1979 Gold Age

Chapter 3 Labor is the Most Glorious

Without realizing it, dusk had fallen.

Chen Qi glanced at the time, gathered the few pages of manuscript he had written, and tucked them under his bed.

As the soft light of the setting sun cast a glow on the desk, the once-quiet courtyard finally came to life. The ringing of bicycle bells, the chatter of children, and the clanking of knives chopping vegetables mixed together, while wisps of smoke from cooking fires drifted in the air.

"Mom, you're back!"

"What delicious food did you buy?"

"It's neither a holiday nor a festival—what's there to buy? Just cabbage, potatoes, and some pickled vegetables."

Yu Xiuli came home from work right on time. Without wasting a moment, she took off her coat and got busy, giving instructions as she worked. "Put the pickled vegetables on a plate. There’s still half a block of tofu left from this morning—bring it out!"

"How should I cook the tofu? Boil it with the pickled vegetables?"

"Boil your head! Just blanch it in hot water and mix it with sauce!"

The pickled vegetables included two kinds: soy-pickled cucumbers and sweet-spicy dried r****h, both from Liubiju.

Liubiju was previously known as the "Red Flag Pickled Vegetable Store." In 1972, when Japanese Prime Minister Tanaka Kakuei visited China, his delegation requested to visit Liubiju, which led to the store restoring its historical plaque.

The small kitchen was built outside the house—a simple shed made of bricks and tar paper. A stove and a cupboard filled the space completely. Next to the kitchen was the coal briquette storage, also covered with tar paper, with the briquettes neatly stacked—a sign of a tidy household.

Some lazy families would leave the coal scattered, and when it rained, black water would seep out and pool into murky puddles.

Chen Qi took the initiative to help.

He had only been here for a few days—how could he have any real feelings for his parents?

Of course not, but since they treated him well, he wasn't stingy with his response.

As Yu Xiuli swiftly prepared dinner, she occasionally glanced at him, feeling puzzled. This kid had been like a salted fish just days ago—why had he suddenly sprung to life like a carp flipping out of water?

By the time the sky had darkened, dinner was ready, and his "cheap old dad" Chen Jianjun had returned home.

Chen Jianjun was in his forties, tall and thin, with a refined demeanor. Though his clothes were old, they were neat and clean, and a fountain pen was clipped to the pocket on his chest.

Chen Jianjun was a bookshop salesman.

Xinhua Bookstore was the largest book distribution unit in the country. If a book or magazine wanted to be published, it had to go through the salesmen, who would make an initial judgment based on its content and report an estimated circulation number to the bookstore—for example, 1,000 copies. The bookstore would order that amount first and adjust based on market response.

But later, the job of a salesman changed—it became more of a sales position as the book industry opened up and lost its monopoly.

"Dad!"

"Did you go to the meeting?"

"Yes!"

"Alright, we'll talk after dinner."

Chen Jianjun smiled gently—he had the kind of refined demeanor of someone who had never uttered a curse word in his life.

Dinner was simple: braised potatoes with glass noodles and cabbage, tofu, and pickled vegetables.

It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford meat—they just couldn’t buy it. Urban residents were only allotted 150–250 grams of pork per month. During the Three Years of Hardship, Beijing residents were rationed an annual average of only 425 grams of pork per person, and other places had it even worse—some had none at all.

Both his parents were educated people, with a certain sense of decorum. They didn’t talk about serious matters during meals.

Only after they finished eating did Chen Jianjun ask about the meeting. Chen Qi repeated everything.

"What do you think?"

"I—"

Before he could answer, someone suddenly called from outside, "Is Chen Qi home?"

"Oh, Auntie Wang!"

"Come in, come in! What brings you here?"

The visitor was an elderly woman with graying hair and a kind smile—one of the neighborhood committee cadres. She sat down with an air of authority and said with a smile, "There was a big meeting this morning, and by the afternoon, we were already assigned tasks. The neighborhood was given 13 young people, and we must find jobs for them.

I figured everyone would be home in the evening, so I came by to check. You’re the first household on my list."

"Oh dear, sorry to trouble you! You’re still working so late..."

Yu Xiuli poured her a cup of water. She had been meaning to ask about this. "Auntie Wang, my son mentioned something about setting up a production and service cooperative. You know that’s a collective unit, and collective units don’t get much attention. I’m not saying collective work is bad, but doesn’t our neighborhood have a garment factory? Couldn’t he be placed there?"

"Oh, you think that’s easy? Do you know how many unemployed young people there are in the district?"

Auntie Wang slapped her thigh and gestured. "Eighty thousand! Where is the government supposed to find 80,000 jobs? Everyone is worried sick about this, from top to bottom. And many of them are already twenty-five or twenty-six years old, unemployed for years—we have to prioritize them.

That garment factory? We had to beg and plead just to squeeze in a hundred people. You’d better forget about it."

"Then what do you suggest they do?"

Chen Jianjun asked.

"Here’s what I’m thinking..."

Auntie Wang took a sip of water. "Qianmen is a prime location—both locals and tourists love to visit. Every year, countless people come on business trips and stop by Qianmen. But guess what? With all the shops there, not a single one sells water! Visitors can’t even find a drink!

If they want to buy a Beibingyang soda, that’s 1.5 yuan—plus a ration ticket! People are reluctant to spend that much. I’ve even seen folks drinking straight from garden hoses.

So we thought—if we set up a tea stall in Qianmen, people will definitely buy it."

Selling tea water???

His parents exchanged shocked looks. This was beneath them! They were educated people, working at Xinhua Bookstore—and their son was supposed to sell tea on the street?

In the old days, that was the lowest of the low.

In Rickshaw Boy, when an old man could no longer pull a rickshaw, he resorted to selling tea just to survive. Even a rickshaw puller was better off—at least he had a rented house, had owned a rickshaw (three times, though he lost them all), and had a wife (who died in childbirth).

"Auntie Wang, is there really no other job available?"

"Sure! There are skilled jobs. Does your son know carpentry?"

"No!"

"Does he have tailoring skills?"

"No!"

"Can he cook in a restaurant?"

"No!"

"Well, there you have it!"

"..."

His parents exchanged another helpless look. Were they raising a useless son? And the worst part? That useless son seemed to be enjoying himself, as if they weren’t even talking about him.

"Alright, you discuss it—I have more houses to visit!"

Auntie Wang left.

The three sat in silence for a while. Yu Xiuli finally said, "Well? What do you think?"

"I follow the organization’s arrangements—I’ll do whatever job I’m assigned!" Chen Qi said.

"You’d really sell tea? Right near the bookstore? My colleagues would laugh me to death!"

"They won’t—because their kids will be selling tea with me."

Pfft!

Yu Xiuli almost fainted from anger. "Stop being cheeky! I’ll apply for early retirement, and you’ll take my job!"

"I don’t need you to retire. If you do, I’ll go set up a stall immediately."

"Xiao Qi, you don't want to be glib, you tell us the truth, why do you want to go?"

Chen Jianjun, who had been silent the whole time, finally spoke.

“No special reason,” Chen Qi replied. “I just think labor is honorable. No matter where I work, I can contribute to the country. You guys are just stuck in outdated thinking, looking down on selling tea. Even Shi Chuanxiang, a night soil collector, became a National People's Congress representative and a national model worker. So what’s wrong with selling tea? One day, I can also stand in the Great Hall of the People and shake hands with the leaders!”

Wow. The brilliance of Chen Qi’s political awareness was dazzling.

Shi Chuanxiang was a night soil collector from Chongwen District. In 1966, during the National Day celebrations, he ascended Tiananmen Tower.

At that time, Beijing saw a wave of voluntary night soil collection. University students, writers, journalists, and actors all lined up to work alongside him. It was said that a female student from Tsinghua, unable to get a spot, even pretended to be Shi Chuanxiang’s goddaughter just to fulfill her wish of shoveling excrement with him.

His story was even included in elementary school textbooks back in the day—though whether it's still there now is unknown.

That was the era when the working class was truly revered!

Hearing such an irrefutable statement, Chen Jianjun was momentarily at a loss for words. He glanced at Yu Xiuli as if to say, "Maybe we should have another kid? This one seems a bit... off."

Preaching about self-sacrifice is easy.

But when it comes to yourself or your family, being truly willing to make sacrifices—that’s what makes a real role model. And not everyone can do that.

Since the conversation wasn’t going anywhere, they could only call it a night.

There was no television at home, and the frequent power outages left little room for entertainment beyond an old, battered radio.

Outside, the courtyard gradually quieted. Moonlight cast faint shadows on the curtains, and the chirping of spring insects filled the air. Lying on the bed in the outer room, Chen Qi could hear his parents whispering inside. They were definitely still discussing his job situation.

He genuinely didn’t want Yu Xiuli to retire early—because he knew he wouldn’t last long in that position anyway, and that would just be a waste.

Besides, he had zero interest in working at Xinhua Bookstore. Some families had three generations in the tobacco industry, three generations in oil, three generations in electricity, three generations in banking... And here he was, the third generation in a bookstore?

“……”

Chen Qi turned over and closed his eyes.

Selling tea or doing something else—it didn’t really matter.

He was just waiting for the right moment to grab his bucket and make a run for it.