Lamb Skewer Vendor
In Zhonghai’s West District wet market, people and traffic still shoved through the dusk. Vegetable scraps floated on filthy water across the ground. Shop signs of every color hung with peeling paint; here and there a tired neon tube flickered. Workers heading home, kids out of school, old folks buying dinner, travelers dusty from the road—under a gray sky, the whole place felt heavier by the minute.
In a city that called itself international, a block like this was the stain people despised most, the one they wished had never existed.
By a low wall near the crossing, one man was taking his time at something most people wouldn’t call respectable.
His hair was a mess, but the face under it was sharp in a slightly worn way—good-looking if you looked twice, with a quiet masculine edge. The girls on the street never did. He was just the guy selling lamb skewers.
He set a few fresh skewers aside. Heat made the grilling easy; selling them was the hard part. Two for fifty fen was already cheap, and a whole day still only brought him a little over ten yuan—barely enough for two meals.
He didn’t look especially crushed. He dropped onto the little stool behind him, almost content, watching the anxious rush of cars and bodies as if that chaos were the best view in the world.
“Old Li, the money you promised the other day—time to hand it over.” The voice that cut in was rough and nasal, like a duck’s.
Three boys who barely looked twenty swaggered over, dressed like cheap punks. The one in front had his hair spiked, a silver chain at his neck, jeans full of holes. His face was thin; a cigarette hung from his lips.
Old Li sold fried snacks at the next stall. Same hot day, same dead business. He sat there stewing.
“I…” Li’s face twisted. “Young master, cut me some slack. Look at this heat—no customers. How am I supposed to pay?”
“I’m telling you, Li, don’t push it,” one of the hangers-on barked, half threat, half sucking up. “If Brother Feng wasn’t looking out for you, this stall would’ve been gone ages ago.”
The punk they called Brother Feng looked pleased with himself. He grinned, clapped the short one on the shoulder, then turned on Old Li. “Protection fee today—pay or don’t, I’m taking the money. Or I flip this stall right now.” He grabbed a string of sausages, tore off a bite, and tossed the rest on the ground.
Old Li was stuck. His fingers locked on the thin wad in his pocket. He’d rather wait them out. That cash was for his wife’s medicine. How could he “show respect” to a pack of street rats with that?
“I’ll cover him.” The skewer seller stepped over, pulled a few dry bills from his pants—nowhere near a hundred yuan—and held them out, voice flat. “That’s it. Old Li’s getting on, and he needs the money. Do yourselves a favor and leave a little karma on the table.”
The punk squinted, chuckled, took the bills, and passed them back. “Yang Chen, still playing hero? You haven’t even paid your own fee.”
Yang Chen frowned. Kids that young, ditching school to play gangster—what a waste. He wasn’t their father, though, and he didn’t need the trouble. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I’ll pay tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’m a reasonable guy. I watch your stalls, you pay me—fair’s fair. I’ll be back tomorrow.” Brother Feng swaggered off with his two shadows to squeeze the next vendors.
Old Li’s eyes were already red. He looked at Yang Chen, bitter. “Xiao Yang, why do this? You keep covering those dogs for me. How am I supposed to live with that?”
“Don’t. When I first showed up here, I didn’t know a soul. Without you I’d still have nobody to talk to. You’re the one who helped me. This is me paying that back.”
“You kid…” Old Li knew he wouldn’t win. He only sighed.
Yang Chen smiled, slight and real, the shakedown already off his mind. “How’s your wife?”
Gratitude filled Old Li’s eyes. “Thanks to what you lent me for her surgery, she just needs checkups and meds now.”
“Good. Tell her I hope she’s better soon.” Yang Chen nodded, satisfied.
Old Li gave a crooked smile. “I’ll pay you back. If I die still owing, my daughter will. Ai—if it weren’t for me, that hundred-odd thousand of yours could’ve opened a proper shop. You wouldn’t be out here grilling skewers, swallowing crap from punks.”
Yang Chen shrugged. “I kind of like it. Skewers are simple. I eat.”
“I’m saying…” Old Li sounded frustrated. “You’re twenty-three, twenty-four. Other guys your age are in university or climbing. You don’t even have a girlfriend. You planning to sell skewers forever? Maybe you’re not in a hurry. Watching you, I am.”
The concern was real. A bitter edge touched Yang Chen’s mouth. It wasn’t that he wasn’t anxious. He simply hadn’t let himself think about any of that.
After dark he packed up, pushed his single-wheel cart back to the crumbling little place he rented.
The building was older than anyone bothered to count. Rent was a hundred yuan a month—that cheap because nobody else would live there. Yang Chen didn’t worry about it coming down. Cheap was enough.
Inside, almost everything was secondhand scrap: a bed, a cabinet, a chair, a TV that only picked up CCTV.
He shoved the stall gear into the room, checked the wall calendar, counted the days—and something clicked. He bolted for the bathroom.
Five minutes later he walked out of a cold shower bare. His skin was a healthy wheat-brown, lines even; the muscle wasn’t showy, but if you looked, you felt the strength under it.
At the big wooden cabinet by the bed he scratched at wet hair, stared at the mess of clothes, and finally pulled on a beige shirt, thin linen pants, and the same plastic slippers.
Then he headed for the West District’s only street that still looked alive—Bar Street.
Nightlife was already thick: bright skirts, mixed perfume. Step onto the strip and the city hit you.
Other young men stared openly or sideways at bare legs on the sidewalk. Yang Chen walked straight to a place called ROSE.
The neon wasn’t loud—mid-sized bar, a little suggestive, rose-shaped lights scattered across the sign.
He went in, cut along the wall to the counter, and took the seat in the corner.
“Chen-ge, you made it.” The young bartender in a black vest over a shirt lit up and set down a glass of water. “Rose’s been waiting on you forever.”
Yang Chen smiled, took a sip. “She mad? I got home late, so I’m late here.”
“Not mad, not mad.” Little Zhao’s round, pimpled face seemed to grin with him. He dropped his voice. “Chen-ge, when you’ve got a minute, teach me. What did you pull to land our Rose? Half the men in Zhonghai would line up from the West District to the river mouth for the boss. In all these years I’ve never seen her this hung up on anyone. Today alone she asked me five times if you’d shown.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. It’s not like that with me and Rose.”
Zhao looked like he’d never believe it, then sighed. “Honestly, Chen-ge, that cold act of yours is lethal. Any guy who got a woman like her would be glued to her every day. You finally show, and you still make her wait. No wonder they say what you can’t have is best—works on women too…”
He was still holding forth like a love guru when a voice slid in behind him—soft, beautiful, and sharp enough to cut. “Xiao Zhao. How many more times do you want me to dock your pay?”
Zhao went rigid, like he’d been shocked. Then he scrambled aside and pretended to work the shaker, as if nothing had happened. The sweat on his forehead gave him away.
She came toward Yang Chen in a rich, modern qipao, the high slit flashing a line of thigh, full chest and narrow waist set against a face like fine porcelain, shoulder-length hair with a few strands of light purple—like someone stepped out of a painting.
Yang Chen met her eyes without flinching, smile at the corners, and said it simply. “Rose—you look beautiful. Happy birthday.”
