In this huge city, I only have a tiny dream. It's a little hollow, yet it's the only thing that makes me feel like I can still fly. Failure can't change the stubborn thought in my heart that keeps pushing me forward. No matter whether you believe in me or not, I believe in myself.
In the eyes of others, I'm probably nothing special. No matter what you do, there will always be someone with an opinion. I know there's a giant gap between dreams and reality. But as long as I give it everything I've got, I won't be letting myself down.
Everything today might just be a trajectory. My greatness can only move myself. Countless ordinary days pile up into a life. I'm going to make damn sure this life means something.
I have no reason to stay depressed forever. You might not understand my logic: three parts dignity, seven parts grinding it out. One day, the hero of tomorrow will be me.
I don't know why, but every time this song plays, my feet just stop. Maybe it's that one line that speaks straight to my soul: "Everything today might just be a trajectory… our greatness can only move ourselves."
"Oi—scrap collector! We don't have trash here, move along! You're blocking the customers!" The owner of the audio-visual shop stormed out, eyebrows scrunched, face full of disgust.
"…" I just smiled, said nothing, stepped hard on the pedal, and rode away on my beat-up cargo tricycle.
That's right. Just like the boss said—I collect junk. If you want to be mean about it, you can call me the King of Trash.
Yeah, our social status is rock-bottom, the job is looked down upon, but we've got our own way of comforting ourselves so we don't drown in self-pity. Because if even you look down on yourself, who the hell is going to respect you?
Our self-consolation method is simple. When people mockingly call us "Trash Kings," we give ourselves a cooler title: "Urban Biological Waste Sorting & Processing System."
In 2012 China, people were finally making a bit of money. Once folks had some cash in their pockets, they stopped cherishing things like the older generation did. Waste piled up. Every year, "resource recycling and reuse" became a hot topic at the National People's Congress. And people like us? We were the ones speeding up the motherland's recycling plan!
You think that excuse is far-fetched? Well, it's still more reasonable than thieves saying they steal so cops have jobs, or hookers claiming they're reducing sex crimes for the prosperity of the nation, right?
Even with all those excuses, the bitterness in the heart is unavoidable. I'm no exception.
Oh, right—I haven't introduced myself. My name is Liu Yun.
The moment people hear it, they immediately think of those ruthless, cool martial-hero names from wuxia novels. No helping it—when I was born, my old man was obsessed with Jin Yong and Gu Long. He flipped open a random page and decided on "Yun" (Ruthless." Add the family name Liu, and boom—Liu Yun. It caused a ton of jokes in school, but I never changed it. I'm old-fashioned like that. A name is a gift from your parents; changing it randomly is disrespect.
I'm twenty-three this year, 179 cm tall—pretty tall for a southern guy. As for looks… I think I'm alright. Never really asked others, but quite a few aunties and big sisters call me "handsome" or "pretty boy," so I guess I'm not ugly.
Bad habits? I smoke, but I rarely buy my own packs—I'm usually the one treating others. A pack of cigarettes in the pocket is the most common social tool. The ones who get to bum smokes off me are mostly regular clients, all men of course. With women, a sweet mouth is enough.
I drink too. Got that habit from childhood. Every time Dad took a sip, his face looked so content I got jealous. Curiosity made me steal a mouthful… tasted like hell, but the floating feeling afterward was addictive. Sadly, ever since coming to B City, I haven't had the money to get properly drunk.
I grew up in a small mountain village in southern China. Family: Dad, little sister, and the fading memory of Mom. She passed when I was six. I don't remember much, only that she was gentle and beautiful. In old photos, she's a stunning university graduate. I still don't understand why a city-educated beauty would marry my barely-literate farmer father. Dad never explained, and neither my sister nor I dared to ask.
Dad is the most honest farmer you'll ever meet—honest to the point of stubbornness. He truly believes a farmer should stay a farmer for life. He even had his twisted logic ready for me:
"What's wrong with being a farmer? Every dynasty in Chinese history had farmers! The country is like a skyscraper—there are bricks, glass, steel, fancy decorations. People play all sorts of roles. But farmers? We're the sand and cement. You can build without bricks or glass or decorations, but without sand and cement, the whole building collapses in an instant!"
Sounds profound at first, right? He used that speech to shut me up for sixteen whole years.
Until the day I finally fired back:
"Why do farmers have to be the sand and cement? Why can't we be the bricks or the glass? And even if we are sand and cement—does that mean the country can't do without YOU specifically? The nation needs farmers, but it doesn't mean it needs you, old man…"
That shut him up good.
While he was still stunned, I followed a kind-hearted villager called Uncle Li—who was already in his late forties and had nearly ten years of scrap-collecting experience—to B City, the southernmost metropolis and one of China's top ten cities. My journey to strike gold began.
Looking back, Dad really did sound like a philosopher sometimes. Made me wonder if he pretended to be a philosophy professor to trick my beautiful, gentle, university-educated mom into marrying him.
Anyway, I left home at sixteen. No junior high diploma—not because I was a terrible student (I was mediocre, but not that bad). I just figured in an era where university graduates were selling pork, a junior high certificate was useless. And you don't need a diploma to collect trash.
"Hey—handsome! Over here, got some cardboard!"
A thick northern accent yanked me out of my memories.
"Coming—Sister Liu, more paper again?" I turned the tricycle and pulled up in front of a chubby woman in her thirties, deftly tying up the small stack of newspapers beside her.
"Three jin total, 0.45 per jin… that's 1.35. I'll round it up to 1.4 for you. Here's one yuan…"
As I dug for change, she pressed my hand down. "Forget it, keep the change."
"Hehe, thanks Sister Liu! Remember to call me next time~"
"Sure, sure… By the way, Xiao Liu, are you sure you're not from the north? Your Mandarin is really good."
I do speak decent Mandarin. Even though it's been promoted for years, southerners still have heavy accents. Mine isn't CCTV-level, but it doesn't have that southern twang. All thanks to listening to and singing along with Mandarin songs growing up.
"Heh, I'm 100 % southern. My dad's a pure southerner."
"Then your mom?"
"She passed when I was little…" A bitter smile crossed my face.
"Ah! Sorry…"
"It's fine. If there's nothing else, I'll get going."
"Go, go~"
I pedaled away. A dozen meters later I vaguely heard her sigh: "Poor kid…"
I pressed the pedals harder to leave faster. Honestly, I hate that kind of pity.
Riding through the old streets of the urban village, today's business was dead quiet. The pitiful pile in the cart wouldn't even total fifty yuan.
Speaking of this tricycle—Uncle Li gave it to me. The second year after we arrived in the already-international metropolis of B City, Uncle Li fell ill. Turned out he had hepatitis B, super common in these urban villages because of the terrible hygiene. After the diagnosis, his health went downhill fast. He decided to "retire" early. The money he'd saved over the years was enough for a comfortable retirement back home.
Before leaving, he gave me his livelihood—his tricycle—and the tiny wooden shack wedged between two abandoned buildings. I tried to give him the 2,000 yuan I'd painfully saved that year, but he refused.
"Your money wasn't easy to earn either. Your dad is sick, your sister needs to go to school—keep it."
I was so touched I almost cried.
Yes, I'm supporting my little sister's education. Unlike me, she's brilliant—always first in her class. She might become the first university student from our poor mountain village. Smart and beautiful—she's going to have an amazing future.
As for Dad, the real reason I refused to stay a farmer was because his illness had already made heavy labor impossible. Farming keeps you alive, but there's no extra money for medical bills. That's why I came to B City to "strike gold." And these past few years proved I was right. After living expenses, I send home five or six thousand every year. In B City where average income is over ten thousand, that's peanuts. But back in the village, it's two full years of income for a family.
Thanks to that money, Dad could finally put down the hoe and rest. My sister got into the county high school. And to make it happen, I haven't gone home for Spring Festival in six years—because year-end "spring cleaning" is when we scrap collectors make bank.
Of course, I'm not that selfless. Deep in my heart there's a dream: to marry her.
Just thinking about it brings her face to mind—a girl with long, silky hair. The image is blurry now blurry after six years apart, but every time I recall her, a silly, happy smile creeps onto my face.
Someone once mocked me: "That smile of yours looks like a lovesick idiot."
Made me depressed for days.
Suddenly, something round and red rolled across the street, pushed by the northern wind.
My eyes lit up.
A 1.5-mao aluminum can!