1979 Gold Age

As people get older, they realize that sometimes having a good bowel movement is something to boast about. Spring, 1979. Chen Qi pulled up his pants and stepped out of the public toilet in Menkuang Hutong, drawing a satisfied circle in the air. Because he had just had a perfect bowel movement—smooth and satisfying. His body felt lighter, his mind refreshed, and his 19-year-old heart pumped blood with strength. Even his yet-to-be-unsealed sponge-like tissue stirred slightly under the pressure from his abdomen—what a long-lost sensation! It was nine in the morning. Work hours had already begun, so the hutong was eerily quiet. The narrow alley stretched about a hundred meters long and three meters wide, hidden inconspicuously within Dashilan. But thirty years ago, this was a famous food street, bustling with flavors: Fushunzhai’s braised beef, Ruibinlou’s pan-fried dumplings, Kang’s old tofu, as well as Rice Cake Qian, Baodu Feng, Baozi Yang… Together with Dashilan, they once made up the most prosperous area of Beijing. Chen Qi walked a few steps and stopped at the entrance of Courtyard No. 12. A plaque on the door read: Xinhua Bookstore Dormitory. This was once the residence of Zhang Henshui. The courtyard had seven inner yards, exceptionally spacious. Zhang Henshui lived here for three years and wrote Golden Powder Family before moving to Nanjing. After changing hands multiple times, the residence eventually became a dormitory. Like most dormitories, it was anything but orderly. Dozens of households shared a single water source. Unauthorized coal sheds and cluttered storage rooms filled every corner. Pots, pans, chickens, and stray dogs contributed to the constant noise. Some people romanticize "the atmosphere of ordinary life," but that only works when you observe from a privileged distance. If you're living in it, you’d never find it beautiful. Chen Qi couldn't get used to this broken place. With his parents at work, he stepped inside, washed his hands, splashed water on his face, and looked into a mirror with an "East is Red" design. A young man stared back at him. His hair wasn't styled like the popular side part; instead, it was cut very short, each strand standing upright like tiny spikes. His eyes were sharp, lips slightly thin, adding a rebellious edge to his handsome face. At 178 cm, he was tall for this era. How tall? Well, Aaron Kwok was around 165 cm, Andy Lau 169 cm, Jacky Cheung 173 cm, and Leon Lai 179 cm—an actual tall guy. If you ever thought the other three were tall, that's because they constantly wore custom height-enhancing insoles. "Chen Qi?" "Chen Qi?" A sudden shout came from outside. A girl ran in—short bob haircut, apple-shaped face, rough skin, tall stature. She wore an old gray cotton outfit with black cloth shoes that had red soles. Her feet were at least size 41. "Why are you still dawdling? Hurry up, we have a meeting to attend!" "I don’t want to go." He lazily sprawled out, wanting to lie down a bit longer. "If you keep acting like this, I’ll have to criticize you. Why have you become such a passive and decadent reactionary since returning to the city? Comrade Chen Qi, pull yourself together! Don’t let temporary hardships make you give up. The organization will arrange jobs for us!" "Comrade Huang Zhanying, don’t be so sentimental about our revolutionary friendship. Just let me rot in peace…" "Enough nonsense, get up, get up!" Huang Zhanying had a loud voice and even greater strength. She yanked him up with ease. Chen Qi had no choice but to slowly put on his coat and slip on his own pair of black cloth shoes with red soles. Each on a bicycle, they pedaled out of the hutong. At a glance, Dashilan was coming back to life. Zigzagging through the alleys, they reached Zhushikou Street, then headed eastward. Beijing in 1979 felt like a slow-moving series of old photographs passing by. The sky was hazy gray. With few cars on the road, the streets appeared unnaturally wide. Bicycles dominated the center, flanked by low, dilapidated buildings and a dense web of utility poles and wires. The people dressed in dull hues—blue, gray, army green—only the white uniforms of the police added a hint of brightness. On both sides of the road, tree planting was underway. A few years ago, the United Nations Environment Programme declared Beijing a city on the brink of desertification. It was true—springtime sandstorms were relentless. That year, another massive yellow dust storm hit, prompting Xinhua News Agency to publish an article titled Sandstorms Closing in on Beijing. Coinciding with the Fifth National People's Congress, March 12th was officially designated National Tree Planting Day. This was the first year. The entire city was planting poplar trees. And so, in addition to spring sandstorms, Beijing would soon be plagued with swirling poplar and willow fluff… After cycling for about five kilometers, they reached the east side of the Temple of Heaven. A building loomed ahead: Chongwen District Workers' Club! "So many people?" "I think every unemployed youth in the area is here!" "Hey, it's called 'waiting for employment'!" "Right, right, ‘waiting for employment’... Damn, they're already coming up with fancy new terms for it." Chen Qi muttered to himself. Before them stretched a sea of people, packed so tightly they couldn't squeeze in. Young men and women with dejected expressions and outdated clothes stood around, occasionally glancing toward the entrance, waiting for the club to open. Huang Zhanying, an extrovert with no trace of social anxiety, grabbed a skinny young man with glasses and asked, "Comrade, we just got here. Have you heard anything?" "I actually did!" The guy enthusiastically lowered his voice. "I heard we’re a pilot group. They’re using us as test subjects. The government plans to set up Production and Service Cooperatives." "Cooperatives? But that’s a collective unit!" Huang Zhanying's eyes widened, nearly popping out of her head. She whispered, "That won’t work. Collective units pay low wages, offer poor benefits, and have zero perks. Plus, people will look down on us!" "Hey, weren't you acting all noble and idealistic back at my house? What happened to your revolutionary spirit?" Chen Qi teased. "If it were a formal government job, I’d be willing to clean toilets. But a collective unit? That’s not a real job! Don’t laugh at me—you’re the same. Can your parents endure that kind of shame?" "I don’t care…" Before they could continue, the crowd surged forward. Loud shouts attempted to maintain order. The club had opened. Huang Zhanying yanked him along like a charging bull, forcing their way inside. The venue was a large hall that could accommodate over a thousand people, with an upper and lower level. At the front was a stage, suitable for events and movie screenings. A bold red banner hung across the stage: Government Job Placement Meeting for Unemployed Youth! They found seats. Soon, officials took the stage, and the meeting officially began. At the start of 1979, 20 million people in China were waiting for jobs—including 10 million former "educated youth", 2.3 million urban idle workers, 1.05 million recent graduates and retired soldiers. Beijing was especially severe, with 400,000 unemployed youth—one in every 2.7 households had someone jobless. That ratio was terrifying. Even worse than post-pandemic times. Many romanticize this era, thinking middle school graduates could easily land jobs. Sure, jobs were "assigned"—but only if enough positions existed. Now, the same crisis had returned. Chen Qi yawned. "Ah…" And sighed. "Damn. I lost money on short dramas." "How did I, a successful businessman worth millions, end up in this broken hutong emptying chamber pots? Where’s the justice in that?" That’s right. He was not from this era.