A man who makes a living

one

It's not too late to come back from a walk at night. There are no diners in the humble snack bar on the roadside. The shopkeeper is pulling a bowl of noodles with his head down. The incandescent lamp on his head gives off a quiet light, reflecting his lonely figure on the dirty wall. My husband is a compassionate person. He said with emotion, "No one eats, so help yourself!"

The community I live in is located on a street that is not the main road in the north-south direction. Not far from the entrance of the community are several bungalows that I don't know when. They are low and shabby, and they are even more discordant with the historic city parks a few steps away. Facing the side street, several gables were built, and some of them put up a sign at the door, printed with red electro-optic paper: Lamian Noodles, steamed stuffed bun, with a stiff font like a few branches; Some posted a few words that seemed to be written in paint on the lintel: cauldron dishes, steamed bread; Some wrote directly on the wall: hot pot. The brick pavement in front of the door is often covered with oil stains, and it feels sticky when you accidentally step on it. Three seasons a year, they will expand the battlefield to the sidewalk, with greasy simple dining tables and chairs. Migrant workers or vegetable market vendors on nearby construction sites often order a few side dishes and have a few drinks when eating. When they were excited, they began to spit out high-sounding words, including "I used to-".

Last year, when the epidemic struck, prevention and control were normalized, and people in the city had to work hard to change their long-standing living habits and carefully regulate their behavior. After all, being alive is king. It is inevitable that these small restaurants will be hit-as evidenced by the obvious decrease in diners.

As the year is approaching, the government advocates celebrating the New Year on the spot, which makes it a long way for every wanderer to go home. I don't know if his parents, wife and children are around, and I don't know if his small restaurant can continue to operate next year.

The owner of a small hot pot restaurant, a middle-aged man with a foreign accent, is in our field of vision, eating dinner for only one person alone. I wonder if he earned the rent of the shop that day.

two

"Why don't you answer the phone? Why don't you answer the phone? " Walking to the door of the community, the voice of an adult male mixed with tears exploded beside him. I was taken aback.

The night is dim, and the sound comes from the railing of the community that needs to be swiped to enter. A takeaway brother, wearing a thick cotton-padded coat, sat on an electric car as a means of transportation, with one hand on the handlebar and the other hand holding a mobile phone to his ear. The hoodie on the cotton-padded coat covered his head and at the same time covered most of his face. The airflow blocked by the mask is fast and thick, as if it were thick gunpowder rushing out from there. As long as it meets a little fire, it will explode.

It was nine o'clock, and I don't know from which direction a gust of wind blew, so sharp that it seemed to pierce people's skin through cotton-padded clothes. I can't help shivering.

Swipe your card into the door. The cold prompted me to walk quickly to "home" with the window open.

"Oh, elder sister, you finally answered the phone. Do you know how many phone calls I made? Do you know that?/You know what? Do you know that?/You know what? My bonus this month is over! " My little brother, like a wronged child, vented his anger on the microphone. Walking into the yard, the wind sent his strongly repressed anger and helplessness into my eardrum.

three

Cold wind, dark night and thick clothes, I didn't see my little brother's face clearly. That's what he should be like. I guess there's no reason.

The figure is exquisite. It is said that people of this figure are not old at any age. He looks like Zhou Zheng, just a pair of eyes, always squinting like myopia. This is how the word "contempt" is expressed by action. And that face, with a layer of misty dust looming under the white skin. I call him "Master Xu".

Last year, I subscribed to three literary magazines in the post office not far from home. Master Xu is responsible for the delivery in my area.

Among a group of couriers who were busy sorting, a lean young man came up to me and asked me, should I nail the post office box to your wall or contact delivery? In this way, a contact named "Postal Xu" was added to my WeChat address book.

The publication dates of these three magazines are different. Sometimes they go alone, sometimes they go together. Sometimes it's an electric car, sometimes it's a van with a box, intact, rain or shine. They will appear in my hands sooner or later.

On one occasion, Master Xu found it inconvenient to publish ITU magazines, so he asked him to put them at the gate. Master Xu's tone sounds like an indisputable discussion. I'll contact you when you come back. Then think about it, a magazine with no package and no name is placed at the door full of express boxes. Who stole it? I can't tell. Not bad! The second time, the third time, until the fourth time, when I received the magazine handed over by Li Shifu, I felt very ashamed.

"Master Xu, thank you!" Every time I take a magazine, I never forget to say sincerely that I see a faint smile on his mouth. On the second day of New Year's Day, I met him in a cheerful street. I said, Master Xu, Happy New Year! His young face was stunned for a moment.

It is not easy for everyone to make a living, and it is amazing!