After being laid off from his factory that winter, my dad bought a used motorbike with his severance money and became the newest bike-taxi driver in the neighbourhood. Every morning, he would leave home at six, wipe down his bike with a bucket of hot water, place his helmet on the back seat, and join the group of other drivers who waited by our apartment building. It was hard to tell him apart from the others – they all wore beanies, parkas and leather kneepads. Each morning, before the first passenger showed up, my dad and the other drivers would hang out on the street corner. They would set up a metal paint bucket at the roadside, throw in some broken pieces of wood, pour in some gas, and light everything up. The flames always shot up into the cold air and coughed out smouldering embers. They would immediately huddle around the bucket, stomping their feet to keep themselves warm. Taking their hands out of their pockets, they would slowly extend their arms towards the flames, as if they were practising tai chi, before quickly wrapping their warm palms around their cheeks. At a distance, their morning gathering looked like the most miserable party in the world.

From then on, the first passengers would arrive. The drivers always took their time warming up the engines, before releasing the clutches and letting their bikes roll a short distance on the road. This time was needed to awaken their eyes – the waves of heat from the fire having melted the people and the buildings in the background into a dreamy blur. The cold winter gusts seemed to bring back the drivers’ spirits, and they would slowly twist the throttles forward as the world crystallised in front of their eyes.

The prices of the bike rides varied and depended entirely on negotiation. Typically, a passenger would announce their destination, and the driver would purse his lips, complain about how hard it’d be to get there, and ask for five yuan. The passenger would tell the driver to cut the crap because they’d only paid three yuan in the past. All right, three yuan, the driver would say with a reluctant look. I’ll give you a discount, but think of me when you need a ride next time, okay? The passenger would agree, hop on the bike and say, Don’t crash the bike, let’s get going.

Summer was the best season to be a bike-taxi driver, as there were always people who needed quick rides. And the drivers could ride their bikes at full speed. They got to watch the lush trees lining the streets rush by, as the cool summer wind raked their hair and massaged their arms beneath their sleeves. Winter was more difficult. There were fewer passengers, and drivers had to endure the freezing wind that slashed their faces and pierced through their bones. The streets were covered in black ice and became impossible to drive on. Motorbikes went down one after another next to piles of snow that didn’t melt for months.

My dad picked the wrong time to be born. The government sent him down to the countryside when he was a teenager, and his factory sent him packing when he had a family. He’d always tried to ride the tide of his time – all he wanted was to become one of the many who lived a good life in a promising nation; but by the time he figured out the right actions to take, the ship had already sailed. It took him a long time to realise that he would forever be stranded on the shore.

When he first became a bike-taxi driver, during the winter months, there were so few passengers that he ended up spending more time blowing his runny nose than riding his bike. He made about thirty yuan on a good day, but that number dropped to ten when luck wasn’t on his side. Things improved in the spring, after the Lunar New Year. The weather warmed up, and the demand for bike-taxi rides slowly increased. Most of my dad’s morning passengers were elementary- and middle-school kids who’d woken up late and didn’t have enough money to get a cab. My dad was there to take them to school just in time for the flag-raising ceremony. I watched him become happier each day – after several difficult months without alcohol or cigarettes, he was finally able to treat himself to a drink or half a pack of Hongmei at night.

My dad was busy during the week, but had little to do on Saturdays and Sundays, when most people preferred to take the bus or ride their bicycles rather than hail a bike-taxi. With his spare time, my dad dropped me off at my cram school in the morning and picked me up in the afternoon. And while he was waiting for my lessons to end, he would usually play cards with his bike-taxi driver friends. On a good day, he could even win a few dimes. His friends thought I was going to piano lessons, until my dad told them about my maths and English teachers at the cram school. One friend asked him if I was falling behind at school. He’s fine, my dad said, Just learning some more advanced topics. His teachers at school organise the lessons, who knows what they’d think if we didn’t sign him up? Another friend said, That’s horseshit, his teachers just want more money. My dad shook his head and said, It’s a lot of money, and nobody has a damn clue if my son has learned anything useful. But what can we do about it? They didn’t force us to sign up. His friends told him to take it easy. It’s good that he’s taking English lessons, one of them said. He can go to college and become an interpreter for the government.

One afternoon, after two rounds of card games, my dad stood up to stretch his legs and have a quick smoke. Leaning on the backseat of his bike, he spotted a slender middle-aged man in a brown leather jacket, waving at him and his friends. The man’s back was hunched over, his eyes sunken, his lips dark, the skin on his face saggy. His keychain clanked beneath his belt as he walked towards my dad and the other drivers. Can anyone give me a ride to Wulihe? he hollered from a distance.

Most bike-taxi rides were shorter than ten minutes. Wulihe was on the other side of Qingnian Dajie Avenue, two districts and seventeen bus stops away, in the south of the city. This meant that every route to Wulihe passed through Nanba Road or Liangdong Bridge, both of which were police hotspots. And since, yes, bike-taxis were technically illegal – a driver could have their bike confiscated if they got caught by the police – most drivers simply refused to go near those two places.

My dad’s friends looked at each other – nobody answered the man. My dad said, Wulihe is so far away! How much would you pay?

The man asked how much my dad would charge. My dad thought about it and said, We might run into the police along the way. You’re paying at least twenty.

Twenty? I could pay five more and get a cab. Fifteen, take it or leave it. I’m in a hurry, and you bikers go real fast through the back alleys, I can count on you to get me there in time.

Fine, hop on, it’s not like I have another passenger anyway, my dad said, waving at him. Fifteen’s better than zero. You’re helping me pay for my son’s weekend lessons.

My dad rolled the throttle forward, and the motorbike merged onto the main road. Without turning around, my dad shouted back to the man, his voice carried away by the blasting wind, Dude, you better not throw me under the bus if we run into the police. I’m telling them we’re visiting an old friend together. I’ll be completely screwed if I lose my bike. I need to pay my family’s bills!

The man’s voice came from behind my dad, No need to worry, my man. We’ve got time to get to know each other and figure out what to say. I’m Xiao Shubin. I used to work in the flour factory cafeteria.

I used to work in the transformer factory, my dad said. Is the flour factory still doing okay?

Okay my ass! The factory’s made no flour for years, said Xiao Shubin.

It’s early afternoon on a weekend. Why are you going to Wulihe? my dad asked him.

Going to a football game. Shenyang Sealions’s first home game. I’m going to inspect it.

Inspect? So you’re one of those government higher-ups, my dad teased.

C’mon, man. Do I look like a higher-up? I’m inspecting my old co-workers. I worked in the Sealions cafeteria after the flour factory gave me the boot. I know the Sealions people very well, said Xiao Shubin.

Isn’t there a new goalie from South America on the team this year?

I hear you, man. You know ball. Yes, Miguel Miranda from Peru. I’m going to see if he’s any good.

He probably has really good vertical, my dad added.

Of course, South American players have flexible bodies. Think of René Higuita, the scorpion-kick guy, from Colombia. Look at how he dives, how he folds his body mid-air!

If I’m being honest, my dad commented, the Sealions need to be careful they don’t get relegated.

Relegation shouldn’t be a problem, but what kind of future do we have to look forward to if that’s all we care about? We aren’t playing to win, we’re playing to not lose. That’s why we live at the bottom of the league table, Xiao Shubin lamented.

My dad rode his motorbike very fast, as if he was riding the wind. In the rear-view mirrors, he saw Xiao Shubin sit up straight, his gaze level above my dad’s helmet. He watched out for road signs and mud puddles and directed my dad to the fastest routes down the steepest slopes. They drove through red lights, passed intercity buses, and went beneath bridges without running into the police. A few minutes before kick-off, they arrived at Wulihe stadium safe and sound.

Xiao Shubin hopped off the bike and took off the helmet. Standing in front of the stadium, he stared at the high concrete wall solemnly. A few wet strands of hair stuck on his scalp. He turned to my dad, paid for the ride, and handed him the helmet with both hands.

Why not join me for the game? he said to my dad.

Not today. I still need to pick up my son, but let’s go to a game together this year for sure. My dad nodded to him, before heading home.

That evening, after my dad and I got home from cram school, my dad parked his bike in the garage, dusted it with a dry towel, and headed to the neighbourhood store for a beer. I tagged along, and that was how I met Xiao Shubin. He was sitting on a stool in front of the store, picking his teeth. I thought he looked hideous – under the dim street light, his hair looked as if it had never been washed. He spotted my dad and greeted him. My dad asked how come he was back so early, to which he responded that someone had given him a ride. My dad asked him about the game. Xiao Shubin answered, Nil–nil, nothing exciting, but our goalie had a few crazy saves, it’s a shame you missed out. By the way, guess who else was at the game? China’s number one football fan, Rossi, the man who lost his job and family because of football. He was wearing that fucking cowboy hat and going bananas after every shot. It was just as you’d expect.

My dad changed the topic and asked him if he lived nearby. Xiao Shubin answered that he’d recently moved into the NE Pharm dorm across the street, and he’d come to the store to watch the sports news because he didn’t have a TV at home. My dad nodded and went into the store, grabbing two beers. When he came back, Xiao Shubin pointed his chin at me and asked, This your boy? My dad said yes. Xiao Shubin asked how old I was. Eleven, my dad answered for me. Xiao Shubin stared at me for half a minute, before suddenly raising the pitch of his voice and saying, Kid, why you got that briefcase under your arm? You love going to school, huh? My dad said that I’d just returned from cram school, and that I loved watching TV more than going to English lessons. Xiao Shubin responded, I also got a boy with me, he hated school, never did any homework, I sent his ass to a sports academy, now he’s the starting forward for the academy’s football team. My dad said, Your boy must be very good. He’s got a bright future. He’ll at least become the next Li Jinyu, and who knows how high his ceiling might be? Xiao Shubin said, But he’s short, he could use a few more centimetres, other than that, he’s got the best technique on the team. He can beat any defender, hands down.

In the next few months, Xiao Shubin took my dad’s bike to every Sealions game at Wulihe. There were a few times when he brought a long pole with a flag wrapped around it. Sitting on the back seat of the bike, he held the pole by his waist as if it were a spear. My dad always dropped him off in front of the stadium entrance. Xiao Shubin jumped off the bike, stood with his legs wide apart, and swung the flagpole with full force. As the flag opened in the wind, he began to slowly march into the stadium and sing the Sealions’ anthem. In his low, peculiar voice, he roared out the two lines of lyrics printed on the flag: We are the Sealions, breaking the waves! We are the Sealions, cruising ahead, cruising on!

It was a special time in Shenyang’s history – everyone was enthusiastic about football, and every company had a football fan club. My elementary school even took my class to a Sealions game. I told my dad about it, and he decided that he’d go to the game as well. When he next ran into Xiao Shubin, he said that he was going to the next game and offered him a free ride to the stadium. Xiao Shubin was ecstatic. Every time he saw my dad over the next few days, he reminded him to bring his lay-off certificate. One-yuan tickets in the laid-off worker section of the stadium, he said, his eyes beaming with excitement. My man, you gotta bring your certificate to the game. Unless you want to pay five for the same ticket?

The Sealions’ opponent that day was Shenzhen Ping’an. We took the lead in the first half, when our centre-back Chen Bo scored. Early in the second half, Shenzhen’s Li Weifeng evened the score with a header. It took the Sealions only a few minutes to respond – our Brazilian star striker Ribeiro tore apart Shenzhen’s defence and sent the ball into the back of the net. The packed stadium erupted in thunderous cheers, singing the team’s hype song in deafening unison. The section in front of us was occupied by cadets from the Artillery Academy. They kept their hats on their laps and sat in military posture, their green uniforms drenched in sweat. When the stadium wave reached their section, they stood up and sat down all at once, completely disrupting the flow. But the crowd was impressed by their synchronised movements and responded with cheers. The section across from us contained the biggest local fan club: an ocean of yellow Sealions jerseys, with a scattering of half-naked people, jumping up and down, beating drums, tossing confetti into the air. The west stand behind the goal was reserved for laid-off workers. It was the least crowded section. This was where my dad and a few other middle-aged men watched the game quietly. They were all dressed in dark clothes, and they either crossed their arms in front of them or kept their hands in their pockets. None of them talked to one another. They all remained standing, as if they were ready to head out at any moment. The exception was Xiao Shubin, who was waving his giant flag from kick-off to the final whistle, as if he were the captain of a lonely ship, breaking the waves, cruising ahead, cruising on.

After the game, Xiao Shubin found me and my dad and insisted on treating us to dinner. We went to a diner near the stadium. Xiao Shubin set down his flagpole against the wall, picked up the menu from the table, and asked me what I wanted. I said anything was fine. He ordered a pepper and tofu skin stir-fry, a pot of pork-bone stew with pickled cabbage, an offal wok-fry, and a spicy cucumber and cilantro salad with extra chilli oil. He then picked up the two small glasses on the table and went into the kitchen. When he returned, the glasses were filled with transparent liquor. He handed a glass to my dad and said, Try this. It’s made from green beans. It’s sweet and won’t give you a hangover.

Xiao Shubin was in great spirits. He waved his chopsticks in the air and began a long monologue about the Sealions, from their tactics and performance to his prediction for their next few games. His expertise was exhausted after two glasses of the green-bean liquor. My dad changed the subject and asked him if he lived with his family.

I’m divorced, don’t have custody, Xiao Shubin responded.

So you only need to take care of yourself. You can go to games and have a few drinks every day. Men dream of your life!

But I still have to pay child support. It’s expensive to have a boy who plays football. I’ve got almost nothing left of my buyout money.

Well, it doesn’t sound like you’re trying to get a job. There are always people looking for good cooks like you.

Exactly, my man, you know me well, Xiao Shubin grinned. I’ve breathed in too much cooking smoke in my life already. I deserve a break. If I cared enough to look for a job, then the other cooks in the neighbourhood would need to start worrying about getting fired. And you know who’d be the first one to go? The cook here. Just look at this plate of tofu skin on the table: where’s the meaty flavour? They forgot to add braising stock before velveting the dish with cornstarch. I’m giving the cook a D-minus.

You’re right, braising stock would’ve made a big difference. Anyway, one more beer, and then I should probably get going. My son has school tomorrow, my dad said, pointing at me.

Xiao Shubin took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed one to my dad.

Don’t be in such a hurry. It’s not like you’ve got things to do at home, he said, lighting up a smoke for himself. I’ve got a story for you. Remember the Three Stallions? The three North Korean players from a few years ago? They played so hard that they were bleeding at the end of every game. Do you remember them? I’m bringing them up because I was the Sealions’ team chef when they first arrived. They’d just left North Korea, and probably hadn’t had any meat for a while, so I cooked a pork knuckle for them. I’m very good at cooking pork knuckle. You deep-fry it, then braise it with soy sauce and sugar – you need both to add colour to the meat – then you steam it, and finally, you glaze it with the braising juice. I’ve never met anyone who said no to my pork knuckle. Anyway, back to the Three Stallions. I’ll never forget the look on their faces when I set the pork knuckle down in front of them. They couldn’t pull their eyes away. It was like they were staring at a pile of gold coins. They each grabbed their chopsticks, picked up a large chunk of meat, and stuffed it into their mouths. Oil dripped from the pork skin dangling between their lips. You’d worry the dish was too fatty, but it wasn’t a problem for them at all. From that day on, all they ate were my pork knuckles, three meals a day, no vegetables, only pork knuckles and steamed flour buns. The Stallion named Lee was in tears after that first meal. He grabbed my arm and babbled in Korean for ten minutes. Of course I had no idea what he said, so I patted him on his shoulder and said, Okay okay, okay, good, I gotchu man. Go play hard on the field, and you can eat all the pork knuckles you want. But two weeks later, they suddenly stopped eating pork knuckles and refused to touch any meat on
their plates.

Sounds like they’d had too many pork knuckles, my dad said.

It came out of nowhere, Xiao Shubin continued. The coach was worried they weren’t eating enough. He asked me for help, so I went to the Korean neighbourhood in Xita and brought back a few jars of gochujang. That was all it took to solve the problem. For the next few weeks, three meals a day, all they ate was rice with gochujang, so spicy that their lips puffed up. But they trained and played as hard as usual. Well, of course they were fine – they’d lived on the North Korean diet before! By the way, there’s one more thing about the Three Stallions I haven’t told anyone. There was a supervisor who’d come with them from North Korea. He was an old man in his fifties, looked harmless, spoke fluent Chinese. He was like a political commissar. He oversaw every minute of their lives outside football. What did he do? He made them watch North Korean patriotic war movies every night in their dorm. And what did he have to do with me? I got fired by the Sealions because of him! Let me tell you what happened. So, Mr Supervisor and I got to know each other pretty well. It was a few months after the Three Stallions had joined the Sealions, there was one evening, the players were having a film session, and Mr Supervisor came to the kitchen through the back door. We went outside, had a few smokes, and talked for a long time. I told him my boy was also playing football, and he said he could get the Three Stallions to train my boy. I asked him, Wouldn’t that get you in trouble? And he answered, I’m their supervisor, I get to decide everything they do. I was very happy to hear that, I brought my boy to the team facility the next day.
The Three Stallions trained my boy really well, and I couldn’t have been happier.

Xiao Shubin took a sip of his drink and resumed. That evening, when I was going to sleep, bam, bam, someone was banging on my door. It was Mr Supervisor. I put on a jacket and followed him outside. He turned to me and gave me a wink and said, It’s too early to go to sleep. Why not show me around? I was like, You know what time it is? All the shops are closed. He said he wasn’t interested in shops and gave me another wink. The wink made me uneasy, and I asked him what on earth he meant. He winked at me again, and started teasing me. He mimicked the way I always made boned chicken jokes at the lunch table. Ah, so Mr Supervisor wants me to get him a hooker, I realised, finally clocking what his winks were about. Well, how could I say no? My boy needed his help to get into the youth academy of a pro team. But I know now that what I did that night was stupid. I took him to a random massage parlour down the street. I wanted to go back to sleep. I was too lazy to take him to a good spa across the city. Anyway, we went into the massage parlour. The boss lady turned on the pink light, and there were about half a dozen girls lying on couches. The boss said, Pick any girl you like, and Mr Supervisor made himself at home. He was touching the girls’ thighs and flipping their bodies around as if he were at a fish stall. He was taking his time. I got annoyed and said, C’mon man, they’re all the same. Keep your eyes shut, and you’re boning Maggie Cheung. He finally made up his mind and picked a girl. He took her by the waist, and they went into the back room. Two minutes later, just after he’d taken off his pants, the police suddenly stormed in. Damn it, we’re screwed, I thought. Well, it was a police trap, but what could I do about it? Mr Supervisor pretended he knew no Chinese and roared in Korean, but it was no use. The police handcuffed us and took us to the police station. The next afternoon, the Sealions sent someone to pick us up. I went into the team office, and my boss told me I was fired. Damn it. But you know what was funny? They told me I was fired because I’d harmed the friendship between China and North Korea!

Xiao Shubin was so excited by now that he was completely oblivious to my dad’s displeased look. All right, my dad said, waving his hand at him, That’s enough for today. No need to go into all that detail in front of my son.

Two weeks later, on a weekday afternoon, I saw Xiao Shubin again. When I got home after school, he was having a drink with my dad on the balcony. He was sitting sideways, and his face and neck were completely red.

A gold ring this fucking big. Why did I just give it to him? My boy only got fifteen more minutes of playing time! he cried, waving his bottle, spit flying out of his mouth.

But what can you do? Football’s an expensive sport, my dad said.

Xiao Shubin put his hands behind his head and let out a deep sigh. This fucking coach, all he cares about is money! There’s nothing else I can do, really. What else can I do?

Yeah, you’re absolutely right. But who else isn’t going through something like this? I also have to deal with my son’s teachers, my dad said, taking a sip of his drink. Times are tough for everyone. But things will get better soon. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.

Xiao Shubin cast a quick glance at me and said, Your boy is back. I should probably get going, time for him to do homework. My dad told him to stop by any time. Before Xiao Shubin headed out, he smiled to me and said, Kid, I got you some snacks. I put them in your room. My dad made me say thank you. Xiao Shubin said, Keep up the good work. Don’t disappoint your dad.

My dad and I stood behind the door and listened to Xiao Shubin drag his feet downstairs, his slippers slapping the ground. It took him a long time to reach the ground floor, as if he were mulling over his next move with each step he took.

I asked what had brought Xiao Shubin to our home. He needs money, my dad said. He’s got nothing left in the bank to give his son, I couldn’t kick him out.

I suddenly remembered that I’d seen Xiao Shubin’s son just a few days ago by the NE Pharm dorm. He was talking to his dad, I said.

My dad took a sip of his drink and asked me what they’d been up to. I told him I wasn’t sure, but that in the end I saw Xiao Shubin’s son suddenly kick Xiao Shubin in the back of the leg.

And then? my dad asked me, a surprised look on his face.

I don’t know if his knee buckled, but he bent down to clutch his leg. And he kept talking to his son from the floor, with his hand still on his leg. I don’t remember seeing him stand back up.

My dad appeared lost in thought for a moment. At last he said, His son is probably just another sports student with a bad temper. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Now, go to your room and do your homework.

Xiao Shubin picked the wrong time to visit my family. My mum had been having sleeping problems for a few weeks. She would wake after just a few hours of sleep, and from then on all she did for the rest of the night was stare at the ceiling in the dark. During the day, she could not stop yawning, and had no energy to do her work. After two weeks, she started having migraines. She had to massage her throbbing temples every few minutes. The migraines worsened until one evening, when she was in so much pain that she couldn’t even get herself out of bed, my dad rushed her to the hospital. After a night of scans and tests, we were handed a diagnosis none of us were prepared for: there was a tumour in her brain that could only be removed with a craniotomy.

It was a huge blow. My dad’s work as a bike-taxi driver would not be enough to cover the expenses. From that day, he continued to leave home early in the morning, but instead of joining his bike-taxi friends by the road, he headed to our relatives’ homes and asked them for money. After signing a bunch of IOUs and getting some additional help from friends, he managed to raise enough money, and my mum’s craniotomy was scheduled for a few days later. During the surgery, my dad and I waited outside the operating room. We stood there for a long time, until my dad handed me his parka and told me to take a nap on the plastic bench. I couldn’t fall asleep, so I kept my eyes open and stared at the doors to the operating room. Doctors and nurses went in and out through them, speaking to patients’ families in low voices. Their murmurs echoed in the empty hallway, like the quiet, tumultuous buzz of radio or insects.

My dad paced anxiously through the hallway, going to the balcony for cigarette after cigarette. He was in the middle of one when my mum’s surgery ended. The nurses wheeled her out of the operating room and looked for him, but he was nowhere. The air in the hallway was cold, so I took over from the nurses and pushed my mum’s bed towards the elevator. It was heavier than I’d expected, and one of the wheels was broken. The liquid in the IV bottle kept sloshing around. When I reached the elevator, my trembling arms lost control of the bed. The rails hit the metal door with a loud bang – my mum’s head jerked to the side. That was when my dad finally appeared, reeking of tobacco. I turned away from him and punched the ground-floor button. The moment the elevator doors closed, all I wanted to do was kick him hard in the back of his legs and watch him grab his knees in pain.

It took a few days for my mum’s vision to recover after the surgery. Her world was coated in a layer of fog – she needed someone to take care of her. My dad parked his bike in the garage, brought a camp bed to the hospital, and moved into my mum’s room. I went to the hospital after school to help out, and support my mum in regaining her coordination. My dad and I picked up food from the hospital cafeteria and ate dinner together by my mum’s bed. At night, we took turns sleeping on the camp bed.

One evening after dinner, I was doing homework and listening to the news on the radio. The announcer reported, Local communities can finally rest easy as three men from Changchun have been arrested for connections with the Pao-ben Gang . . .

Who are the Pao-ben Gang? I asked my dad.

They hit you on the back of your head with an axe.

Why would they do that?

To rob you. People are desperate for money. If you get hit, you should pray you die on the spot. Otherwise, you’ll end up in a coma and never wake up again.

I should mention another thing that happened during our time at the hospital. One afternoon, Xiao Shubin came to see us, carrying one plastic bag of apples and another of bananas. We were all surprised by his sudden visit. He was wearing his old slippers, and his white shirt looked unusually baggy on him – he’d lost a lot of weight. He found himself a plastic stool and sat uncomfortably on it, casting furtive glances around the room before fixing his eyes on the floor. He began a long rant about the medical system, but nothing he said made any sense. It seemed like he was more concerned with finding a place to rest his hands.

It didn’t take him too long to run out of conversation topics. How’s our sister doing? he asked my dad, referring to my mum.

She’s doing fine, she’ll be good to go home in a few days.

Nice, nice. Does her health insurance cover everything?

No, just a little bit. We have to pay a lot out of our own pocket.

That’s exactly what the hospital wants! Do you know how much you’re paying for things that have nothing to do with her recovery?

But what can we do about it? my dad said. Have you been looking for work?

I have, my man, but I haven’t had any luck. You know what happened? Every restaurant and diner I went to, they said my dishes don’t look elegant. Elegant, what the hell does that mean? It means nobody wants my cafeteria food any more.

Take it easy. You’ve got this, my dad said, to comfort him. Have you been to a football game recently?

Oh, hell yeah. Nothing can stop me from going to the games. But it’s been rough. The Sealions are at the bottom of the league table. Here we go again, playing to not get relegated. Damn it, what were all those expensive international signings for?

Before Xiao Shubin headed out, he took out a fifty-yuan bill from his pocket and tucked it under my mum’s pillow. My dad tried to push his hands away and said, Please don’t do that, dude. I appreciate you, but I can’t take your money.

It’s nothing much, but I want to help. Our sister had a big surgery, she should eat well, Xiao Shubin said, insisting that my dad accept the money. My dad had no choice but to put the bill in his pocket.

My dad headed out with him to send him off. As they were walking downstairs, Xiao Shubin turned to my dad and said, My man, there’s one thing I’ve been thinking about. I wanted to get your thoughts.

Don’t beat around the bush. Just ask if you need help.

If you don’t need your bike in the next three days, any chance I can borrow it? I’m trying to go to another game and take my boy on a day trip.

My dad was reluctant but agreed. Fine, it’s not like I need it in the next few days anyway.

Only three days, I promise. I’ll bring it back with a full tank of gas and without a single scratch, Xiao Shubin said.

The next morning, my mum was cleared to go home. My dad packed her bags and went to the hospital pharmacy to get her prescription. I grabbed our bowls and went to the cafeteria to get lunch. When I passed through the ground-floor lobby, I was caught in a crowd of doctors, nurses and patients. The healthy ones among them were running outside through the front doors, followed by the others who were moving more slowly, dragging their legs. All of them had uneasy looks on their faces. Before I understood what was happening, I too found myself standing outside.

A light drizzle made the humid summer day feel hotter. Raindrops fell to the ground only to evaporate without leaving a stain. I followed other people’s gazes and looked across the street. Dark clouds of smoke billowed above the trees, bringing flames and sparks that flashed and crackled like lightning. Beneath the clouds of smoke was the large metal frame of a trolley bus. Steam rose from the vehicle, carrying screams of horror and despair. I looked around – everyone’s eyes were fixed on the bus as the disaster unfolded.

By the time the fire trucks arrived, the heat radiating from the burning vehicle had evaporated the puddles of rainwater from the surrounding asphalt. The wind had blown smoke across the street, causing the people around me to cough. The screams and cries inside the trolley bus had by then quietened down. The clouds in the sky had thickened, and the light drizzle had become a downpour. But the crowd didn’t disperse. People continued to watch the burning bus, as if they had been trapped out there in the rain.

The evening news reported that the poles of the trolley bus had disconnected from the overhead wires and fallen against the high-voltage cable. The pole ropes had then caught on fire, and the current collector, mounted on the trolley’s roof, had turned red from the heat. Nobody was aware of what had happened, however, until the bus pulled into the next station. Six passengers stepped from the bus and were immediately electrocuted. They collapsed on the ground, their charred bodies lined up in a row as if waiting for another bus. I thought about the crowd in front of the hospital. People around me had been standing on their toes, trying their best to get a look at the bones protruding from the victims’ burnt skin. I remember hearing people count the bodies, one, two, three, four. And as smoke was blown across the street from the bus, those people simply wiped the tears off their eyes and resumed their count, one, two, three, four, five.

Three days passed. My dad was still waiting for Xiao Shubin to return his motorbike. He was ready to get back on the road now that my mum had returned from the hospital. He went to the NE Pharm dorm, but Xiao Shubin and the bike were nowhere to be found. None of us was prepared for this. It seemed as if Xiao Shubin had vanished from the world. My mum was too sick to lash out at my dad. All she could do was lie in bed and sigh.

My dad was in complete denial. He came up with every possible excuse for Xiao Shubin: a traffic accident, a personal emergency, a scratch on the bike, an incident involving the police. He needed to convince himself that sometime in the next few days, his bike would miraculously reappear in the garage, completely intact, with a full tank of gas, and without a single grain of dust on the surface. But miracles don’t happen in my family, and the bike never reappeared. A week later, he finally accepted the truth: that he had trusted the wrong person. Without the bike, and without a way to make money, he locked himself away at home and sullenly paced on the balcony. I heard him murmuring to himself, Why the hell did I trust him? I didn’t even know him. I’d only had drinks with him twice!

Summer came to an end. I entered sixth grade and began studying for the entrance exams for the city’s magnet schools. One evening, after finishing another practice test, I was looking for my study guides, only to find them on top of the washing machine. Someone has moved them around, I thought. I’d always kept the study guides in my briefcase. It was made of artificial leather, with zippers on the top and handles on the side. The words celebrating forty years of the shenyang transformer factory were printed on the bottom-right corner – my dad got it from his factory. It was a spacious briefcase, and I took it with me to my cram school every weekend.

My dad came home later that evening, completely drunk, with a gloomy look on his face. He was holding the briefcase under his arm. It looked much more worn than before, and something long and bulky was protruding from inside, causing white stretchmarks to form on the leather. I was upset that he’d gone out drinking again. He ignored me, went straight to his room, and hid the briefcase in the back corner of the closet. Something doesn’t feel right, I thought. I need to find out what’s going on. When he wasn’t paying attention, I went to his room and pretended to look for my jacket. I reached my hands into the closet – my fingers touched something sharp. A metallic edge sliced my skin through the leather. I remembered what he’d told me about the Pao-ben Gang.

The next morning, my dad left home very early and went on a new search for Xiao Shubin and the motorbike. Relying on his hangover-impaired memory, he found his way to the sports academy that Xiao Shubin’s son attended. He roamed in front of the academy and examined every motorbike parked by the gate. Another thirty minutes of playing time for his son, he said to himself, touching the back seat of another bike that was not his. His search was fruitless, but he did learn one thing from his visit to the sports academy: not every kid in the academy was tall and strong, there would always be those who fell behind. He watched them run slowly on the track, swinging their noodle arms and dragging their legs in pain, and perhaps those boys reminded him of me. Then he found himself on the other side of the school gate, continuing his search for the bike behind the classroom building and inside the garage. The security guard stopped him and asked who he was. He ran away in the direction of the school wall without uttering a word, holding the briefcase tightly under his arm. The guard chased after him but soon stopped. My dad climbed over the school wall and escaped safely. He kept running, until he finally collapsed on the ground out of exhaustion.

His search continued the next day. He left home early in the morning and headed to the NE Pharm dorm. He knocked on the front door of the apartment building, in the morning, in the afternoon, after sunset and at midnight. No one answered. He sat on the front steps under the doorway and waited, holding the briefcase tightly under his arm, smoking cigarette after cigarette. His back was smeared with lime wash from the wall, and cigarette butts were piled up in front of his feet. Residents of the building ran into him when they went to work in the morning, only to see him again when they returned home at night. Everyone greeted him with a look of suspicion and disgust. No one told him anything helpful.

The search continued for weeks, and it completely sucked the life out of him. His eyes became dull, and everything he wore looked as if it were hanging on a skeleton. The only thing that didn’t change was the briefcase, which he took with him every day. I worried, every time I saw it, that at any moment he might take out the sharp, metallic edge.

One evening, when I got home from school, I found my dad sitting in the kitchen by himself, staring listlessly at the drink in his glass. When he finally remembered to take a sip, he gestured me to come over to him and said, One–nil.

What do you mean? I asked.

The second-to-last round of the season, the Sealions versus Shandong Luneng Taishan. One–nil. We won. We did it. We aren’t getting relegated.

I asked if he’d gone to watch the game in Wulihe, and he nodded. Was Mr Xiao there? He shook his head. How about the bike? He shook his head again.

That’s enough, Dad, I said. You’ve tried hard enough, now it’s time to stop.

I just don’t get it, he said suddenly, raising his voice.

What do you not get?

He took another sip of his drink and fell silent again. It took me many years to understand what was on his mind: How can anyone simply give up something they’re so deeply in love with?

The final game day of the season was in the last week of October. As my dad had said, the Sealions were safe from relegation, regardless of the result of the last game. That morning, my dad suddenly asked me if I wanted to go to the game with him. I wasn’t particularly interested, but I wanted to make him happy. We went to Wulihe by bus, and I slept the entire ride. The bus dropped us off in front of the stadium at around noon, hours ahead of kick-off. My dad took me to the ticket office.

Two regular tickets, he said. I looked at him in surprise. That day, he never took out his lay-off certificate.

No one else had arrived when we took our seats. A large shadow had moved from the east balcony to the west balcony by the time the game finally started. We had a great view, but the game was boring. The players strolled around the field for ninety minutes, and the head referee checked his watch after every pass. The stadium was mostly empty. Needless to say, the score was nil–nil.

The game ended around sunset. My dad and I needed to go home and make dinner, so we hurried out of the stadium and boarded the first trolley bus. The bus was packed with Sealions fans wearing the yellow jerseys. I was squeezed into a corner, my face pressed against the window. The old vehicle was nearing the end of its life – after the incident that summer, the city government had ordered all trolley buses to be retired by the end of the year. The giant beast we were on was too old to move fast on the streets. Dragging the two poles above its head, it shuddered beneath bridges and through tunnels, as the cold wind seeped through the cracks of its doors and windows. We drove past diners, karaoke bars and spas. A few small stores by the streets were under renovation, with fresh heaps of dirt piled up before their front steps. My dad clenched the handrail and quietly stood behind me.

It had rained earlier in the day, and the air remained cold and damp. Our trolley bus stopped frequently. It began to wobble and bounce as it moved along the muddy road beneath Liangdong Bridge, as if we were driving on a trampoline. Above us, cargo trains from the north carrying steel and timber haphazardly covered by tarps slowly crossed the bridge. The deafening sound of train wheels vibrated on the tracks and echoed powerfully in the tunnel, as if the bridge was about to collapse. I let my mind be swallowed by thunderous noise, and I looked out the window – a familiar figure was standing by the tunnel wall. It was Xiao Shubin.

He was wearing a white headlamp and a thin jacket, and the cigarette between his lips shivered in the cold weather. I couldn’t tell what was on his mind from the strange look on his face. Next to him, my dad’s motorbike was leaning against the wall. The October wind swirled in the tunnel, the city’s lowest point, blowing garbage, rainwater and fallen leaves into the air. He spotted our trolley bus and suddenly stopped shivering. His hands reached for his giant flag, and he began waving it with full force, as if he were a commander, calling his troops to battle.

I knew my dad had also caught sight of him and the bike. But neither of us said anything or looked back. The bus quietly moved past Xiao Shubin, before coming to a sudden stop. The passengers behind us fell against our backs, like waves crashing on the beach.

Other people in the bus had also spotted Xiao Shubin and his flag. One Sealions fan began singing the team anthem. Another fan joined him, then another, and another, and another, and many more. Their synchronised voices echoed in the bus like a sacred prayer: We are the Sealions, breaking the waves! We are the Sealions, cruising ahead, cruising on! Shenyang’s sisters and brothers, we’re always by your side! Arm in arm, hand in hand, we march ahead, march on!

The singing came to an end as our bus pulled into the next stop. Many passengers got off, and just a few got on. The bus was no longer crowded. The remaining passengers got off one after another before my dad and me. When we arrived at the final stop, the rain had started again.

The next day, my dad went to the central heating company and found a job. He knew nothing about pipelines and had to learn everything from the beginning. He emptied his briefcase and refilled it with pencils and stacks of paper. Unfortunately, he only kept his job for less than a year, before losing it again. He bounced around a few different jobs, then, and learned many more things from the beginning. Until, suddenly, it was time for him to retire. He’d become too old to land a long-term job. He’d become old before I was prepared for it – those difficult years went by much faster than I’d expected.

There’s one thing I’ve never told my dad: that winter, I ran into Xiao Shubin’s son many times near the NE Pharm dorm. He had a medium build and pale skin, and I thought he was very handsome. He looked only a few years older than I was, but he already had a girlfriend. They seemed very close and had already moved in together. He had probably left his football team by then. If I’d never heard about him, I’d never have been able to tell that he’d been, once upon a time, the star striker at a sports academy. Each time I saw him, he was wearing a long down jacket and holding his girlfriend around her waist. I remember spotting them everywhere near the NE Pharm dorm, from the back alleys to the railway bridge, from the farmers’ market to the neighbourhood park. Sometimes he held a cabbage in his hand, sometimes she had a plastic bag of instant noodles hanging from her fingers, other times neither of them carried anything. His girlfriend was very skinny. She always wore heavy make-up and tight black leather pants, and put her bleached hair up in a high ponytail. One time I ran into her when she was on her own. It was snowing heavily, and she was walking with her head down, taking small and uneven steps, shivering in an old sweater decorated with plastic beads that were no longer shiny. She grasped her collar tightly, pursed her lips and squinted. A sudden gust of wind blew the snow on the trees into the air. A few snowflakes landed on her fake eyelashes. At that moment, I thought she was the prettiest person in the world.

Artwork by Leon Eckert, Rearview Mirrors, 2024