Where shall I start?
In the end of 2002, I finished out my career in a film crew and settled down in a city. At that time, I frequently changed girlfriend, without any stability in life. The so-called "settling down" was just renting a house with one-bedroom of less than 40 square meters, which was in the family area of a university located in the west of the city.
When I was out of work, I often sat in a daze in the courtyard, holding a bottle of beer. The advantage of living on the first floor was there was a courtyard. Although it was the snow season, I was insensible to the cold. When I was in the army, I had ever stayed in the northeast mountainous area of 30 degrees below zero for half a month to participate in a survival training in the cold region. So I got used to the cold weather. When I was filming in Tibet, I often ran in the snowstorm, baring the upper body, which was regarded by my colleagues as a crazy thing.
An important reason that I sat in the courtyard was that the room was in a mess, full of my stuff, including various books, pirated discs, and bags full of clothes. I didn't put them in order, because every time I tried to do it, a lot of things would recur to my mind. A 27-year-old man was escaping from the past. I didn't know what it looked like. But I was unwilling to or didn't dare open them.
I was scared.
I was scared of recalling those ambitions of my youth.
Those ambitions were about the future, love, and brothers.
In my memory, the period from 17 to 20 years old was fragmentary.
I remembered a lot of things in the kindergarten, elementary school and middle school; I also remembered many things, even vivid, after I went to the drama school.
But how about my story from 17 to 20 years old?
I remembered nothing but a few pieces of memory.
Only when I was taking the shower and noticing my fat body in the mirror, I would laugh at myself, "Look, what have you become now? When you were in the army..."
Then I would stop thinking about it, artificially.
I still had a lot of friends in the army, who often called me. Sometimes, with official business, they came to my city and visited me. But I never contacted them on my own initiative. Hearing their excited voices with simplicity and special hoarseness, I always felt dejected.
When I just left the army, I wasn't like this... But everything was fooled by fate. I stopped thinking of it and continued to drink.
In the distance, through the falling snowflakes, I heard a yell, "Left right, left right..."
My mind was suddenly blank! I was quite familiar with this slogan!? But it seemed that there was only one person, with the rhythm on and off.
I stood up all of a sudden and opened the door of the courtyard. The sound came from the construction site near the library. There, a multimedia teaching building named after the donor, a philanthropist from Hong Kong, was being built. It was usually noisy. Perhaps because of the heavy snow, the construction didn't start.
How could it be possible? Why would there be such a yell?
I walked quickly over. First, I saw a gang of migrant workers squatting under the eaves, laughing and pointing, as if they were looking at a funny scene. A few female college students came out of the library and passed by them, holding themselves aloof, without a glance.
What else did I see?
A lonely figure.
A lonely log.
And a lonely face.
He wore a suit of faded camouflage and a pair of worn-out army boots, without cap. As soon as snowflakes fell on his head, they were melted into white vapor, ascending to the sky. Unlike the camouflage other migrant workers wore, his was tucked in his pants, with a wide green belt made of nylon and a black metal buckle. The color was not quite the same, and it was very thick. There were several patches with neat stitches. The trousers were neatly tucked in that old pair of army boots made of canvas, even the laces were neatly tied.
Shouting slogans, he was carrying a log.
He moved up one end of the log and carried it on his shoulder against the ground. Then he straightened it up, pushed it forward, and moved it up… That's the way he moved forward the log.
The migrant workers were laughing at him.
His face had the typical features of southerner, with dark skin, small eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose. Putting him in the crowd of migrant workers, you could hardly find him again? But his eyes...
His eyes were twinkling, with a strong murderous look.
He roared, with the murderous look in his eyes arising, "Left, right..."
I was in a trance, with my lips moving and tears welling up in my eyes. I shouted at the top of my voice, "Head?"
…
"Check your weapons and listen to my commands. This is the first group-scale live-shell drill, so take care of yourself! If any son of a bitch doesn't listen to my commands and open the safety catch first, I will kick his ass!"
In the roar of MI-171 helicopter, with cold sweat on my nose, I held the 95 Automatic Rifle which got wet by my sweat. My heart tossed with the helicopter bumping in the air. The sarge turned his camouflage face to me, with his small eyes bright, "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
The sarge looked at me.
And I looked at him.
The sarge smiled, revealing his white teeth. He wiped the sweat from my face, "Boy, do a good job. I will be waiting for your good news!"
His eyes were filled with pride and confidence.
…
Now, I saw this pair of eyes again. At the moment he turned around, that kind of murderous look disappeared, and he was like a totally different person. He seemed to be a wretched migrant worker.
"Head," I shouted again, with complicated emotions in my voice.
That pair of eyes smiled, "Boy, why is your hair as long as a woman now?"
We stood in situ and looked at each other. But there was a kind of sadness in his eyes. I ran over and hugged him, "Head!"
Tears ran down on his shoulders, where there was no rank of Noncommissioned Officer.
The sarge hugged me and began to weep slowly, "Boy, I thought you had forgotten me."
Snowflakes fell on our heads. In winters of the city, the snowflakes could cover all the ugliness. In this winter of the city, I met my squad leader again. Now I was a cultural tramp called freelancer, and my squad leader was a migrant worker.
Unlike other migrant workers, he carried logs only when he missed the life in the army.