A little corner outside of the busyness

The air is getting cooler. The wind whips around my face and blows my hair into my mouth. Women with long straw brooms sweep the orange dried leaves that fall on the sidewalk. I pull my hat tighter across my ears and zip up my jacket to my chin, hunching my shoulders against the wind. Red Chinese flags with five yellow stars whip vigorously in the wind. I walk down Friendship Road by Red Mountain Park. High rises jut upward toward the sky like concrete and steel trees. Busses rumble past and cars zip by, an unmarked taxi honking at me and slowing down until I shake my head no.

I approach my little neighborhood and walk down a row of shops amidst the high-rise office buildings showing off rows and rows of glass windows glinting in the sun. I turn down the alley to briefly escape the hustle and bustle—the exhaust fumes, the police stations, the electronic billboards, the cars, the hotels—that surround the row of 3-story shops. I pass the cigarette and alcohol shop, which sells steaming hot dogs and corn on the cob outside.

Inside is a small room where the shop’s entire stock is laid out in full for open observation of whoever walks in—there are no aisles or back rooms, it’s just one small room facing the street. It is stocked full from floor to ceiling with different types of alcohol, beverages, and cigarettes. In the spaces between the wall and where the boss sits are boxes piled on boxes of water, yogurt, energy drinks, soda, and snacks. I dig underneath a pile of boxes for a big bottle of spring water. The cashier sits behind a glass counter with cigarettes underneath. She has dark, wrinkled leathery skin and her straight black hair is pulled back in a pony tail. She pulls out a huge stack of differently colored bills and licks her fingers as she counts my change, smiling and asking me about my studies.

I stop next door for a plate of kungpao chicken with rice, and munch on the peanuts and spicy peppers and perfectly square pieces of chicken to my heart’s delight. I stop at the foot massage parlor and am greeted with smiles and warmth, and invited to sit and relax. They talk amongst each other and I can’t understand their Sichuan dialect. Fat Big Brother (yes, he told me to call him that) gets a video call from his young daughter back in Sichuan, and he excuses himself to talk to her. I can hear her voice and his dialect floating in from the other room. The blind masseuse complains about the salary and the lack of customers, saying that he is going to go back home and look for other work because he can’t fill his stomach on the salary they give him.