After a four-month shutdown, the Baocheng Street Night Market was finally open again.
“Zhang Wanqin, are you still drinking? Time to set up your stall!” “Last sip! Be right down!”
Lin Song, pulling his flatbed cart, habitually yelled up toward the second floor as he passed the alleyway entrance. He was always the first to arrive. Every day, once his freezer chest was settled in its usual spot, the stalls to his left and right would extend out from it like coordinates, leaving a corridor down the middle of the road for people to walk. For over twenty years, the rule had never changed.
The year Lin Song was still “Little Zhang,” Ronaldo was named FIFA World Player of the Year for the first time, and Little Zhang got married. The following year, he was laid off from the Pacific Brewery. Staring at his wife’s slowly growing belly, he often found himself frowning.
“Why don’t you set up a stall?” suggested Zhang Wanqin, who was already selling slippers at the night market.
Captain Zhao, the head of the team managing the area, was Lin Song’s middle school classmate. At the Urban Management Brigade office, Captain Zhao craned his neck and instructed him, “The spot for a cold drinks stall at the second intersection just opened up yesterday. Get there early tonight and claim it with your freezer. Remember to come in and fill out a form tomorrow.”
That afternoon, Lin Song went to the Jiyang Road second-hand market and picked up a 120-liter freezer chest, a flatbed cart, and a 20-meter extension cord. Just like that, his cold drinks stall was in business.
On his first day, he worked until one in the morning before packing up. After emptying the crumpled bills from his waist pouch and deducting the cost of goods, he had earned 75 yuan. He kept at it for twenty-two years. The “Little Zhang” of yesterday had aged into “Old Lin,” and his son was set to graduate from university this summer.
Lin Song skillfully drew power from the electrical box outside the musical instrument shop and plugged in his freezer. He stacked the Cokes neatly, secured his foldable shelves, and finally sat down contentedly in his rattan chair. The chair had been polished to a glossy sheen by his constant touch; his restless fingers had even managed to wear a hole straight through one of the armrests.
Over the years, Lin Song had learned not to rush things. His wife, who used to work at the supply and marketing cooperative, had taken an early retirement three years ago with no reduction in benefits. Now, her days consisted of cooking two meals and playing a round of mahjong. When their son was home, the house was filled with noise and laughter, which made life much more cheerful. But what Lin Song loved most was the arrival of night. As soon as dusk fell and he pushed his freezer to the intersection, strangers would appear and hand him money, providing his livelihood for the day.
Cai Liang tugged at his shirt sleeve and pulled a Coke from Lin Song’s freezer. The icy chill of the bottle in his hand brought a sigh of relief. A three-yuan bottle of Coca-Cola was always worth two-fifty on the first sip.
Captain Zhao had long since retired from the force, becoming “Old Zhao.” He couldn’t stand the heat and always wore a hat, which seemed to make his already sparse hair even harder to grow. After retiring, he set up his own cold drinks stall half a street down from Lin Song, propping up a rattan chair behind it, just like Lin Song. Now, his greatest pleasure was calling Lin Song for a late-night snack after closing up, always wearing the same thin, faded undershirt, regardless of the season or weather.
Zhang Wanqin leisurely finished setting up his stall. By the time he was done, the sky had already darkened. The street, packed with stalls, didn’t feel overly crowded. He was still selling slippers—the same hard-soled, cheapest styles. You would almost never see anyone wearing them on the street; they were destined for a life of shuffling between the bathroom and the bedroom.
“Got any new styles today?” Zhang Wanqin craned his neck, teasing Liu Caixia across the way. “Invisible silk stockings. Want a pair?” “Who wears socks in this heat?”
Zhang Wanqin had never married and was still cared for by his mother. He was always polite to everyone and never got into arguments. He had read many books, understood many principles, and lived a simple life. His stall was right at the entrance to his own alleyway, and he always set up late and packed up early, afraid of blocking his neighbors’ way.
Liu Caixia was carefully adjusting her tripod and ring light, trying to find the most flattering angle for the camera. She had taken over this lingerie stall about two and a half years ago and had been livestreaming from the roadside for nearly a year. She had kept her channel going during the months of lockdown, but it never felt lively enough, not glamorous enough. She needed to be here, on the street. The moment the camera turned on and she went live, the Liu Caixia on the screen became animated. Shoppers would often stop by to browse, asking questions. She loved these interruptions; chatting about this and that, she would get into a spirited rhythm. She wasn’t stunningly beautiful, just pleasant-looking with delicate features and a soft “circle of happy flesh” around her waist.
She spoke into her phone in a slow, deliberate manner. Her less-than-standard Mandarin, far from being halting, flowed with a smooth, gentle charm. Zhang Wanqin squinted, watching the stockings dangling from her hand, and thought to himself: Such a tiny piece of fabric, just to cover the sole of a foot. What a hassle. Far less liberating than a pair of my flip-flops.
“Boss, one bingfen, please. Extra osmanthus syrup.” It was Cai Liang’s first time setting up a stall at the night market. After the holiday break started, his boss at the clay pot rice restaurant never called him back to work. Two months ago, he saw a TikTok video of a bingfen stall mobbed by customers. A quick online search revealed that making the clear, jelly-like dessert was as simple as making a cup of instant soy milk. So he started making it himself and selling it at the subway entrance. But few people were taking the subway then. Everyone wore masks and hurried along. He only managed to sell about twenty portions a day. With no other options, he could only bide his time. Tonight, he had summoned his courage and found an empty spot at the night market.
Most of the people strolling through the market were girls in pairs or small groups. Masks covered most of their faces, revealing only their beautiful eyes, dark and round like ripe blueberries, framed by meticulously drawn, slender eyebrows. “What did you have for dinner?” “A diet meal I bought online. It just arrived this afternoon.” “Did you eat it before or after your actual meal?” “Umm…” This was Cai Liang’s second year in Wuhan since graduating. The longest job he’d held was working in a restaurant kitchen. “Ever cut your hand while chopping vegetables?” the boss had asked during his first interview. “Nope.” “Ever burn your hand with boiling water?” “Nope.” “Alright, you can start tomorrow. But just so you know, if you quit within the first week, you don’t get paid.” And just like that, he had worked in the kitchen of the clay pot rice restaurant for nine months.
Sitting behind his stacks of drinks, Lin Song watched another girl carrying a bowl of bingfen drift past him. His index finger subconsciously dug a little deeper into the armrest of his rattan chair.
The night wore on, and the crowd thinned. Looking up past the eaves of the alleyway, he could see a hazy moon with blurry edges. Zhang Wanqin heard the clanging sound of a neighboring stall dismantling its metal frame.
The moment her ring light went out, Liu Caixia felt a wave of dizziness. She had been staring into that circle of white light, chattering away, for two solid hours. She put away her phone and saw five unread messages in her livestream backend—all promotional ads from MCN agencies. There was a time when her online audience dwarfed the night market crowd, but now, more people stood watching her in person than on the screen. As the weather heated up, her shapewear wasn’t selling well. She needed to come up with something new for tomorrow.
The newcomers were the first to leave. The wheels of their flatbed carts created a low chorus, drowning out the last of the hawkers’ cries. Past midnight, it was a new day. The bustling market, now being disassembled, slowly dissolved back into the dark, quiet alleyways of the city.