Chapter 52: Carrying Cement

After returning, I didn’t tell anyone about what had happened, but I still couldn’t fall asleep until well past midnight. I was too nervous; every time I closed my eyes, the image of those cash bills flooded my mind.

Early the next morning, I left home after breakfast and headed straight to Tianshui Wharf. The wharf wasn’t large, but many large trucks and cargo ships were docked there.

I spent quite some time asking around among the dockworkers before I finally found Hu Chunbin, the man introduced to me by Old Hai at the night market to lead the laborers. He was not very old, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, dressed in a rebellious style. Outside, there was a sleek motorcycle parked—probably his ride. I quickly offered him a cigarette and said, “You’re Chunbin, right? Old Hai sent me here to unload cargo. My name is Zhang Zhicheng, but you can just call me Acheng.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I only smoke Baisha.”

Then he sized me up from head to toe. “Can you handle it, brother? You’re pretty young. Are you not good at anything else? Why not get a factory job?”

I patted my arm and replied, “No problem, I can handle it. I’m from the countryside—no particular skills, but strong.”

He smiled faintly. “Everyone who does this comes from the countryside. Not many can really hold up. If you’re determined, I won’t stop you. Come, I’ll show you around.”

The job was simple—just hard labor.

It involved not only carrying cement but also unloading steel bars. The wages were paid daily. Looking around at the workers, none seemed overwhelmed despite all being covered in grime, resembling clay figures. Yet, everyone chatted and laughed, appearing quite relaxed. Hu Chunbin handed me over to a foreman on site and went back to his modest office.

The other workers scrutinized me with looks mixing ridicule and disbelief. Clearly, they didn’t think someone as young as me could keep up. Soon, a cargo ship docked, and the foreman called us to work. I followed a few veterans aboard to unload.

The first hour didn’t feel too bad.

But by the second hour, after the sun rose, I was drenched in sweat, and my shoulders quickly got raw and blistered. The sweat mixed with cement stung the wounds fiercely, making me grit my teeth in pain.

One veteran said, “Kid, if you can’t hold up, take a break. Young folks aren’t cut out for this.”

“No problem, I’m working to earn money to get married,” I smiled.

The group burst into laughter. The veteran warned, “Don’t earn money and get married only to have your back give out so you can’t even be with your wife. Then you’ll be wearing a green hat!”

I pointed to my crotch. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a nickname—‘Steel Plate Piercer’!”

No one took offense; men often joke harmlessly about women. The cheerful atmosphere made time fly.

One shipload took four hours to unload.

By the end, my clothes were stiff, sweat and cement having hardened into patches on the fabric.

The other workers, more experienced, always had large water bottles filled with herbal teas like gardenia and chrysanthemum. I had come in a rush and carried no water, so my mouth was parched and cracked. But stubbornly, I refused to ask for water out of pride until one veteran handed me his blue bottle and said, “If you don’t mind it being dirty, drink mine.”

“I’m fine, not thirsty,” I said.

“You idiot, not thirsty after sweating so much and working so hard? Drink up!” the veteran scolded with a smile.

I chuckled and drank heartily. He exclaimed, “You said you weren’t thirsty but just drained half my bottle! That’s at least a pound and a half!”

The group laughed again. I took out cigarettes and passed them around. The veterans sat on the steaming cement floor, leaning against a shipping container, beginning to ask about me.

“How old are you? Where are you from?” one asked.

“Just over twenty, from Central Plains,” I replied.

“Same age as my boy. He’s at Nankai University. Look, here’s his photo,” the veteran said, pulling out a worn wallet and handing it over.

The picture showed a refined young man with glasses, scholarly in appearance.

“Very handsome,” I said.

Envy? Of course I envied him.

As a youth, I never understood why my father insisted on sending me to school and pushing me to get out. After two months away, I fully understood.

They just didn’t want me to suffer the hardships they endured in life.

“He even had a girlfriend at school. I used to send him living expenses in freshman and sophomore years. Now he supports himself with part-time jobs,” the veteran boasted.

Was he bragging? Certainly. But I didn’t mind.

Everyone needs something to believe in.

His belief was his accomplished son.

Mine was my weathered parents back home.

At their core, we were the same.

“He’ll have a bright future, and you’ll be living the good life in the city,” I said.

The veteran shook his head. “Nah, I can’t stand city life—it’s like being in prison. I prefer the countryside. If he wants, my wife and I will help raise his kids.”

Other workers teased him, “Old Wang, when your son becomes an official and successful, if you show up looking like this, they might not even recognize you. You’d be embarrassing him.”

Laughter erupted again.

Though I was an awkward young newcomer—rough and uneducated—I quickly blended in. That afternoon, while unloading again, the veterans even showed concern for me, urging me to slow down. At first, I didn’t understand their kindness until Old Wang said, “Seeing you reminds me of my worthless son.”

By day’s end, I earned thirty-seven yuan.

I carried hundreds of bags of cement.

The veterans earned over fifty yuan.

This kind of hard labor did pay better than factory or restaurant work—nearly a thousand yuan a month.

When payday came, Hu Chunbin asked, “You coming back tomorrow?”

I gritted my teeth. “Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

He gave me a thumbs-up. “Don’t be too confident. You might not feel it now, but after a night’s sleep, you’ll know what it means to feel like your body’s falling apart. You’ve got to last at least a week before the pain subsides.”

After getting paid, I staggered back, but at the wharf entrance, I was stopped. Not just me—almost everyone was held up to pay an entry fee.

Three yuan per person.

Old Wang came up beside me. “These are local thugs, trying to squeeze us. They charge three yuan a day, taking it from the workers’ pockets. It’s ridiculous—can’t even have a kid properly with money like that! But don’t be stubborn; just think of it as paying for peace of mind. There’s no need to fight them. I’m just worried about your temper, young man.”

He paid up honestly and passed through smoothly.

I was stopped by a shady young man who said, “New guy, looking unfamiliar, huh?”

I respectfully handed over three yuan. “Yes, big brother, new here.”

He took the money, nodded, and said, “Work hard!”

I bowed and left.

Three yuan is worth about thirty bags of cement.

Does it hurt?

Hurts enough to bleed.

I don’t want to pay, and I want to resist, but these things can’t be rushed.

It’s easy to shout out against injustice when you see it, but when injustice is everywhere, shouting at every spot will wear out your voice.

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