You think it’s customer loyalty, but in reality, everyone is just fleecing you.
The printer rattles off orders from Ele.me, and the ice machine is completely empty. To keep up with the pace of the iced water promotion, the only option is to buy another thirty liters of ice cubes from Meituan. In this fiery July, as JD.com joins the slaughterhouse of food delivery platforms, iced water truly flows like a river.
Boss Zhao was in complete despair. He closed his shop in June.
Boss Zhao loves dogs. All sorts of pet dogs were frequent visitors to his shop, their appearance rate on his WeChat Moments feed as high as that of the beautifully dressed “sisters” who also frequented his establishment. He also took in abandoned strays, then busied himself with finding them new homes.
Boss Zhao took care of dogs with the same diligence he took care of his business. But both endeavors were incredibly difficult. Although he loved them both, in the end, he couldn’t keep either going. He entrusted the last stray he had taken in to the most empathetic auntie who worked at his shop.
Now, he no longer has to rush to pull up the shop’s rolling shutter at sunrise. For the past week, he has been waiting until the slivers of light from his curtains are no longer glaring before he slowly gets out of bed, gets ready, and goes out for his Wuhan-style breakfast.
Among the notifications pushed by WeChat’s mini-programs, the latest was a “Returning Customer Super-Coupon Stack.” All sorts of discounts were piled together. In the end, he paid 2.14 yuan for a large 16-ounce iced latte, delivery included. Scoring this deal genuinely made Boss Zhao feel fortunate that he had indeed “closed down for good.” He sat with a portion of doupi, enjoying the cool breeze from the air conditioner and sipping his ice-cold coffee, a soothing feeling of ease washing over him. On a whim, he posted on his Moments:
“Nowadays, if you’re still choosing a location, renovating, and opening a shop, that’s truly for the love of it. As for me, I can’t do it anymore. I’m spent.”
He attached a screenshot of his 2.14 yuan order.
Lin Song saw Boss Zhao’s post two minutes later and was the first to give it a “like.” For the rest of the morning, Lin Song’s WeChat continuously notified him of thirteen more friends liking the post.
Forget about enjoying the fruits of others’ labor. Everyone’s pockets are rattling with emptiness these days. You can’t easily get anything from anyone; instead, you have to be constantly on guard, lest someone else empties your pockets.
“A bosom friend afar brings a distant land near.” Looking at the “like” notifications, the poem by Wang Bo came to Lin Song’s mind, and he lamented how people, ancient and modern, share the same sentiments.
These days, business is all about competitive advantage; you have to be one step ahead in everything. A moment’s carelessness, and a competitor will launch a new technology into the market. At that point, do you follow suit, or do you wait and see, avoiding the sharp edge of the storm? Often, the situation is a dilemma.
In the past, people rarely saw anything advanced. The things a person did each day, they often did for years on end. Life was cyclical, things developed very slowly, and there wasn’t news every day.
In Boss Zhao’s childhood, there weren’t even newspapers on the street. Now, Lin Song has long forgotten where the key to the mailbox in his own apartment building is. Short-video apps push all sorts of bizarre news at all hours of the day.
Occasionally, when Lin Song starts scrolling through short videos, he can’t stop either. But soon, the endlessly repetitive, opportunistic, and gimmicky funny clips posted by countless “creators” make his head spin and give him a physical sense of nausea.
Years ago, his aunt once told him, “When you’re on a date with a girl, you can tell at a glance who is good to you and who isn’t. Never ignore this. Don’t indulge your fleeting emotions or let extravagant hopes go to your head.”
He had always thought that what he held onto was a fondness for the past, a persistence in clinging to what was beautiful. It wasn’t until he saw the words on the chopstick holder at a Northeast-style dumpling tavern, reminding customers: “Keep your posturing in check; dumplings need vinegar,” that Lin Song finally understood. Perhaps his own dopamine pond had simply run dry.
Lately, Lin Song has been frequently seeing a marathon runner who trains in Kenya on his phone. The runner says that when you run, you shouldn’t always be fixated on the numbers on your heart rate monitor. Just run according to how your body feels; that’s all that matters.
“So what if your heart rate is high? That’s perfectly normal! We run 42 kilometers at a three-minute-per-kilometer pace. If that were anaerobic, we’d run ourselves to death, wouldn’t we? The more you run, the more you adapt, and the heart rate naturally comes down.”
Running a marathon is an inherently risky thing. But compared to heavyweight boxing, which sport has a greater risk? The number of people who collapse on the track each year is about the same as those who collapse in the ring. For an ordinary person to run themselves into an early grave is, in fact, harder than climbing to heaven.
As long as you’re not running with the rhythm of trying to knock yourself out, over time, you’ll naturally adapt.
If there’s nothing left in the world to break your heart, then perhaps you should just let yourself break your own heart a little. To aggressively push your heart rate to 173 in one go—that’s pretty exhilarating too.