The Rake’s Tale of an Orphan

Lessons from the Leisure Shop

Business at my little convenience shop was unexpectedly decent. First, it was close to the local government offices, and their people often came by to buy things—though they liked to put stuff on a tab, they always paid in full when the budget cleared. Nobody dared stiff me. Second, back in those days, private shops were rare, so it wasn’t like they had many choices. Third, I was known to be easy-going and never fussed over a few coins here or there. Add to that my knack for chatting—I had a sharp tongue, a ready joke, and a way with words that made people want to swing by just to shoot the breeze.

Sometimes folks from across town would come all the way over just to buy a bag of salt from me. Not because I sold the best salt, but because they wanted a few laughs with it.

When business was slow, I’d head next door. My neighbor ran a small wholesale supply shop that sold basic hardware. His goods didn’t compete with mine, so we got along fine.

The shopkeeper was an old man with thick glasses and the air of someone who’d once known the world. I wasn’t wrong—he had been a university lecturer during the Cultural Revolution. That is, until they threw him into a “cowshed” (one of those political re-education camps). His wife, unable to cope, took their child and returned to her hometown—our sleepy little village. When things settled after the Revolution, he took his compensation, gave up on city life and the university, and rejoined his family in our quiet corner of the world. Since then, he’d lived like a commoner, far removed from worldly disputes.

I liked hanging out in his shop because the guy was a walking encyclopedia. Honestly, he knew more than all my language teachers from grade school to junior high combined. Even better—he had books. Piles of them. For someone like me, who was bored to death most of the time, that was irresistible.

I didn’t just mooch, though. I helped him out. He was over fifty and couldn’t handle much physical work, so I did the heavy lifting for him. Out of respect for his age, I bore it... well, semi-reluctantly.

At first, I only read novels. But he had precious few, and most were foreign. So, I started with the Chinese classics—Journey to the West came first.

I remember the old man muttering, “The old shouldn’t read Three Kingdoms, the young shouldn’t read Journey to the West.”

I ignored him. But still, I decided to read Three Kingdoms next.

Frankly, Journey to the West was overrated. The early chapters—especially the ones about the havoc in Heaven—were great. But the rest? Just filler. It was like some modern w*******l writers on Qidian—after a flashy start, it all devolved into pointless drivel designed to squeeze out VIP subscriptions. I didn’t even finish half of it before I switched over.

When I returned the book, the old man was surprised.

“Already?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Didn’t finish. The beginning was good, but then it just got stupid. After that monk slapped the golden headband on Monkey, he turned into a neutered pet. Immortals feared him, yet he kept getting toyed with by some divine brat or celestial pet? It pissed me off. No thanks.”

He smiled and asked, “So, what now?”

“Three Kingdoms,” I said. “Didn’t you basically hint that I should read it?”

He just chuckled and brought it out from the back room.

That book? Way better. Three factions duking it out for decades, each just shy of wiping out the others. Then the Sima clan waltzes in and grabs the prize. I devoured it in two weeks—day and night.

When I returned it, the shop was empty, so we sat and talked. Naturally, we started discussing the characters. He asked who I liked. I said Jiang Wei and Liu Shan.

He was stunned. Jiang Wei he could accept—but Liu Shan?

I explained, “Liu Shan is a genius. People say he was a dullard, but I don’t buy it. Luo Guanzhong couldn’t rewrite history, so he painted Liu Shan as useless to justify Shu’s fall. But if you look closely—it’s all on Zhuge Liang.”

He raised an eyebrow. I continued.

“Zhuge was a chaos machine—going around stirring the pot under the banner of restoring the Han. Take that ‘Seven Captures of Meng Huo’ nonsense—waste of time. Why not just train a successor instead of dragging a puppet emperor through war after war? Worst was his obsession with Qishan. Dude had a death wish. Straight-up war addict.”

“As for Liu Shan, people say he was weak. I say he was smart. He played dumb to survive. If he acted too sharp, Zhuge might’ve booted him. And when Shu finally fell, what did he do? ‘Happy in Jin, forgetful of Shu.’ Smartest move in the book. Eat well, sleep well—switch from Zhuge to Sima. What's the difference?”

The old man looked at me like I was some bizarre species. He couldn’t refute me, but he also couldn’t accept it. “A thousand minds, a thousand interpretations,” he mumbled. Then he just stopped engaging—maybe thinking I was too much of a rogue to discuss literature with.

What he didn’t know was that my worldview was shaped by my life—grab what benefits you can, ignore what doesn’t. That’s why I admired Liu Shan: do nothing, eat well, let Zhuge burn himself out. Beautiful.

Then I moved on to Water Margin. That fool Song Jiang led a bunch of freedom fighters straight into becoming government enforcers—killed Fang La, got poisoned. i***t. Should’ve stayed kings of the mountain. He wasn’t “Timely Rain.” He was a damn hailstorm—smashed a whole army of heroes.

Dream of the Red Chamber? Couldn’t stand it. Read a few chapters, front and back, then returned it. Didn't get it. Didn’t care. Too far from my life. Monkey taught me rebellion. Three Kingdoms taught me scheming. Water Margin taught me to pick my friends wisely. But Red Chamber? All I saw was a rich boy with a rock and too many girls. If he weren’t born with money and that jade, he’d be a male escort today.

In just over a month, I’d read the so-called Four Great Classics. What baffled me was that some people dedicate their whole lives to analyzing just one of them. For what? The good of the people? Doesn’t look like it.

Then I saw some professor on TV blabbering about Qin Keqing from Red Chamber, trying to tie her to some royal conspiracy. Wrote a book, stirred controversy, sold out like hotcakes. That guy had business sense—I’ll give him that.

One day, I grabbed another “Four” book from the shelf—The Four Books. Didn’t even look at the contents. Just thought it matched the theme. The old man’s eyes widened when I took it. Thought maybe I had a booger on my face or something.

Back at my shop, I opened it: classical Chinese. Damn. He was testing me!

But hey—I’m no quitter. I’d heard of The Analects and Mencius before. Stuff like “Isn’t it a joy to have friends visit from afar?” I couldn’t back down now.

So, I started reading. Slowly. Thank God for annotations.

Great Learning was okay. But The Doctrine of the Mean? That hit home. It was like a manual on how to fake weakness to gain the upper hand—exactly my style! Ancient Chinese tricksters—my spiritual ancestors!

Later, I read Laozi—basically a sharper, more poetic Doctrine of the Mean. Some of his lines? Pure gold. “The highest good is like water.” “Because he does not contend, no one can contend with him.” Though I gotta say—his dream of chicken clucks across peaceful villages with no one visiting each other till death? Creepy.

After returning it, the old man finally spoke: “So, what do you think of Laozi?”

I thought for a bit. “Makes sense, but if people lived like that, the world would be boring as hell. If your neighbors can hear your chickens but never visit? That’s not peace. That’s solitary confinement.”

He nodded. “You’re teachable. Confucius shows you how to be. Laozi shows you how to survive. China’s wisdom lies in the balance. Let’s chat more from now on, alright?”

And just like that, I became his student. He even brought out his daughter’s old high school textbooks and started tutoring me. Math and science weren’t his strong suits, but literature? The man was a treasure trove.

In two years, under his guidance, I covered most of high school, devoured classics and modern literature alike. He gave me everything he had. No reservations.