Henan through Shaanxi to Sichuan to meet Lao Qian, Lao Cai, and Lao Jiang. On the afternoon of the third, we met at the California (Pai) Hotel near Southwest Jiaotong University. The opening dish was hot pot, and it was great. There were jokes: ‘Your haircut didn’t get you thrown off the train…’
The trip was rushed: Du Fu Cottage, Jinli, Kuanzhai Alley. I went to Jinli alone, slipped out the back, took a photo of Wuhou Shrine, went back, and said I’d been inside. No one questioned it. Later I learned they’d seen the crowd and hadn’t gone in. What deserves praise is Luodai Ancient Town. Early in the morning I searched for several old towns—Luodai, Huanglong… I first followed advice and went to Qingcheng Mountain, the ‘most secluded under heaven,’ not knowing it would be packed; they couldn’t even sell tickets for the next day. Fine, Luodai then. I searched Weibo along the way and saw many people going too, so it seemed we’d chosen right. Bashu cultural tourism was indeed more developed: blog-style buildings, a quirky street, and I was lucky enough to taste one-strand noodles. I took photos and came back satisfied. When I returned to Wuhan on the sixth, I felt I’d had enough hot pot, but Lao Qian kept pushing it. Does this guy find it that good?
One day in October, Li Chao came back and called me over for hot pot. My health had improved a bit, so I went happily. Guojiaguo—the moment I opened my mouth I fell in love with hot pot. The two of us ate hot pot and drank beer. Li Chao said, ‘Meng Ga, remember Royal Lakeside?’ We’d come back from an all-nighter and had an emergency in the backyard, losing all dignity. Old embarrassing stories are deep memories too. Suddenly I felt a little sad. I said, ‘Li Chao, it’ll be hard for us to eat hot pot this openly again. It’s not about whether the world ends. For one thing, there’ll be fewer chances. For another, even if we eat hot pot again, we probably won’t get back today’s mood.’ After we parted that day I posted: ‘Thanks to someone for the hot pot. Whether or not the world ends, this is a hot pot worth remembering deeply. I really hope we can still eat hot pot this openly and without barriers…’ As a memorial.
Then came another two months of leisure, utterly bored. Even sitting in the sun felt pointless. I called Liu Xizi. He said, ‘I’m planning to quit. The end of the world is coming, it doesn’t matter.’ I’d planned to learn from him and just eat and wait for death, but life gave me a turn: I found a new job. My luck really had changed.
At the start of the job I went to Huangshi, then Ezhou, Huanggang, and Xianning. The surroundings were much the same. Only once, in Xianning, watching the sunset, I remembered childhood. There was a feeling. That was also when another story quietly began; that needs to be written separately, or it’ll pull away from this one.
In December I went to Nanchang and started running a market alone. Then things changed, and I was in Jiangxi with Manager Tang. That afternoon we took the train to Yichun. It was the most memorable stretch. The sun was harsh, but I still stuck my head out past the curtain and watched the world outside: the sunlight was extraordinarily bright, green flat fields on both sides, occasionally a lake came into view, and ahead the tracks ran straight into the distance. For a moment I was grateful for this job—able to enjoy traveling while working. I wanted to carry a DSLR, find someone to go with, and travel the world. However hard the road, I wouldn’t be afraid, because a young heart was beating.
Then we transferred to Yifeng. By the road were tall, rustling dead trees; beyond them, yellow fields, and a few water buffalo grazing lazily. Instantly I thought of the lyrics of ‘Terraced Fields’: ‘Watching the cow outside the window chew grass, it’s a kind of indescribable freedom…’
Later I went to Yingtan and Jiujiang. The land and water by the road were unlike anything I’d seen. I was grateful to life for giving me the chance to see an unknown world, to go outside and walk around.
Yesterday, on the way back, the bus crossed the Jiujiang Bridge. Far off on both sides were low villages, and sunlight spilled recklessly over the world. I thought: I love this world deeply. As long as you pay attention, you’ll find its beauty at any moment.
Last night I endured the cold wind and finally got back to school. I’d wanted to call someone back, but the journey was far; next time. I called Xizi and went straight to Laoshihui. We crazily ordered four dishes, true foodies. We didn’t finish, and I felt deeply guilty. I didn’t dare loosen my belt for fear it would slide down, and I didn’t dare bend over. I could only say, ‘So full, I feel like I’ll never eat again.’ Outside, we went to the administration building and enjoyed the leadership treatment for a while. Then we wandered to the Fuhao Supermarket and saw Doraemon. My eyes lit up. Hey, slow down—besides, that one wasn’t even that good-looking. When we came out after nine there was no 906, so we braved the cold wind to WUST to take the 34. The bus was bright inside. I really wanted to ride a bus like that all night, around the city.
In the future I should go to Tibet, to Fenghuang, and to Chengdu again. By then I won’t be alone, right? Future self, I’ll wait for you to tell me the answer. 2012 is coming to an end. Whether the world ends or not no longer matters. You should know how to seize and fight for things. Let it come; better if it doesn’t. Remember: if the end doesn’t come, everything is still possible.
