In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 4.4. News from the Ghost Market and Encounters

Yang Guangming stood on the somewhat desolate street. The early summer breeze carried warmth, but it could not dispel the heavy feeling in his heart.

The thought of changing jobs was like a red-hot iron, making him restless and pointing him in one direction—money! A lot of money!
The box of gold leaf in the refrigerator is a heavy hammer, but if you swing it directly, you could easily injure yourself.

He needs to explore the path and figure out the unspoken rules of this era.

The Suzhou Creek, a place teeming with all sorts of people, served as a natural window into observing private "exchanges" (i.e., the exchange of goods), making it his primary target for observation at that moment.

He identified the direction and walked towards the approximate location of the Suzhou River in his memory.

The streets of Shanghai stretch out beneath your feet, bicycles are the main feature, their bells ringing incessantly; occasionally, an old-fashioned bus chugges by, belching out choking black smoke.

The pedestrians were dressed in monotonous clothes, with blue, gray, and military green as the main colors. Most of them had a calm that had been worn down by life, or a sense of bewilderment about the future.

As you walk through several narrow alleyways, the smell of cheap coal smoke, river mud, and faint household garbage becomes stronger.

The turbid Suzhou River flows slowly, with dilapidated warehouses, low shacks, and houses with clothes hanging out to dry like flags from all over the world on both banks.

On the riverbank, groups of two or three people sat, holding simple bamboo fishing rods or homemade fishing lines, their eyes intently fixed on the floats on the water. These were the "fishing buddies" who often chatted privately.

Yang Guangming walked over discreetly, found a corner not too far from the crowd, and squatted down, pretending to be very interested in fishing.

His gaze swept across the murky, oily surface of the river, while his ears, like radar, were perked up, trying to catch the whispers around him.

"Old Zhang, how's your luck today?" A middle-aged man wearing faded overalls with patches at the elbows asked in a low voice to the old man next to him wearing a tattered straw hat.

"If that doesn't work, then use two 'catfish' (small fish)."

Old Zhang shook his head, lowering his voice even further, "And you? Do you have anything 'good' to offer?"

"Sigh, we're short of food coupons at home, and we'll be strapped for cash again at the end of the month."

The middle-aged man sighed, unconsciously rubbing his rough fingers. "I'm thinking of getting some 'paper coupons' (food stamps) to tide me over. Do you have any connections?"

"Paper scraps?" Old Zhang glanced warily left and right with his cloudy eyes, his voice barely audible. "It's risky to switch things out now, they're cracking down on it! Do you have any cigarettes or soap? That would be easier to switch things out."

Yang Guangming understood perfectly. Cigarette coupons and soap coupons, these everyday industrial commodity coupons, were hard currency in this era of scarcity, second only to grain coupons, meat coupons, oil coupons, and cloth coupons.

He casually moved a little closer, a look of youthful curiosity mixed with a touch of embarrassment on his face, and struck up a conversation in the Shanghai dialect tinged with the alleyway accent:
"Uncle, from what you're saying about preparing things... we also have some 'hidden treasures' at home, but I don't know what the market is like these days?"

Old Zhang gave him a wary look. Seeing that he was an unfamiliar young man wearing a worn-out white shirt with clear eyes, unlike a "Lei Zi" (plainclothes officer), he mumbled, "Young man, what do you have? The price depends on the goods and the place."

"A place?" Yang Guangming perfectly conveyed his confusion and curiosity. "I just graduated, and my mom called me out to ask around... I don't know where would be a convenient place?"

He deliberately spoke vaguely, implying that the adults in his family should let him scout ahead.

Another thin man standing nearby, who had been silent the whole time and was wearing faded old military trousers, seemed to think that Yang Guangming wasn't faking it, and interjected, his voice extremely low:
“Little brother, if you really want to ‘change things up,’ don’t just spout nonsense. Before, there was some activity in the ‘mirage,’ but now… things are getting tense.” He paused, his voice barely audible, “If you really want to find a place, go to the alley behind the ‘Triangle’ market on Sunday, when it’s just getting light, and try your luck. Be quick and sharp-eyed.”

However, let me make this clear: you bear the risks yourself, and if you get caught, don't complain about who said it.

“Triangle Land…” Yang Guangming remembered the name firmly. “I understand, I understand, thank you for your guidance, Uncle! I just wanted to ask first, so I would have a better idea.”

His face was plastered with a grateful smile, but in his mind he was calculating: the location of the ghost market was set, and the opening time was also determined. But he also sensed the heavy, unmistakable warning in the other person's words—the risk was extremely high.

He stood up, dusted off his pants, and pretended to look at the river for a while, his heart filled with regret.

How safe and secure it would be to directly find those former wealthy individuals and trade them using high-end goods from their refrigerators?
Unfortunately, at this point in time, those people were either working in the countryside, had fled overseas, or were keeping a low profile. How could they dare to show their faces and make transactions easily?
The ghost market has become his only option for finding out prices and trading methods.

He decided to get up early tomorrow and go to that "triangle area" alley to observe it from a distance, get a feel for the market and the ins and outs, before deciding whether to make a move.

After wandering aimlessly along the river for a while, as the sun approached noon, my stomach started to rumble.

Just as Yang Ming was about to find a quiet corner to eat the hard, two-layered steamed bun he had secretly slipped into his pocket before leaving, a piercing engine cough, mixed with the driver's curses, came from not far away.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw an old-fashioned GAZ-69 jeep with a boxy shape and mottled grass-green paint, parked crookedly on the side of the road.

A middle-aged man, dressed in a slightly worn but neatly starched white short-sleeved "Dacron" shirt with the collar buttoned up tightly and dark polyester trousers, was anxiously circling the car.

He would occasionally bend down to look under the car, then straighten up and angrily pat the hood, his movements revealing his amateurish clumsiness and frustration.

He kept muttering to himself, his heavy Beijing accent standing out starkly against the soft Wu dialect.

Yang Guangming's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly walked over.

"Comrade, has the car broken down?" Yang Guangming asked in Mandarin, his voice clear and bright.

The middle-aged man looked up at the sound, revealing a square face with sharp features and a tough, military bearing. His brows were furrowed, and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

Seeing that the young man looked like a student, a hint of disappointment flashed in his eyes, but he still nodded, his tone anxious:
"Yeah, this old car, it just broke down at the crucial moment! We're in a hurry to pick someone up, what are we going to do?"

"Let me take a look?" Yang Guangming volunteered, his face radiating the enthusiasm and confidence typical of young people. "I learned a little car repair from an experienced mechanic before."

The middle-aged man was skeptical, but seeing the man's calm gaze and realizing he was truly at a loss, he waved his hand.
"Alright, young man, give it a try! I'll give it a shot if I have no other choice! My name is Zhao Guodong."

"Hello, Comrade Zhao, my name is Yang Guangming." Yang Guangming introduced himself and then gestured for Zhao Guodong to open the hood.

　Fellow Daoists: If you don't cast your monthly votes soon, Old Shi will be too hungry to write!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)