In the 1990s, green-skinned trains were still painfully slow. As this one rolled across the North China Plain in autumn, it resembled a soybean caterpillar, slowly crawling through gold that stretched beyond the eye's reach.
Because it was a train bound for the capital, the carriage was packed. The aisle was filled with people clutching standing-room tickets, their eyes locked onto the seats on either side, hoping to spot the next passenger about to get off before anyone else did.
Train rides these days often lasted more than ten hours. Being squeezed into the aisle the whole time was exhausting, so if you wanted to rest your aching, swollen legs in a seat, you had to keep your eyes in all directions and your ears open to every sound, ready to snatch one the moment someone got off.
Bi Hongwei had been squatting in the carriage junction with his old mother and son for three or four hours already.
He had never traveled far from home. Forget competing with others for a seat—even staying in the aisle was more than he could bear.
People constantly came and went through the aisle. If he squatted there, he was bound to inconvenience others and draw no end of dirty looks.
And plenty of people were snobs. They did not dare make a peep when they saw some thug with a face full of flesh, but if they saw an honest country bumpkin who had never left home, naturally they had nothing good to say.
Bi Hongwei was a renowned carpenter back home and had his own pride. Being cursed in accents from north and south alike with "A good dog doesn't block the road" every other minute was something he truly could not endure.
But he could not start fighting every time