Chinese men in Sydney, ages 1-44

page views:1 Publication date:2023-05-21 08:16:40

The Chinese Man in Sydney

(197,105

words) Preface:

The affairs between men and women are undoubtedly the most alluring things in the world: Mr. Zhang's extramarital affair greatly displeases his wife. Out of a sense of fairness, she decides to have an affair herself. On the day she decides to have an affair, her first lover is her handyman, Xiao Lu Zi, leading to a hilarious adultery story. This is followed by a thrilling and dramatic story of Mr. Zhang catching him in the act, and from these two stories, a dramatic tale unfolds where Xiao Lu Zi and the boss's wife team up to take advantage of Mr. Zhang… This is a unique novel. Its dry humor, especially its distinctive descriptions of the relationships between men and women, made it a popular read among women when it was serialized in Australian newspapers. You'll laugh until you're doubled over while reading this book, and feel a deep sadness afterward. In other words, it's a work that appeals to both the general public and the general reader; the layman can enjoy the entertainment, while the expert can appreciate its deeper meaning.

The Chinese Man in Sydney (Part 1 ):

My life as a kept man didn't actually begin at the end of the year, on December 8th. My documented history of living off a woman actually began when I was helping Mr. Zhang's wife carry her t-shirts and ended up touching her breasts. But December 8th was a crucial turning point in my later good life, so it all started on December 8th.
I can't remember if my eyelids twitched when I woke up that morning. I only remember that the weather was normal, sunny and windy. December in Australia is like June in China; it's already hot. The sun was shining on the rooftops, and a hot wind was blowing through the leaves. I was sitting on the concrete ground at the warehouse entrance, and I remember I was eating from a large aluminum lunchbox.

I was shoveling food into my mouth when a light breeze blew by, and I looked up to wipe the sweat from my brow. As I looked up, I saw Mr. Zhang emerge from his BMW in the distance, casually pulling a bag of rice out of the car. It was a dirty, unpicked rice bag lying on the roadside. Strictly speaking, it wasn't a rice bag, but rather an extra-large t-shirt produced by our factory. Boss Zhang had simply sewed one end shut, turning it into a rice bag. Boss Zhang carried this rice bag towards the factory.

Back then, I wasn't nearly as smug as I would later become; I was a handyman. A handyman is the kind of worker who comes when called and leaves when dismissed. The status of male workers in a t-shirt factory can be understood from the fact that all the female workers didn't call me by my full name but called me "Little Lu." The female workers would call out all the time, "Little Lu, bring me two skeins of white thread." "Little Lu, find me a sewing needle." "Little Lu, massage my back." "Little Lu, the boss is here!" Then the female workers would burst into laughter.

You might ask me how such a big man could stand it? I'll tell you, if you haven't been a new immigrant, you don't know, the most important thing for a person is to have food to eat. Many people forget this seemingly simple but actually not-so-simple truth, but new immigrants can't forget it. So whenever I saw Boss Zhang approaching from afar, my first instinct was to jump up and run upstairs to sweep the floor or move cloths. But December 8th was strange. When I saw Boss Zhang carrying that dirty bag of rice, I didn't run away; instead, I went to meet him.

Swallowing my rice, I greeted him, saying, "Boss Zhang, it's so hot, yet you're running around like this. Being a boss is definitely harder than being a worker."

Boss Zhang, walking along, said, "Yes, yes, being a boss is

all hard work and no reward, hehehe." Hearing Boss Zhang chuckle all the time, I followed with a forced smile, saying, "Exactly, exactly. That's

why there are more workers than bosses in the world." Boss Zhang paused for a moment after hearing my words, then chuckled again, saying, "Little Lu, what you said makes some sense. I never understood why there were fewer bosses than workers in the world, but now you've explained it clearly. Yes, yes, of course fewer people do hard jobs, hehehe."

I thought to myself, "You don't understand anything. This is fate. Fate means destiny, destiny means unchangeable, and unchangeable means no matter how hard you try, it's all in vain." That's really what I thought at the time; I never dreamed that better days were yet to come. I followed Mr. Zhang, chuckling, and ingratiatingly reached out to help him carry the rice bag. Unexpectedly, the moment Mr. Zhang saw me touch the rice bag, he recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted. Mr. Zhang picked up the rice bag, looked around, and whispered, "Little Lu, you sit here and eat. Don't go anywhere, understand?" Then he looked upstairs and said, "If my wife comes downstairs, cough twice, understand?"

I nodded.

Mr. Zhang patted my shoulder and said, "Remember, don't say I'm back, hehehe."

Seeing that I nodded again, he confidently hid in the downstairs fabric warehouse. I really don't understand why

Mr.

Zhang has this kind of quirk; almost every time he comes back with this dirty rice bag, he hides in the fabric warehouse. After Mr. Zhang went inside for a while, you could hear an unusual rustling sound coming from the warehouse. This rustling sound was reminiscent of someone unbuckling and urinating. Obviously, Mr. Zhang wouldn't urinate on his vital cloth, so what was he doing in the dark warehouse? My curiosity surged again and again, but I suppressed it each time. Finally, I couldn't bear it any longer. Seeing that no one was around, I took off my shoes, picked them up, and groped my way towards the rustling sound.

The warehouse was very dark. Moving from a bright place into darkness, I was instantly blind. Following the sound, I hadn't gone far before I bumped into a pile of cloth. The pile was very tall, more than two people high. The round bundles of cloth, already unstable, tumbled down like a mudslide after my impact. I only heard Mr. Zhang let out a soft "Ouch!" from within the pile, then his voice faded as if muffled by a blanket.

You can imagine that Mr. Zhang was now buried under his dozen or so bundles of cloth. My immediate reaction wasn't to save him, but to grab my shoes and flee the warehouse, escaping into the December 8th sunlight. I proved my innocence by shouting.

After a commotion on the stairs, the rescue team surged into the warehouse. The female workers, without a second thought, climbed onto the cloth bags, jumping and shouting wildly on Mr. Zhang's head, a scene reminiscent of a small vegetable market in 1970s Shanghai, lacking any clear command.

Mr. Zhang was pulled out from a deep hole dug like a well. When he was pulled out, barely alive, he had lost his usual radiance; his face was covered in dust, his eyes were closed, and a glistening snotty nose hung from his nose, making everyone chuckle.

Mr. Zhang's wife, while shouting for help and calling an ambulance, glanced at Mr. Zhang's eyelids, then began slapping him repeatedly, one after another. Needless to say, her large breasts swayed back and forth with great enthusiasm.

Finally, Mr. Zhang slowly frowned. With his eyes closed, he weakly uttered his first words: "Alright." Then, Boss Zhang slowly opened his eyes. His second question was, "Where's Xiao Luzi?"

Hiding in the crowd, I heard the boss call me, and my legs went weak as I moved towards him. I bent down and said ingratiatingly, "Boss, I'm here."

Boss Zhang beckoned me closer. I pressed my ear to him and heard his faint voice say, "Xiao Luzi, after I leave, don't let anyone into the warehouse." Boss Zhang added, "Anyone, understand?" His eyes suddenly brightened, then gradually dimmed. Boss
Zhang and his wife disappeared into the distance with the wailing of the ambulance. The female workers discussed for a while before going upstairs to buy t-shirts. I returned to the warehouse entrance, picked up my lunchbox, and, thinking about how strange Boss Zhang's words were, looked around again and went into the warehouse alone.

I climbed over the pile of cloth that had almost buried Mr. Zhang, and suspiciously turned on my flashlight. I shone it into a corner deep inside, and I almost screamed. I don't know how to describe the shock I felt. I can only ask you this: Have you ever seen money? Don't answer without thinking, "Who hasn't seen money?" Let me tell you, the money you've seen is just a little bit in your savings account, small change, not big money. I'll also tell you, even if you've seen big money, it's only in movies. In movies, a suitcase full of cash usually appears in a drug exchange, usually two gangsters wearing sunglasses, one with a suitcase full of US dollars, the other with a suitcase full of drugs, facing each other, ready to make a deal. Suddenly, a police car arrives, then gunshots ring out, and then the suitcase full of cash scatters like rain on the ground…

You know without me saying that money is counterfeit. Think about it, if that suitcase full of cash were real money, would the director still be a director? He would have already picked up his suitcase and gone to the Mediterranean, with women on his left and right.
On December 8th, I saw real money. Real money wasn't neatly arranged in a suitcase, but piled up haphazardly—as my grandmother would say, it was as big as a mountain.

Specifically, Mr. Zhang's money consisted of different denominations and colors of Australian dollars, from five to one hundred dollars, spilling out of that inconspicuous, dirty rice bag and scattering all over the floor. It suddenly dawned on me—that was the source of the rustling sound Mr. Zhang made, like he was urinating. It turned out that every time he came back, he would hide in the storeroom and rustle as he counted his money.

By human nature, I could have easily taken a few coins that day. You see, the boss was complaining about his thankless work, yet he was making a whole rice bag's worth of money; taking a little wouldn't have been a big deal. But strangely, I didn't have that thought at all that day. I just knelt down and helped Mr. Zhang sort the red and green bills by color and put them back into the rice bag.

Mr.

Zhang returned from the hospital the next morning. He didn't say thank you when I handed him the rice bag, but after work that evening, Boss Zhang came up to me, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "Little Lu, I heard your place isn't very nice. From today onwards, you'll live with me. You'll open the factory gate for me in the morning and close it for me at night. You'll be my right-hand man.

Hehehe, work hard, understand?" With that, Boss Zhang handed me the factory keys.

I stared at Boss Zhang, wide-eyed. I knew in my heart that Boss Zhang must have carefully counted the money in the rice bag.

Seeing that I didn't move, Boss Zhang said, "Go, go pack your things. Don't bring in your blankets and sheets. The simpler the better." After saying that, Boss Zhang pulled out two large bills and threw them at me.
And so, at midnight, I moved into Boss Zhang's mansion as Boss Zhang's trusted confidant. It was a million-dollar estate with a front and back garden. However, the first thing I encountered after moving in was Boss Zhang and his wife arguing.

Two voices, one deep and one thin, collided sharply in the midnight air of the manor. They spoke Chinese, but clearly in a coded language, so I could only vaguely make out phrases like "one, three, five, two, four, six" and "fairness" and "unfairness." Later, I figured out that the Zhang family manor only had one side: the front garden was where Mr. Zhang's wife lived, while another woman lived in the back. According to their gentleman's agreement, "one, three, five" meant Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, when Mr. Zhang would go to the front garden to have marital relations with his wife. As for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, Mr. Zhang could go to the front garden or not, it was entirely up to his conscience.

That day, I moved out on a Friday, and according to the gentleman's agreement, Mr. Zhang should have gone to the front garden.
But he insisted that it was midnight, meaning Saturday, not Friday, and refused to step into the front garden. Thus began their heated argument about whether it was Saturday or Friday. The argument lasted about twenty minutes, temporarily ending with Mr. Zhang's wife slamming the door shut.

Why did Mr. Zhang's wife so desperately want him to come to the front yard? And why was Mr. Zhang so afraid of going to the front yard? I didn't understand at the time. It wasn't until later, when I became the wolf who let Mr. Zhang into the house, that I truly understood. At that time, I was sitting on a sofa, Mr. Zhang's wife's huge buttocks on my lap, my hands on her large breasts. I had just experienced, on Mr. Zhang's behalf, the breathtaking "Come on up" and "Go down" (Mr. Zhang's wife's common phrase). Dejected, I finally understood why Mr. Zhang's wife always wore a pink, semi-transparent nightgown and sat on the sofa every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, eagerly awaiting Mr. Zhang's arrival, while Mr. Zhang avoided his wife like the plague. Really, how easy is it to fill the deep well that is Mr. Zhang's wife?

On

December 8th, I almost caused Mr. Zhang's death, but he treated me like his savior and let me move into his mansion. The next day, I became the foreman. Because I wasn't used to it, I instinctively picked up the broom when Mr. Zhang came in.

Mr. Zhang threw the broom away and said, "Hey, Little Lu, you don't need to sweep. You deliver these ten bags of T-shirts to this address." As he spoke, Mr. Zhang picked out a car key from a large bunch and handed it to me. The car key was long, with a remote control attached, looking like a small pistol. Mr. Zhang never dreamed (nor did I) that the little pistol he gave me would later kill him with a single shot.
When I delivered the first batch of goods to the address Mr. Zhang specified, I finally understood the secret of his T-shirt business.
I had never understood how Mr. Zhang sold hundreds of thousands of T-shirts one by one. I was always worried that our factory produced a mountain of T-shirts every week; how long would it take Mr. Zhang to sell them all? It's like a friend of mine who works in a Western toilet paper factory. He was always worrying like a fool about how to sell all those truckloads of toilet paper that were hauled out every day, as if the whole world had diarrhea. Now I understand, Mr. Zhang's T-shirts are like my friend's toilet paper—once they're made, they'll naturally sell like hotcakes. There's no need for us fools to worry.

After shipping T-shirts for a while, I became familiar with the big wholesaler, Jack Li. One day I said to Jack Li, "If I had some T-shirts—I mean, if—cheaper than Mr. Zhang's, would you want them?"

Jack Li immediately asked me, "Why not?"

I looked at Jack Li curiously and said, "Aren't you friends with Mr. Zhang?"

Jack Li said, "I am friends with your Mr. Zhang, but friends are friends, and business is business. They're two different things."

I found this very interesting. Friends are friends, and business is business—these two sentences sounded like repetitive nonsense, and at the time, I really didn't understand. This was probably mainly because I had just arrived from mainland China at the time, and relationships there weren't as straightforward as they are now, where friends are friends and business is business. The peak season

for Chinese men in Sydney wearing

T-shirts arrived as scheduled. Excitedly, Mr. Zhang walked around like the wind every day, clutching his precious, dirty rice bag.
This whirlwind-like walking style reminded me of Shi Qian, the chicken thief from the 108 Heroes of the Water Margin.

At the same time, Mr. Zhang started having headaches. There are basically two kinds of headaches: one caused by poverty, and the other by wealth. Mr. Zhang's headache was the latter. He said he didn't know how to hide his money.

I said, "That's simple, just put it in the bank and earn interest." Upon hearing this, Mr. Zhang jumped up in fright and said, "The banks and the tax bureau's computers are connected; this is like walking into a trap!" I said, "Then hide it at home." Mr. Zhang asked, "Is my home safe?"

If a thief comes, they can take everything and won't dare call the police. I said I'd hide it on my person. I said I usually hide my wages in my shoes when I pass through the indigenous area. Boss Zhang laughed and blurted out, "How much can you hide?" I suddenly remembered that the money Boss Zhang and I were discussing was the storage of a sack of rice he carried back every week, not my few bills. I laughed and said, "If it's too much, I'll help you hide it." Boss Zhang immediately chuckled and said, "It's not much money, just kidding." I smiled and said, "Boss Zhang, don't be nervous, I'm not borrowing money from you. Even if I did, I think you'd agree." Boss Zhang said, "That's right, that's right, I trust you." I continued, "When we were in school, we learned that when you have money, you should expand production, that's called money making money. Hiding is the dumbest thing to do." He said he wanted to invest, but didn't know where to invest. I offered a suggestion: "You send out so many T-shirts for printing every day, why don't you open your own printing factory and print them yourself? That's called keeping the profits within your own circle."

Boss Zhang's eyes lit up immediately. He said somewhat excitedly, "Little Lu, you've done a great service, I want to reward you properly. Sit down, let's discuss starting a printing factory."

This is the origin of the printing factory that later made Boss Zhang a fortune, and also the origin of Boss Zhang's downfall. It shows that good and bad things often come together.

I want to say a few more words about Boss Zhang's printing factory, because it not only involves Boss Zhang's downfall, but also the beginning of my affair with Boss Zhang's wife.

I remember I talked about the Monday-Wednesday-Friday and Tuesday-Thursday issues at Boss Zhang's house from the beginning. I said that after Boss Zhang discovered that not a single penny was missing, he invited me to move into his mansion with utmost trust. That was the first night I heard about Boss Zhang's wife's furious outburst because he refused to enter her room. At that time, I still thought Boss Zhang was wrong for not fulfilling his duties as a husband, unaware that Boss Zhang's wife was a parched desert.

Saying Boss Zhang's wife was a parched desert is too calm a metaphor, lacking the dynamic feeling of flowing water. After I and Mr. Zhang's wife consummated our relationship, I truly understood and fully sympathized with why Mr. Zhang always ran away. Frankly, for a while afterward, I couldn't bear to hear Mr. Zhang's wife call out, "Little Lu, come on up."
Just hearing those three words made my legs go weak. But to be fair, the first time I heard Mr. Zhang's wife call me "come on up," I was incredibly excited—soft where I should be, hard where I should be.

Specifically, the first time was like this: Mr. Zhang and I rented an old warehouse in a secluded spot, then sealed off all the windows and converted it into a T-shirt printing base. In this base, we began pirating the world's most popular, famous, and best-selling brand-name T-shirts.

Only four people knew about this brand-name printing factory: Mr. Zhang, Mr. Zhang's wife, myself, and Li Danling.
To maintain secrecy, we sealed off all the light; the smell came out through the roof exhaust fan. The workers we hired were all undocumented immigrants struggling to survive. When they arrived at this dark, ink-smelling old warehouse, their first thought was, "This is really safe." They came in before dawn and left after dark; isolation was their desire.

Every day, they would pack the printed incriminating evidence into plastic garbage bags, and as soon as it got dark, Mr. Zhang and I would sneak around and smuggle them out bag by bag. From there, a whole chain of smuggling operations would distribute them to various locations, where they would appear in shops and street stalls throughout Australia. This sneaky operation reminded me of the famous saying, "Murder at nightfall."

My fascinating story with Mr. Zhang's wife took place one night in this warehouse.

That night, I was alone in the warehouse at first. Coincidentally, Mr. Zhang had disappeared. It seemed like God had arranged it; we couldn't find him anywhere. Meanwhile, customers kept calling. They all asked the same question: were the world-famous brands still being delivered? At that time, these pirated T-shirts were selling incredibly well; Australians loved designer brands but couldn't afford them. So at first, the customers were quite polite, using "please" and "thank you." But after a few calls, they lost patience and started using profanity.

Under the constant pressure of practicing English, I couldn't take it anymore and had to call Mr. Zhang's wife.
I said, "Boss, can you come over here? I really can't take it anymore." Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Wait a minute, I'll be right there."

That's how my story with Mr. Zhang's wife began.

Sydney Chinese Man, Part Six.

That day, I really didn't know if Mr. Zhang's wife's promise to come right away was premeditated or just a spur-of-the-moment decision.
I only remember that when I opened the old warehouse door and handed Mr. Zhang's wife the first package of world-famous brand t-shirts, she didn't take it with her hands, but with her breasts. If

you've ever been in the industry, you'll understand that when Mr. Zhang's wife was holding the t-shirts with her chest out, my hand was actually in front of the package. To put it more clearly, my hand was between a package of t-shirts and a pair of huge breasts. As soon as I handed the package of t-shirts to Mr. Zhang's wife, the back of my hand immediately felt two warm mounds. Needless to say, you'd be eager to ask me how it felt. I remember my first feeling was like being electrocuted. Of course, saying it was like being electrocuted isn't quite the right analogy. Because anyone who's actually been electrocuted wouldn't want to be electrocuted again, but I, having been electrocuted, couldn't wait to be electrocuted again. So that night, a total of 103 packages of counterfeit brand-name T-shirts were delivered to the van by my hands and, along with Mr. Zhang's wife's chest, meaning I was electrocuted 103 times, without missing a single one. Electrocuting was so exhilarating! I think Mr. Zhang's wife was also electrocuted, her face flushed. We worked silently, getting happier and happier, wishing we could turn those 103 packages into 1030. So when we got to the last package, we both said in unison, disappointed, "How come it's gone so quickly? All gone?"

Then, naturally, came the crucial moment of unspoken agreement: who would speak first? Mr. Zhang's wife, with her seasoned composure, remained silent. I, too, unsure of the situation, dared not be rash. I tentatively suggested, "It's getting late, I have to go deliver."

Upon hearing that I was leaving, Mr. Zhang's wife immediately revealed her true colors, saying, "Anyway, it's late, just deliver something tomorrow." Then she twisted her neck and said she twisted it while moving the t-shirt. As she said this, she reached behind her neck and started massaging it.
If I said I didn't understand this signal, I'd be being too fake. I chuckled inwardly while feigning concern and said, "Then I'll take you home first and have Li Danling massage it for you."

Mr. Zhang's wife glared at me and kicked the warehouse door shut without a word. She stared at me with shining eyes, like a hunter eyeing its prey, saying, "Little Lu, you can play dumb with Mr. Zhang, but if you play dumb with me, that's called being ungrateful, you understand?" After saying that, she pulled off one sleeve.

Suddenly, a strong, snow-white arm, as strong as an ox, was revealed before me. She pointed to the junction of the shoulder and neck and said, "Right here." Then she closed her eyes, as if the world didn't exist.

I remember I didn't pounce on Mr. Zhang's wife like a starving man would. Maybe working odd jobs for so long had robbed me of my courage. Perhaps it was because Mr. Zhang had treated me well, and I felt embarrassed to take advantage of his wife. So I carefully massaged his thick, white shoulders, my eyes occasionally glancing at the warehouse door. I imagined where my hand would stop if Mr. Zhang suddenly pushed the door open, making it easier to explain. I didn't want to make a mistake that would haunt me forever, returning me to the days when I carried a cloth bag looking for work. I would never forget the hardships of when I first arrived in Sydney, carrying a cloth bag with a Coca-Cola bottle filled with tap water, going from house to house along the railway, searching for work.

Mr. Zhang's wife closed her eyes for a while, and when she felt no movement, she opened them. Seeing me lost in thought, she spoke. She said, "Little Lu, I know what you're thinking."

I was startled and quickly squeezed Mr. Zhang's wife a few times.

Mr. Zhang's wife looked at me and said, "Let me tell you, Little Lu, I own half of this factory. Do you understand what I mean?"

I said, "Of course, of course."

Boss Zhang's wife patted my face, like petting a pet, and said, "Of course what? You don't understand what I mean." Let me be clearer: I decide who this factory hires and who doesn't, now you understand?
I immediately smiled and said, "I understand, I understand." As I spoke, I glanced at the door, and a restless hand, like a treasure hunter, reached into Boss Zhang's wife's bra…

That night, our actions were simple, both primal and forceful. We were really like pile drivers, one thrust after another, without any foreplay or afterplay. This was probably because I hadn't been with a woman in a long time, and I hadn't thought about all that. Or maybe I was just nervous; I barely even saw clearly before I went in. I heard Boss Zhang's wife say "yes," then I'd say "oh," she'd say "yes," I'd say "oh" again, she'd say "yes" again, and so on, we'd go "oh" and "yes" for a while, and soon we were all moaning.

Because Mr. Zhang's wife was screaming so loudly, I was afraid the sound would break through the door, so halfway through, I climbed off her to turn on the radio. My meaning was clear: I wanted to drown out our "yes" and "oh" with rolling stones. Unexpectedly, Mr. Zhang's wife was furious at my sudden departure. She opened her eyes, grabbed a shoe, and threw it at me, hitting the printing press next to me. This was the first time I realized that women, when anxious, could be just as impulsive as men. I smiled and said, "What's wrong? Why are you in such a hurry?" Mr. Zhang's wife yelled, "What are you doing! Come here!"

This was supposed to be a happy occasion, but her throwing and yelling made me unhappy. I thought, "What the hell do you take me for? I turned on the radio for the greater good!" I really wanted to pull up my pants and leave, but remembering what Mr. Zhang's wife had said when she patted my face, I swallowed my anger and forced a smile. I ran back and patted her plump, white buttocks, saying, "You, you're such a child! How was I supposed to know you'd scream so loud?"
"Was I very loud?" asked Mr. Zhang's wife. "I didn't think so

," I flattered. "You were making so much noise the roof was shaking! If people notice this place, Mr. Zhang will be in trouble."

Mr. Zhang's wife laughed, looking at me with a double meaning, "Looks like Mr. Zhang didn't choose the wrong person."

I smiled sheepishly and said, "Let's not talk about that. How about we start over?"

Mr. Zhang's wife glanced down at me, giggled, and said, "I can do it! Can you?"

I looked at myself and said sheepishly, "I'll give it a try. I should be able to."

Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Okay, come on up."

After we finished, I turned off the radio and turned on the light. Under the light, Mr. Zhang's wife was fixing her hair. Her face, moistened by the rain, was fresh and delicious, just like the three-yellow chicken from my hometown. I leaned against the wall, looking at her, and couldn't help but say, "You really look like a three-yellow chicken." She turned around,

combing her hair, and said, "What?"

I changed to Mr. Zhang's language and said, "I meant you look especially beautiful now."

Boss Zhang's wife, with the shy demeanor typical of women, asked, "What do you mean? Now?"

I said, "Yes, now."

Boss Zhang's wife smiled, her face flushed, and said, "Little Lu, you're so naughty! But Ah Zhang also said that when I do this kind of thing, I look five years younger.

" I said, "Five years? More than that, at least ten years."

Boss Zhang's wife said, "That's good, come more often then."

I didn't realize the subtlety and dreadfulness in her words at the time, and, oblivious to my own limitations, I clenched my fist and said, "Okay, I'll come whenever I have time."

Boss Zhang's wife gave me a very strong look and said with a smile, "Little Lu, as long as you can handle it, I can come every day."

Oblivious to the situation, I said, "Can't handle it? Who can't handle it? Don't think I'm skinny; this kind of thing isn't about skinny, it's about bone structure." As I spoke, I bent my arm, showing a small muscle for her to touch.

Boss Zhang's wife waved her hand, too lazy to come over and touch it. I've noticed this applies to both men and women; once they're satisfied, they don't want to touch anymore. Luckily, she didn't touch me. Just as she waved her hand, the door suddenly opened, and Boss Zhang rushed in, panting. He was yelling "Where's the goods? Where's the goods?" as he ran.

You can imagine how startled I was. My legs went weak, and I bent over, clutching my belt, saying, "Goods? What goods?"

Boss Zhang's wife, being a seasoned veteran, immediately switched to offense. She glared at me and said, "You rascal, where have you been? Turn off your cell phone too! What are you doing?"

Boss Zhang, arriving late, probably hadn't been doing anything particularly important. He was clearly stunned by his wife's preemptive attack. He looked at his wife in a panic and muttered to himself, "Where did I go? I didn't go anywhere. The cell phone died, it didn't work, hehehe."

Boss Zhang's wife continued her offensive, saying, "Where did you go? You've been gone for so long?" "Do you know that if it weren't for Xiao Lu offending all the customers? Xiao Lu's back is almost broken from carrying so many T-shirts."

Boss Zhang immediately chuckled and said, "You've worked hard, Xiao Lu, a big reward is in order." Boss Zhang walked over, looked at my belt as I was fastening it, and asked with concern, "How's it going? Is your back badly hurt? Hehehe, should we go get it checked out?"

I immediately smiled and said, "It's nothing, it's nothing. It's what I should do."

Boss Zhang's wife chimed in, "I'm exhausted too." Then she twisted her back and said, "It's all thanks to Xiao Lu today."
Boss Zhang proudly said to his wife, "See? I told you long ago, Xiao Lu is pretty good, pretty good. Now you believe me. He's the one who helps me in crucial moments."

Boss Zhang's wife looked at me, a hint of flirtation in her eyes, and said, "Not bad? Just average, I think. But he is indeed helpful." She winked at me and chuckled.

I was too scared to look at her. I glanced at my watch and said very seriously to Boss Zhang, "Well, I'll go deliver the goods first. The customers are waiting."

Boss Zhang said, "Okay, okay, go quickly." As I turned around, he reminded me to fasten my belt. He laughed and said, "I just came in and saw your belt was half loose. I thought you were being brave, pissing in front of my wife, hehehe, just kidding, just kidding."

The next day,

I didn't return to the factory until almost ten o'clock. When Boss Zhang's wife saw me come in, she greeted me like a war hero, offering me a cup of ginseng tea and urging me to drink it.

I said, "It'll give me a nosebleed."

She said, "No, I drink a cup whenever I have time, it's very good."

My back ached, and I thought, "Luckily I have time for a cup; if I drank three cups a day like I was eating, I'd be dead."
As I took the cup, Boss Zhang's wife, still not satisfied, reached between my legs and said, "In the future, if there are some things you can tell me, I can ask Ah Zhang to do them himself."

I looked around and whispered, "It's broad daylight, someone might see."

Boss Zhang's wife laughed and said, "Yes, I forgot it's broad daylight."

I pushed her hand away and hurriedly looked over her shoulder at the office. Boss Zhang's wife immediately understood what I meant. She said, "Little Lu, let me tell you, even if the whole factory knows about this, Zhang won't know. In your mainland Chinese terms, he'll be kept in the dark. Do you believe me?"

I said, "Well, we still need to be careful. In your words, 'better safe than sorry.'"

Boss Zhang's wife thought about it and agreed.

But to be honest, everyone's seen me and Boss Zhang's wife going in and out, flirting around, so it's not surprising anymore.
Sometimes, when Mr. Zhang's wife wasn't around, she'd take a bite of chocolate in front of everyone, then tell me to take a bite too. We'd share a bite, all lovey-dovey, it was so sweet! Some of the older workers, whether they were genuinely happy or not, would say, "Little Lu, you're so lucky! Look at us, we've spent our whole lives working like this." I thought to myself, "What do you know? This isn't easy."

Because I was Mr. Zhang's wife's gigolo, I could do whatever I wanted in the factory when he wasn't around. I'd boss this person around, that person around, it was like Napoleon pointing out the flaws in the system. One worker was unhappy and secretly said I was a kept man. When I found out, I told her to get out in front of everyone the next day. It's clear that life often starts off difficult and humiliating, like being a gigolo. But you get used to it, it becomes natural, and then you're happy. That's what I learned from being a gigolo.
I remember reading in old books that eunuchs, after serving for a long time, would become bolder and do things they shouldn't.
I was the same; after serving as a male concubine for a long time, I became bolder and started doing things other than being a male concubine.
Once, the mustachioed man who regularly supplied cloth to Boss Zhang secretly invited me to dinner. I went.
He took me to a very high-class restaurant. During the meal, he revealed his true intentions. He said, "I invited you to dinner today to discuss our cooperation."

I was puzzled. I said, "What can we cooperate on?" He

looked around and said, "There are many things we can cooperate on. First, tell me if you want to make money?"
I said, "Of course."

He said, "That makes things easier."

He leaned closer and said, "When I deliver the cloth, we can cooperate."

I looked at him, confused.

He grinned and said, "Little Lu, I've inquired and know you have a special position in the factory. No, no, no, don't misunderstand. I'm not interested in your affair with the boss's wife. I mean, let's be frank, we can cooperate." For example, every time I deliver fabric, I'll only deliver about half a ton, but the invoice will say one ton. Do you understand what I mean? When I unload, you just turn a blind eye and sign, and then we'll split the money for the other half ton.

I felt a chill run down my spine. I said, "This, this, isn't this a crime?"

The man with the mustache stroked his chin and smiled, saying, "How is this a crime? This is called making a little extra money. You know your Zhang is making a fortune now, we're just following him to make a little extra."

I remained silent. The

man with the mustache continued, "Doing business is about everyone making money. Usually, this kind of inside-outside collusion is a 10/90 split, at most 20/80. I think you're a good person, how about we split it 30/70?"

I was shocked. 30/70? I mentally calculated how much fabric we bring in a month. Good heavens, in a few months I'll be like Boss Zhang, worrying about hiding money? So, it turns out that opportunities to make money are sometimes hard to find, but then they come to you effortlessly. Mr. Zhang could never keep track of how much cotton fabric he brought in and how much he cut, because I was in charge of it all. Of course, I laughed inwardly, but my face showed a furrowed brow. I was a little suspicious of his word; I wanted to know if he'd split the loot after each theft, lest he steal and then run away without getting a share. Just as I was about to ask, the man with the mustache spoke first. Perhaps he misunderstood while I was frowning. Seeing my furrowed brow, he assumed I was unhappy with the 30/70 split, so he gritted his teeth, offered a toast, and said, "Damn it, we're friends, no beating around the bush. How about 40/60?"

I laughed out loud. And so began my life as an assistant, a gigolo, and a thief. (
Sydney Chinese Men Part 8)

But the truth eventually came out. While the theft went undetected, my affair with Mr. Zhang's wife—or rather, his wife's infidelity—was caught red-handed one late autumn night.

Looking back, if Mr. Zhang's wife hadn't been so eager to call me, we could have continued our affair unnoticed for a while longer. But Mr. Zhang's wife called, so I went, and that's how the affair was exposed.
I remember it was a late autumn night. A chilly autumn wind swept through, and the leaves rustled as they rolled on the ground. My three lines of landscape description weren't purely for aesthetic purposes like those of an aesthete; my description of late autumn was more profound, foreshadowing my later act of jumping naked out the window, shivering on the balcony, and finally being caught sneezing.

That day, Mr. Zhang's wife called me over, saying she couldn't sleep. I said, "Don't forget what day it is tonight." Mr. Zhang's wife said, "What? It's Friday."

Perhaps you've forgotten the issue of Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays refer to the evenings when Mr. Zhang had to go to his wife's house to fulfill his husbandly duties. That night was Friday, and it was very late, but Mr. Zhang hadn't appeared yet, so his wife guessed he wouldn't come. She brazenly said, "How come I didn't know it was Friday? If Mr. Zhang comes, it's simple, he'll be on the left, you on the right."

I hate jokes like this the most. When I travel by plane, I'm afraid people will wish me a safe journey; when I'm on a boat, I'm afraid people will flip a fish over while I'm eating. I looked

around and said, "What if they really come? Where can I escape to?" After hearing my worries about escaping, Mr. Zhang's wife also looked around for me. I remember there are scenes in movies where the husband suddenly returns halfway through an affair, but the directors always handle it too simply. Directors usually have three solutions: one is to have the actor crawl under the bed, another is to have the actor crouch in the closet, and the third is to hide in the toilet. Actually, these three options all show how naive and ridiculous the director is. Modern Simmons beds don't allow people to crawl under them, closets can be opened at any time, and the toilet is even more impractical. So, after much consideration, I decided that the ideal way out in case of an emergency is to hide on the balcony. Because it's a cold autumn night, and Mr. Zhang came to his wife's room to fulfill his husbandly duties—in modern terms, to pay his dues—he wouldn't be in the mood to enjoy the night view from the balcony. But I hadn't considered that it was also a late autumn night, with a chilly wind, and I would sneeze naked.

Honestly, when Mr. Zhang broke in that night, I didn't do anything to his wife. In criminology, this is called attempted rape. In fact, even in rape cases, there's a difference between attempted and completed rape. If it's completed, you've gained an advantage, and being executed is just that—being executed. But if it's an attempted rape and you're executed, that's unfair.

The main reason we failed that night was that after we got into bed, someone brought it up first—maybe I was the one who said that stealing Mr. Zhang's T-shirts to sell would be discovered sooner or later. But Mr. Zhang's wife thought we didn't need to be afraid of Mr. Zhang at all. She said, "Who does he think he is? Do I have this factory without him?" I said, "That's true, that's true, but it's not good if we get caught, is it?" She waved her hand and said, "I know, let's just do it ourselves." I said, "You mean we should split up?" She said, "Mr. Zhang is still relying on you. If we do it ourselves, we'll definitely kill him." I was worried that Mr. Zhang had many friends in the T-shirt market, and we wouldn't be a match for him. Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Oh dear, what's the point of having friends in business? Whoever offers the lowest price is a friend." She seemed uninterested in discussing Mr. Zhang in bed; she waved her hand as if to chase him away, saying, "Little Lu, why do you always talk about such pointless things at times like this? Can't you concentrate a little?"

Seeing her displeasure, I quickly patted her and said I'd brought a pornographic magazine; there were some actions in it that I could learn from.

Mr. Zhang's wife was delighted and told me to quickly get the magazine for her. She said thoughtfully, "It's like eating; you can't always have the same few dishes."

The first sound I heard was from the stairwell. At that moment, Mr. Zhang's wife was performing a difficult pose based on a picture from a porn magazine. She told me to wait until she was in the right position before coming up. She said, "Little Lu, listen carefully, come up as soon as I call you, I can't last more than a few minutes." But Mr. Zhang's wife, her internal organs churning, failed several times. Panting, she plopped down on the bed, complaining that it was too difficult. I stood beside her, arms crossed, laughing, and said, "We called this 'vertical dragonfly' when we were kids. I never imagined that what we used to do on the street would evolve into something like this in the West."

I pointed to the picture and said, "Those girls in the picture are all eighteen or nineteen years old, how can you compare to them?" Mr. Zhang's wife was displeased. She took a deep breath and tried again. Head down, butt up, eyes rolling back, she said, "Can't you come and help me?" I said, "Okay, okay," and laughed as I went up to help her lift her legs. Just then, I heard footsteps from the stairwell.

Because I was so familiar with Mr. Zhang's voice, I couldn't possibly deceive myself into thinking it was a cat. I muttered to myself, "It sounds like Ah Zhang."

Upon hearing this, Mr. Zhang's wife seemed to plummet from mid-air. Her head thudded like she'd been hit by a fascist plane, and she crashed to the ground. But I couldn't laugh anymore. I jumped off the bed and

dashed into the bathroom. Mr. Zhang's wife followed suit. I yelled, "What are you doing in here? You hold them off!" Hearing this, she ran out. She ran a few steps and then came back in, saying, "We can't hide here, Ah Zhang needs to use the bathroom." Hearing this, I immediately remembered our earlier discussion about escaping. I quickly jumped out the window, naked, without even opening the balcony door.

Before Mr. Zhang's wife could close the window properly, Mr. Zhang entered the room. I heard him ask his wife, "Why are you running around the room naked?"

His wife replied, "Who ran? The wind picked up, the windows were banging." Mr. Zhang said, "Then why am I hearing footsteps thumping in the room?" "I think you're getting old," said Mr. Zhang's wife. "You can't even recognize the voice on TV anymore." As she said this, she left the window open and leaned closer to Mr. Zhang, getting intimate with him. She rolled her eyes at him and said, "It's so late, I thought you weren't coming." Her naked, coquettish manner was quite adorable. Through the gap in the curtains, I saw Mr. Zhang suddenly become aroused; he knelt down and began pecking at his wife's snow-white buttocks like a chicken pecking at rice. Mr. Zhang's wife made a face at the curtains.

After pecking for a while, Mr. Zhang perked up and started taking off his clothes. He placed his clothes on top of his wife's. When he took off his shirt and was about to take off his underwear, he noticed a dangling belt among the pile of clothes—the one I forgot to hide when I ran away. Mr. Zhang never dreamed that someone had been lying in bed for a long time before he got into this bed, so when he saw the dead snake-like belt, he didn't react immediately. He probably thought it was his wife's, and he even muttered to himself, "If only men's things were that long." Mr. Zhang's wife also saw my damned belt, but she skillfully teased, "Zhang, if it were that long, I'd be dead meat." As she said this, she leaned in, covering my belt, cleverly averting a potential disaster.

But a problem still arose. The problem arose because Mr. Zhang, naked, leaned towards his wife, and she leaned towards him. In this indistinguishable situation, Mr. Zhang accidentally stepped on a shoe and nearly twisted his ankle. Only then did he let go and look down. For

the first time in my life, and hopefully the last, I watched a couple argue about their affair from under the window.

I saw Mr. Zhang pick up that size 42 shoe and examine it for a while, then sit on the edge of the bed, one hand holding my shoe, the other supporting his chin, motionless like a famous foreign sculptor, The Thinker. Mr.
Zhang's wife remained silent, her sexy backside facing me, searching for a bra among a pile of clothes. She slipped one hand into her bra, and tried to slip the other in as well, but then, perhaps because her back suddenly itched, she bent down and scratched it, the autumn skin making a rustling sound. Because she had been searching for her bra, she had rummaged through my clothes, exposing my belt, socks, and panties to the elements. Mr. Zhang picked them up one by one and threw them on the ground. Watching this, I thought to myself, as a lesson, I should tell the younger generation that if you want to have a proper affair, the first important thing is to prepare a large plastic bag to put all your clothes in, so that if things suddenly change, you can calmly grab them and run away.

As Mr. Zhang's wife finished putting on her bra and began to put on a shirt, Mr. Zhang spoke. He said, "Hey, what do you say we do?"

Mr. Zhang's wife, seemingly prepared, replied with a "whatever" attitude, "Whatever you say we do." She said this while nonchalantly buttoning her shirt. However, it was clear she wasn't indifferent, because she was flustered, buttoning the shirt incorrectly.

Mr. Zhang said, "What else can I say we do?"

Boss Zhang's wife said, "Don't ask me what to do if you don't tell me what to do."

Boss Zhang replied, "I don't need to ask you what to do; you've already done it, haven't you?"

Boss Zhang's wife was speechless for a moment. She looked down and fiddled with her fingers, realizing her button was buttoned wrong, and corrected it. If you have any experience with marital arguments, you'll understand that this is like the fuse being lit; it won't be long before it explodes. Naturally, in this battle between Boss Zhang and his wife, Boss Zhang's wife was initially on the defensive. Boss Zhang didn't even look at his wife adjusting the button and said confidently, "What? Speechless now?" After saying this, to amplify his point, he chuckled three times. Seeing his wife remain silent, he began to think he was invincible. He shouted, "I'm not trying to be mean, but you're fucking despicable! I've never seen such a despicable woman! Of all the people you could sleep with, you should at least find a boss like me; even if I'm angry, I can get over it. Now, who did you...who did you find? That damn Little Lu!" Who is Little Lu? "You even want this kind of stuff?! If word gets out, you might lose face, but I do!" Mr. Zhang said, glancing at my shoes again and adding menacingly, "You even want a handyman? I think you can… you can go find a garbage collector next!" Mr. Zhang hadn't been this assertive in front of his wife for a long time because of Li Danling's affair. Tonight, seeing his wife repeatedly backing away, he excitedly shouted, almost forgetting the content of their argument. He suddenly became a prolific producer and admirer of his own voice. When he shouted, "Who is Xiao Luzi? You even want this kind of stuff?" Mr. Zhang's volume reached its limit, accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures, like conducting a symphony, creating an invincible effect. When he shouted, "I think you can go find a garbage collector next," because Mr. Zhang's thoughts were fast but his speech was slow, he became breathless and off-key. It was a bit like a singer who couldn't reach a high note and suddenly went off-key—it was comical and almost made me laugh.

That night, Mr. Zhang's wife adopted the strategy of a penhold grip player in table tennis. She held her ground steadily, looking for an opportunity to unleash a beautiful topspin shot. We'll see below that her strategy that night was brilliant.
I remember she unleashed the topspin shot around 1:00 PM. I timed it precisely because the priceless antique clock in her room chimed. That was Mr. Zhang's most excited, fierce, and arrogant moment. As the clock struck, he cursed and threw his size 42 leather shoe, which he had been clutching for a long time, out the window. The shoe grazed the window, almost grazing my scalp, as it flew out. The loud thud signaled that Mr. Zhang had reached the pinnacle of glory, and any further and he would fall.

As he threw my shoe, Mr. Zhang cursed his wife as a "broken shoe." "Broken shoe" is originally a term used in northern China to refer to a woman who is easily aroused by men. I don't know how Mr. Zhang, a southerner, knew this northern term and used it so fluently.

Mr. Zhang's wife, who was also from the South, had never heard of this word before, and therefore did not know its malicious meaning. She answered literally, "Shoes are bound to wear out; it would be strange if they didn't."

Mr. Zhang was instantly enraged by his wife's habit of arguing and making a scene without understanding. He grabbed my second shoe, a size 42, and hurled it out the window with a loud thud, followed by barking from the dogs.

This was a long-awaited, golden opportunity for his wife. She immediately shouted, "Good! Good! Throw it! Everyone throw!" She then grabbed a purple clay teapot from the table and threw it forcefully out the window. A loud bang, like a bomb exploding in the night sky, followed by the dogs barking wildly.
Still not satisfied after throwing the teapot, she excitedly turned her head around, muttering, "Throw, throw, throw! Throw them all! Come on, throw!"

Only then did Mr. Zhang realize that throwing the first shoe was brilliant, while throwing the second was incredibly foolish. He understood the consequences of his wife's incessant head-turning. So Mr. Zhang rushed forward, bravely protecting a mirror with one hand and an antique clock with the other, while simultaneously blocking the television and VCR with his body, repeatedly shouting, "What do you want to do? What do you want to do?"

Mr. Zhang's wife retorted confidently, "What do I want to do? Get out of my way, and I'll do whatever you want!"
Mr. Zhang said, "Are you even being reasonable? How can you do this? " Mr. Zhang's

wife glanced at him and said calmly, "Why can't I do this? You can do this, so why can't I?"

Mr. Zhang's wife's words were immediately clear; she was implying throwing things away tonight, but also alluding to Li Danling. This clever double entendre was something Mr. Zhang understood, and he was speechless. The opportunity for Mr. Zhang's wife to shift from strategic defense to strategic offense had arrived. "

Come, come, come," Mr. Zhang pulled his wife down to sit, adopting a more conciliatory tone, "Wife, I know you're good in that area, and I admit I'm no match for you, hehehe. Really, if you want to steal one, or have one, I'll turn a blind eye." "The problem is, you're doing this at the factory, and with Xiao Lu Zi at that. Where do you expect me to save face?" Boss Zhang said earnestly. "Wife, you know my status in the T-shirt industry. How about this, you throw Xiao Lu Zi away, and I'll help you find someone else, okay?" Boss Zhang chuckled, his hands rubbing his wife's broad back.

I nervously watched Boss Zhang's wife, thinking that if she nodded, I was doomed. But Boss Zhang's wife was truly something else; she wasn't buying it. She retorted, "You still care about face? Have you considered my face in these past three years? Three years!" When Boss Zhang's wife mentioned the word "three years," she seemed to recall the painful years, her nose twitching as if it were about to burst into tears. This made Boss Zhang a little flustered; it seemed he, like me, was afraid of women's tears. He was at a loss, wanting to reach out and hug his wife, but then he withdrew his hand, saying seriously, "Crying is useless. Crying doesn't solve anything." Seeing his wife sitting stiffly, a tear falling from one eye, and the other eye brimming with tears, he panicked and said, "Why are you crying? Who's at fault tonight?" He frantically searched for tissues, but couldn't find any. So, Mr. Zhang ran into the bathroom, grabbed a roll of toilet paper, and pulled out a section for his wife. His wife ignored him, turned her head, and another tear fell. Because this tear had been there longer, it was quite full, hanging all the way down to her chin. Mr. Zhang quickly wiped her chin, explaining to his wife as he did so, "Today you were wrong. I wasn't wrong, right? You were wrong, so why are you crying?" His wife ignored his explanation

. She squeezed her eyes, and a tear fell from each eye. Then, she suddenly cried out, "I'm so miserable!" and burst into tears. Mr. Zhang

was at a loss. He stood beside her, rubbing his hands together, muttering to himself, "This is strange. Your crying makes it seem like I'm wrong? I didn't do anything wrong today, how could I be wrong?" "If anyone should be crying, it should be me," Mr. Zhang thought, realizing he'd confused himself.

His wife ignored him, focusing solely on her crying. She sobbed uncontrollably, tears streaming down her face, as if someone had died. Mr. Zhang

grew impatient. He gently placed his hand on her heaving shoulder and said, "Alright, alright, enough with the tears and snot. It's like a funeral. I'm not wrong tonight, but I admit I am. Is that alright?" "Ugh, you women," she sighed, "your constant crying is so annoying."

Mr. Zhang's wife knew she'd won, but she didn't immediately stop crying. As a woman, she understood women's ways. She knew that if she reconciled now, it would only make things worse. Ignoring Mr. Zhang's apology, she forcefully flung his hand away from her shoulder and screamed, "Don't touch me!"
Faced with his wife's bluffing scream, the grown man Mr. Zhang really wanted to slap her. But he didn't. The reason might be that Mr. Zhang's offensive in the first round of the argument was too fierce; his hoarse shouts and decisive gestures exhausted his energy. Furthermore, as a businessman, Mr. Zhang might have thought, "Since my wife has already given her treasure to someone else, this kind of thing isn't like other things—once given, it's gone and can't be taken back. I might as well save my energy." This businessman's cost-benefit calculation made Mr. Zhang quickly come to his senses. After his wife screamed, "Don't touch me!" he still smiled like a traitor and said, "It's autumn, hehehe, catching a cold won't be good." Saying this, he picked up a coat and put it on.

Everyone knows that men proactively helping women dress usually only happens during the flirtatious stage. In an old married couple, let alone the man proactively helping the woman dress, even if the woman occasionally asks the man to dress her for fun, the man will usually say, "Alright, alright, your arms are so thick, dress yourself." So when Mr. Zhang, for the first time ever, took the initiative to grab his wife's thick arm and stuff it into his sleeve, he expected her to give a shy, charming smile and then utter a smug remark, "You're crazy!" But things didn't go as Mr. Zhang expected. Before his wife's arm even touched the sleeve, she flung it away, saying, "I'd rather freeze to death!" Thus, Mr. Zhang's attempt at reconciliation was coldly tossed to the ground.
Even as an observer, I thought his wife's two ungrateful actions were excessive. Sure enough, Mr. Zhang was furious. He yelled, "Fine, don't go too far!" and lunged forward, grabbing his wife's vanity mirror like a grenade, intending to throw it out the window. I thought to myself, "Oh no!" I knew that if the mirror banged, the neighbors would definitely call the police. When the police arrived, they would look up and see me naked on the balcony. But at that critical moment, Mr. Zhang suddenly slammed on the brakes.

Why Mr. Zhang stopped at the last second before throwing the mirror was a mystery at the time; I didn't understand it. Later, I asked Mr. Zhang's wife, and her words gave me an insight. She said, "He's not made of wood, can't he sense that?" She then smiled. Based on her words, I deduced that there might have been subtle differences in how she threw the mirror at Mr. Zhang the first time. If the first time was simply a fit of anger, the second time was more nuanced. It contained a double meaning of anger and reconciliation, with reconciliation clearly taking precedence. Mr.

Zhang's perception of his wife was accurate. The moment he raised the mirror, he must have suddenly sensed the good intentions behind her second throw, so he slowly lowered it, even jokingly saying, "Hehehe, I've always thought it would be more auspicious to move this mirror somewhere else."

Mr. Zhang's self-justification was clearly illogical. His wife rolled her eyes and said, "If you want to throw it, then throw it! Go ahead and throw it!" Mr. Zhang

laughed awkwardly and said, "I'll just buy a new one in a few days, hehehe.

" His wife pressed her advantage, saying, "What's a mirror? If you won't throw it, I'll throw it for you!" She then ran to grab the mirror.

Seeing things were going badly, Mr. Zhang grabbed his wife's hands and hurriedly said, "Oh dear, oh dear, I was wrong, I was wrong, okay? You're not going to make me kowtow, are you?"

I nervously watched Mr. Zhang's wife's reaction. I thought it would be unwise for her to shake him off a third time. Clearly, Mr. Zhang's wife was quite adept at dealing with her husband. This time, she didn't shake him off, nor did she automatically lean against him. Instead, she stood motionless, silently letting her tears flow.

Seeing his wife's tears fall like pearls from a broken string, Mr. Zhang was moved. He pulled her closer, essentially embracing her. His wife nestled her head against his chest, and the two became inseparable again.

The storm had passed, and my tense body began to relax. But the moment I relaxed, I immediately realized something was wrong. I felt an irresistible force surging from my lungs. Before I could even cry out, my eyes narrowed, my nose stung, and a sudden, loud bang startled all three of us. 　　My first sneeze rang out, and Mr. Zhang abruptly released his wife's waist, shouting, "Who's there!" Actually, asking who was there was pointless; he should have guessed who it could be at this point. He just hadn't expected me to be hiding on the balcony.

He 　　released his wife, sat on the sofa, and said in a slow, unhurried tone, "Come out." 　　My hair slowly rose through the window, then my forehead, my eyebrows, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, my upper body… I climbed through the window and walked towards Mr. Zhang. I felt none of the fear or tension a lover should have. I remember my skin was covered in goosebumps; the cold night seeped into my bones. I was only focused on sneezing incessantly. My sneezes made it impossible for me to control my head; it would tilt back and forth, one after another, with each tilt and sneeze bursting forth. The sound was so loud that not only did the dogs for miles around bark, but some lights in nearby houses also came on. 　　Mr. Zhang sat there watching me. He should have scolded me, cursed me, even beaten me. But because of my relentless sneezes, Mr. Zhang couldn't get a word in edgewise; even his attempts to curse were drowned out by my loud sneezes. He could only watch me, and with each sneeze, he would slap his thigh, as if tapping to a beat. 　　Seeing my state, Mr. Zhang's wife, who was standing nearby, had completely forgotten the seriousness of the evening. She clutched her stomach, giggling incessantly, saying, "Oh dear, my stomach, my stomach!" 　　Infected by her infectious laughter, Mr. Zhang couldn't help himself either; his facial muscles gradually relaxed, and he chuckled. Later, seeing my long, noodle-like snot hanging from my nose, he didn't care anymore and burst into laughter. 　　Since they were both laughing, I stole a glance in the mirror. In the mirror, I was covering my private parts with both hands, my face a mess of tears and snot. I couldn't help but laugh myself. 　　The three of us laughed heartily like close friends for a while, when suddenly Mr. Zhang realized something. He discovered that this joyful scene had ruined the seriousness of his supposed act of catching someone in the act. For a moment, he wondered if this was a deliberate conspiracy we had orchestrated. So Mr. Zhang stopped laughing. He solemnly tossed over a pair of pants and said, "Here you go." This condescending tone, using only a polite "yes" without speaking, made me realize that there was no chance of getting away with it; another major storm was brewing. 　　After saying "yes," Mr. Zhang turned away. His wife, seeing her husband turn, followed suit. I found it ridiculous; why was she turning around? She should have picked up her pants and handed them to me. What was there to be embarrassed about between us? 　　However, I understood Mr. Zhang's wife's embarrassment and predicament, so I wisely wiped my nose, picked up the pants from the ground, and put them on. 　　Mr. Zhang turned around when he heard the metallic sound of me fastening my belt. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and I quickly lit it for him. 　　Mr. Zhang squinted, exhaled smoke, and casually uttered a weighty remark: "Little Lu, who would have thought? You've got guts." 　　I quickly glanced at Mr. Zhang's wife. I realized that the only person who could save me now was her. I gestured with my eyes for her to step forward and say a few words, preferably admitting she would take full responsibility, like the gentlemanly words spoken in the warehouse where the world-famous brand T-shirts were stolen: "Little Lu, who gets fired and who doesn't is up to me!" 　　However, Boss Zhang's wife showed no such intention. She looked at Boss Zhang, then at me, and said, "Little Lu, hurry up and apologize to Zhang. A real man takes responsibility for his actions." 　　I was furious. Women are like that; in crucial moments, they run away first. I figured since I was already out of a job, I might as well clear my name and tell the whole story. So I said firmly, "Boss's wife, I think we should apologize to Boss Zhang together and explain what happened." 　　Boss Zhang's wife paused for a moment. From my tightly pressed lips, she probably saw a resolute determination, a kind of unwavering resolve she had never seen before. She later explained that it wasn't a matter of being afraid of Zhang, but rather that if we argued, she was afraid I might impulsively reveal that we stole the T-shirts, which would then become a criminal case. I never expected Mr. Zhang's wife to know a thing or two about the law, prioritizing the bigger picture in such a crucial moment. She walked over to Mr. Zhang, patted his shoulder, and said earnestly, "Zhang, things have come to this point, you might as well try to think more 　　positively, your health is the most important thing." Mr. Zhang's wife used words meant for comforting someone at a funeral in a scene of catching someone in the act of adultery, making Mr. Zhang both angry and amused. He shook his head and said, "How unlucky you are! What do you mean by that?" 　　Mr. Zhang's wife didn't understand that she had used funeral language. She asked in surprise, "What do you mean? I said your health is the most important thing. 　　" Mr. Zhang angrily tried to stand up, saying, "Is it as simple as an apology?" 　　Mr. Zhang's wife pressed him down onto the sofa, sat on the armrest herself, and pressed her breast against his ear. She said earnestly, "Zhang, Xiao Lu was just acting on impulse. He's still a good helper to us, and he's been working very hard this peak season. You know, a man acting on impulse is understandable." 　　Mr. Zhang turned to look at his wife and said, "What do you mean by that?" "You mean Xiao Lu has worked hard, and you're going to reward him tonight?" 　　Mr. Zhang's wife got angry upon hearing this. She pointed at Mr. Zhang and said, "How can you talk so rudely? Is my body something to be rewarded with?" "I'm just saying Xiao Lu acted on impulse. You know how men act on impulse." 　　Mr. Zhang ignored his wife and beckoned to me, saying, "Xiao Lu, come here." 　　I approached Mr. Zhang nervously, imagining him suddenly slapping me like in a movie. But Mr. Zhang just squinted at me and said, "Xiao Lu, you really have guts." 　　I panicked and ignored Mr. Zhang's wife, saying, "I don't have the guts, boss, I had no choice." 　　Mr. Zhang's wife chuckled and said, "What do you mean 'had no choice'? Do you think I'm a tiger?" She then said to Mr. Zhang, "Actually, Mr. Zhang, to be honest, we're evenly matched. You have your partner, I have Xiao Lu, I don't have an extra one, so we're tied." 　　Boss Zhang immediately retorted, "Can Xiao Lu compare to Ling?" 　　Boss Zhang's wife said, "Don't say 'Ling,' I don't want to hear it!" 　　Boss Zhang quickly changed his tune, "I'm saying how can Xiao Lu compare to Li Danling? I've told you so many times, you can find someone else outside, I'll turn a blind eye, but you've got Xiao Lu, just look at what he's like." 　　Boss Zhang's wife glanced at me and waved her hand, saying, "Xiao Lu, wipe your snot." She led me to Boss Zhang and said, "Xiao Lu, at least there are two advantages. One is that he's obedient to his own people, and the other, you know, hehe, don't you like young men too?" 　　Boss Zhang knew his wife's words made sense, but he still said from another angle, "The problem is, how am I supposed to face people after this? If others find out my wife is having an affair with my handyman, I might as well hang myself." 　　Boss Zhang's wife said, "So what? You used to be a worker too. Besides, if Xiao Lu keeps me company, I won't argue with you anymore. You can go and keep your man company without worry."

Mr. Zhang paused for a moment, then tentatively asked in a cautious and uncertain tone, "You mean if I don't come on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you won't complain?"

Mr. Zhang's wife said, "Yes, didn't I say we'd even

?" Mr. Zhang immediately widened his eyes and said, "You mean

it?" Mr. Zhang's wife rolled her eyes at her husband and said, "Do I ever go back on my word?"

Mr. Zhang suddenly perked up. He turned and pointed at me loudly, "Little Lu, did you hear that? You're here tonight, you're the witness." Mr. Zhang's face was strange; under the light, it had been dark just moments before, but now it suddenly shone brightly. He said, "Alright, alright, everyone heard it, we have a witness, and you have to keep your word. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays are null and void, hehehe, all null and void."

Mr.

Zhang gradually became less concerned about my relationship with his wife. Besides being used to this principle after seeing it so many times, he might also have thought that because of my relationship with his wife, I was, in a sense, more like one of his own.
That day, he asked me to deliver goods again. He said that from today onwards, any customer who couldn't pay in full upfront would not receive the goods. He told me to just say that this was what our boss, Mr. Zhang, said.

Mr. Zhang's factory was bathed in sunshine, under a clear blue sky. The sounds of sewing machines raced each other, heading straight for the money. You would never imagine that in such a scene, dark clouds and a downpour would soon arrive, and the factory would be ruined forever. You really don't know what tomorrow will bring, what afternoon will come, or what will happen five minutes from now.
When the first policeman appeared at the factory stairwell, I had no idea that the historic shift from Mr. Zhang's downfall to my rise was about to occur. I was just coming downstairs when I saw a policeman peeking around. I thought he needed to pee. I said in a friendly tone, "Hello, the toilet is upstairs." At the same time, I turned around and shouted to Mr. Zhang upstairs, "There's an officer who needs to pee."

Mr. Zhang's reaction was completely different from mine. He immediately jumped up with the shrewdness of a thief and ran towards the workshop. Mr. Zhang shouted as he ran, "The police are coming! The police are coming!"

Originally, the police's arrival had nothing to do with the factory workers. However, due to the many workers' illegal identities and years of underground living, they were terrified at the mere sight of someone in uniform. So, upon hearing the police were coming, their first reaction was to flee.

Many years later, I still can't find a fitting idiom to describe the chaotic scene. Perhaps a closer analogy would be ants on a hot pan.

The workers were like ants on a hot pan, running wildly throughout the workshop. Knowing the doors were blocked by the police, they scrambled into piles of fabric and t-shirts, creating a cacophony of screams: "Don't push! My shoes! What are you touching?" (It seems some were even taking advantage of the chaos). Meanwhile, Boss Zhang's wife displayed her capitalist nature. Standing in the center of the workshop, she yelled, "Don't trample on me! If you dirty one, you'll have to pay twice!"

Some, thinking themselves clever, tried to escape through the fire escape. They kicked open the fire escape door and swarmed in. A century of dust from the fire escape instantly filled the air, and coughs erupted everywhere. When they thought they had succeeded, they rushed up the fire escape to the building.

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