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Chapter 8: Frivolous
He left the rag he had been cleaning the corner with and tossed it over for them to wash together.
The next afternoon, Zhuang Jie sent Zhuang Yan to the high-speed rail station. Before leaving, Zhuang Yan handed her what felt like a child being entrusted to a guardian—passing her “Ji San E’zi” and telling her to keep an eye on it so Liao Tao wouldn’t end up eating it.
Zhuang Jie found it amusing. She was about to leave herself soon—how was she supposed to keep an eye on Liao Tao anyway?
Zhuang Yan insisted she speak to Liao Tao directly and make him promise not to eat it. If he knew from her, maybe he wouldn’t dare. He went on to complain that the holiday was too short, that he didn’t want to leave her, and halfway through his voice started to break.
Zhuang Jie hugged him and told him they’d see each other at Spring Festival. She’d take care of Ji San E’zi and make sure Liao Tao didn’t eat it.
He Niaoniao watched all this in confusion. She didn’t understand why Zhuang Yan was on the verge of crying. She and her own sister never cried like this—that was exactly why she admired her sister more. In her eyes, Zhuang Yan was just too much like a girl.
After Zhuang Yan passed the ticket gate, Zhuang Jie returned to the parking lot.
She was driving a small three-wheeled vehicle. He Niaoniao sat in the back compartment, holding the goose. The van at home with manual gears—she couldn’t drive it. She only knew how to drive automatics.
A few years ago, Liao Tao had wanted to buy a sedan, but considering the van was more practical, they ended up getting another one of those instead.
The wind was strong, and the rural road was full of dust. Zhuang Jie had wind in her eyes, and it made her tear up.
A car up ahead was blocking the road. She wanted to overtake it. Just as she was about to, her phone rang.
She eased off the accelerator and picked up. It was Chen Maidong.
He told her to drive properly and not to overtake a hearse.
Zhuang Jie hadn’t even noticed what kind of vehicle it was. She asked if overtaking it was unlucky.
Chen Maidong said, “It’s not about luck. It’s just respect for the deceased. You should give way when you can.”
Zhuang Jie absorbed this new piece of “cold knowledge” and responded, “Got it. You go ahead then. I’ll wait.”
She pulled to the side and stopped. Her hand instinctively went to her pocket for a cigarette—but seeing He Niaoniao in the back, she suppressed the craving.
After hanging up, Chen Maidong looked at the rearview mirror.
An elderly person had passed away at a nursing home, and he had been on site all day. Aside from handling the cremation furnace, driving hearses, and front-desk reception, he could do everything else—moving bodies, field work, suturing, makeup. If there weren’t enough staff, he could even preside over farewell ceremonies.
That night, he went home and ate the radish pancakes his grandmother made. They were slightly burnt and a bit salty, not enough to fill him.
Later, he went to the food street and ordered a bowl of wontons, packing another portion for his grandmother. Old Madam Chen had a big appetite and loved small wontons the most.
On his way back, he hesitated outside a roast chicken shop and ended up ordering salt-and-pepper chicken pieces and braised chicken gizzards.
Only after paying did he look up—Zhuang Jie wasn’t there. Only a young girl packing orders and two women frying chicken remained.
He took the food home.
His grandmother complained he didn’t know how to live properly—he should’ve ordered a large bowl of wontons since it only cost one yuan more but came with five extra pieces.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t finish it,” Chen Maidong said.
“I can finish it. I didn’t even finish the radish pancakes, even though they were burnt,” she replied. “I just didn’t say anything because I was afraid you wouldn’t eat them if I said they were burnt.”
…
“People who eat burnt food are lucky. They find money easily,” Old Madam Chen said, chewing slowly.
…
Then she added, “Your dad called. Go see what he wants.”
Chen Maidong called back.
His father had nothing important—just checking in.
“I’m fine,” Chen Maidong said.
His father talked for a long while: asked about his grandmother, hinted about whether he was short on money, said he’d transferred 500,000 to the old lady a couple of days ago, told him to just ask directly if he needed anything.
Then came advice about relationships—don’t tell the girl about his job too early, wait until things were stable, and so on.
It went on for nearly half an hour.
Chen Maidong understood immediately—he was drunk. His father only remembered he had a son back home when he was drunk.
He put the phone on speaker and let him talk while he played games.
Afterward, he opened his social feed.
Three hours ago, Zhuang Jie had posted something. She had taken her younger sister to Xingshan Mountain to dig wild yams.
In the photo, she was holding a yam broken into several sections, covered in dirt, smiling brightly.
Caption: Wild yams from my hometown.
That afternoon, Zhuang Jie went to Yanggou Village to inspect yams on site.
A farmer told her there were already buyers planning to purchase, but they were squeezing prices hard. Machines couldn’t get through the terrain, so everything had to be dug out by hand.
Laborers were paid around 300 a day now, but few young people would do it. Those with experience and strength were mostly in their forties or fifties, and each person could only dig about 200 meters a day.
The prices being offered couldn’t even cover labor costs. The buyers were deliberately suppressing prices, waiting for harvest season.
Each yam root was 1.5 to 2 meters long. It had to be dug out in one piece—if it broke, it lost value.
Digging yams meant kneeling and crawling the entire time, carefully loosening the soil. It was extremely exhausting work.
Harvest would be best after frost descent, around November.
After hearing this, Zhuang Jie left and surveyed the terrain of Yanggou Village. Then she took her younger sister up Xingshan Mountain.
She had dug wild yams as a child and remembered how hard it was—each one took at least twenty to thirty minutes.
On the mountain, she dug up a wild yam. It broke into pieces, but after steaming it, it turned out sweet and sticky. She made the rest into pulled yam candy and gave it to He Niaoniao as snacks.
Zhuang Jie had a wide network—medical device groups, pharmaceutical reps, she was in several.
Through those groups, she found two yam buyers and a yam processing factory, got their contacts, and sent over her materials.
The replies were almost identical: either they already had long-term suppliers, or they had already placed orders for the year. Some were even blunt: “Your origin doesn’t meet our standards. We only take loess or sandy soil-grown yams.”
What nonsense. If it were sandy soil, why would she even come to them?
That only fueled Zhuang Jie’s competitive spirit.
She wasn’t someone who gave up easily. She immediately shortlisted a processing factory and took a high-speed train the next day.
She didn’t contact blindly—she found an intermediary to introduce her to their procurement manager. They had lunch together, didn’t close a deal, but became friends.
The other party was in a difficult position: he wanted to help but couldn’t. Their supplier was a connected party, and this year’s production had dropped sharply, so they had no intention of sourcing externally.
Zhuang Jie understood and didn’t push further. She said it was fine—even if nothing came of it, they could still be friends. If he ever needed help, he could contact her.
They hit it off well, and before leaving, he said he knew other factories and would ask around for her.
That night, Zhuang Jie received news: a procurement manager wanted to do an on-site inspection.
She had originally planned to return to Shanghai on the 10th, but delayed her ticket by two days because of this.
On the evening of the 11th, Chen Maidong saw her at home.
He froze slightly and blurted out, “You didn’t leave?”
“Were you that eager for me to go?” Zhuang Jie teased.
He didn’t answer. He just couldn’t understand why she was in his house.
At that moment, Old Madam Chen came out of the kitchen.
Zhuang Jie had been invited by her. She had met her at the roast chicken shop and learned she was about to return to Shanghai, so she invited her over for dumplings. She was excellent at making them.
Old Madam Chen had never had a daughter or granddaughter, and she liked Zhuang Jie immediately, wanting to talk to her naturally.
Zhuang Jie tried to help roll dumpling wrappers, but she was shooed away—told her legs would hurt if she stood too long.
Chen Maidong showered and changed into casual clothes, then asked what tea she wanted.
Zhuang Jie asked, “What do you have?”
Without answering, he made her a cup of eight-treasure tea—sweetened with rock sugar, red dates, goji berries, raisins, and longan. It was what his grandmother usually drank.
He placed it in front of her and went off to play games.
Zhuang Jie praised him: “Such a considerate good young man.”
He didn’t respond.
She asked, “Do you shower every time you come home?”
After a while, he replied, “Sometimes I shower at the funeral home.”
“You’re going back to Shanghai when?”
“On the 14th. A buyer is coming tomorrow to inspect the yams.”
Then she told him about her trip to Qinhuangdao, of course with some exaggeration—how she had almost single-handedly convinced a factory that originally wasn’t interested at all.
Chen Maidong looked at her. “So you’ve signed the contract?”
“You idiot? I already told you they’re coming tomorrow.”
“So it’s not done yet.”
Talking to him was exhausting.
She tapped her cup. “Refill.”
He poured more tea.
She said confidently, “It’s basically done. I’ve sent them photos of the fields, we’ve already discussed price. If they weren’t interested, they wouldn’t even come.”
“If they come, I close the deal. Simple.”
“I don’t make empty claims.”
She was that confident. If she couldn’t close this, she would’ve wasted years in high-end sales.
Her life philosophy was simple: there’s no product that can’t be sold—only salespeople who can’t sell.
Old Madam Chen brought out dumplings. Chen Maidong made chili oil. Zhuang Jie dipped one, ate it, and praised it.
He silently moved the chili oil away and ate his own.
She tried sneaking more but failed, and cursed him, eating dumplings plain instead.
Old Madam Chen chatted with her while eating. At one point she mentioned that when she was young, she gave birth to a baby girl who turned purple at birth and passed away shortly after.
Her voice grew slower as she spoke, as if her thoughts were drifting.
Then she suddenly put down her chopsticks.
“I should go call Winter Boy for dinner,” she said. “He’s been skipping school and hanging out at the arcade lately.”
Zhuang Jie called out toward the kitchen. Chen Maidong came out after wiping his hands and followed her out.
They ended up at an internet café.
Old Madam Chen went inside, looking from person to person. When she turned and saw Chen Maidong behind her, she hit him hard on the back.
“Next time you come here, I’ll break your legs,” she said.
He obediently admitted fault.
Only then did she calm down and take his hand back home.
Zhuang Jie whispered, “Is grandma…?”
Before she could finish, Old Madam Chen turned back.
“Oh, what a coincidence,” she said.
…
Back home, she pulled out an album for Zhuang Jie.
Zhuang Jie had trauma now and didn’t dare say anything casually.
Then she saw Chen Maidong’s old photos.
And burst out laughing.
Chen Maidong lay in his room with headphones on, staring at the ceiling—unable to block out her loud, uncontrollable laughter.
There wasn’t just one photo. There were six or seven.
Bleached hair, cigarettes in his mouth—his “emo/scene kid” phase.
Old Madam Chen warned her to keep her voice down or he’d be upset. She had picked those photos up after he threw them away.
Zhuang Jie knocked on his door lightly.
“I’m heading back,” she said.
He didn’t move.
She sat beside him and pulled off one earbud. “What are you listening to?”
Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5—so loud it made her ears ring. She immediately put it back.
She stood up, looked around his room—it was clean. She flipped through a couple of books, clapped her hands.
“I’m leaving.”
“I’ll see you out,” he said.
“No need. It’s just a few minutes away.”
But he still followed.
“You treat everyone like this?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Flirtatious.”
Zhuang Jie stared at him.
He lit a cigarette and stepped out first.
“What’s it to you whether I’m flirtatious or not?” she snapped.
He took a deep drag and said nothing.
“Jerk,” she muttered, walking home alone.
They parted on bad terms.
After smoking three cigarettes, Chen Maidong sent her a message:
I ran my mouth. Sorry.
Zhuang Jie didn’t reply.
At that moment, she was playing with Ji San E’zi.
She was starting to like the goose more and more—it clung to her in a strange way. It ignored everyone else and only followed her.
The more she…
