Staff Association

Upon entering, the blindingly bright incandescent light, the cacophony of buzzing conversations, the monotonous and repetitive dance music from the gramophone, and the increasingly strong scents of face cream, male sweat, and the cloying aroma of melon seeds and candy... all these combined into a powerful, unfamiliar torrent that instantly engulfed Sha Zhu.

He felt a strong wave of dizziness and tinnitus, as if he had suddenly been thrown into a bizarre and fantastical world that did not belong to him at all.

His overly new, crisp, dark blue khaki Zhongshan suit, reeking of mothballs, seemed so out of place, jarring, and inappropriate in the meeting room. While others' work clothes exuded casualness and naturalness from everyday wear, his appeared deliberately stiff and clumsy. For others, a Zhongshan suit was a symbol of status as a cadre or intellectual, conveying confidence and propriety. But on his burly frame, it looked like a bear wearing a mandarin jacket—utterly awkward.

The tight shoulder and armpit lines of his clothes restricted his movements, making him appear cautious in every gesture, which added to his stiffness.

Sha Zhu instinctively shrank his neck, his eyes darting away, not daring to meet anyone's gaze, wanting only to find the most inconspicuous corner, where the light couldn't reach, and hide himself away as quickly as possible.

However, his attire and his very being seemed to possess a certain "quality" that attracted attention. Wherever he went, one could clearly feel the gazes—some curious, some inquisitive, and some undisguisedly mocking—piercing his back and face like needles.

Accompanying these gazes were whispers, kept low but amplified by the echoing atmosphere of the venue and Sha Zhu's heightened sensitivity, buzzing around him like a swarm of annoying flies.

"Look, isn't that... Shall we get idiot Zhu from the first cafeteria?"

"He Yuzhu? He really came? The union actually invited him?"

"Tsk, look at his clothes, they're new, right? But why do they look so...so silly?"

"Shh...keep your voice down, someone heard you..."

"What did you hear? About his father's matter..."

"Exactly, from that kind of family..."

Those few words, like poisoned needles, precisely pierced his already battered pride. He felt his face burning, his ears ringing, and his feet feeling like they were walking on cotton.

In his panic, he finally found an empty seat at the far end of a long table, near the back door of the auditorium, in the dimmest light, and furthest from the stage and the busiest central area. Several people were already seated there; they appeared to be young workers from an auxiliary workshop in the factory, who knew each other and were chatting and laughing in hushed tones.

Like a drowning man grabbing onto a piece of driftwood, Sha Zhu quickly scrambled over and almost stumbled into the empty stool. Once seated, he placed his hands neatly on his knees, his back ramrod straight, like a clay or wooden sculpture forcibly placed there. He kept his eyes down, not daring to look at the people at the table or anywhere else, staring intently at a dark stain on the tablecloth that couldn't be washed off, as if it were the most worthy subject of study in the entire world.

At seven o'clock sharp, the music stopped. Chairman Zhao of the steel mill's labor union, a tall, stern-faced veteran dressed in a faded old military uniform (without collar insignia or cap badge), strode steadily to the small, red-cloth-covered stage in front of the main stage. He cleared his throat, coughed once, and said in a loud voice, "Comrades! Quiet down!"

The hall gradually quieted down, and all eyes were focused on the stage. Chairman Zhao looked around, a formulaic, encouraging smile on his face, and began to deliver a brief but enthusiastic welcome speech.

It was nothing more than a set of platitudes that were applicable in any similar situation at that time: "Youth are the future of the revolution and the vital force for construction," "While working hard, we must also properly resolve our personal problems, as this is related to the stability of the workforce and the continuation of the revolution," "Thank you for the visit of the leaders and comrades of the textile factory's trade union, which will strengthen the friendship and exchange between young employees of brother units," and "I hope everyone will open their hearts, learn from each other, make progress together, and build revolutionary friendships." His voice was strong and resonant, with the characteristic pauses of a soldier.

After the speeches, it was time for the symbolic "toasting" segment. Several young union officers busied themselves pouring soda or water into the glasses on each table.

Sha Zhu clumsily picked up the bubbly orange soda in front of him, mimicking his classmates. The others clinked glasses, chatting and laughing, but no one offered to clink glasses with him, or even glanced at him, as if he were invisible.

Sha Zhu awkwardly held up the cup himself, hesitated for a moment, symbolically bumped it forward, and then tilted his head back and gulped down the large cup of cloyingly sweet, bubbly soda.

The cold liquid slid down his esophagus, but instead of relieving the dryness and tightness in his throat, it caused a slight nausea and a greater sense of emptiness.

After a simple opening ceremony, the first formal part of the social event began – "Artistic Exchange and Performance." This is the best way to showcase personal talents, attract the attention of the opposite sex, and break the awkwardness of a first meeting; it is also the conventional highlight of such events.

A female union official acted as the host, and as soon as she announced the start, several young people who were prepared eagerly went up on stage.

The first to take the stage was a thin, young technician from the technical department, wearing black-rimmed glasses. He seemed a little nervous, adjusted his glasses, and said into the microphone (which was actually a simple metal megaphone): "I... I'd like to sing 'Ode to the Red Plum Blossom' for everyone. If I don't sing well, please feel free to criticize."

His voice wasn't particularly loud, even a little thin, but he sang with great seriousness and passion, carrying the sincere yearning for revolutionary heroism unique to the youth of that era. When he finished, enthusiastic applause erupted from the audience, especially from some of the women who cast approving glances their way.

Next, a female worker from a textile factory walked confidently onto the stage. She wasn't particularly beautiful, but she had a round face, big eyes, a sweet smile, and was full of energy.

"I'll perform a 'Laundry Dance' for you all." As the music began, she moved to the lively rhythm, imitating the actions of Tibetan girls washing clothes, splashing water, and playing. Although the dance was simple, her movements were fluid, her expressions vivid, and she was full of the joy of labor and youthful energy. Her performance earned even louder applause and cheers, and many young men watched with rapt attention.

There was also a young man from the machine repair shop who brought a well-maintained erhu. He sat down somewhat shyly on the chair in the center of the stage, tested the sound, and then, holding his breath, began to play "Horse Racing".

The piano playing was a bit awkward at first, but he quickly got into the groove. The rapid, leaping rhythm, imitating the melody of galloping horses, was performed with considerable flair. Although his technique was far from professional, his courage to perform and the lively atmosphere he created still won him a standing ovation.

Sha Zhu sat stiffly in that dimly lit corner, like an outsider, staring blankly at the shows that were being performed on stage, listening to the bursts of applause and laughter around him.

Singing? He can't; at most, he can hum along to the radio. Dancing? Even if you killed him, he couldn't learn those twisting and turning movements. Playing an instrument? He doesn't even know how many strings an erhu has.

His only "talent," which he was truly proud of and that brought him real satisfaction and income, was his skill in stir-frying vegetables. But could he really go on stage and demonstrate how to slice potatoes? Or do a live wok-flipping demonstration? That would be ridiculous! He himself found it absurd and laughable.

In this setting where "culture," "taste," and "cultivation" were expected, he felt utterly worthless and utterly useless. He could only act like a programmed puppet, mechanically clapping along with others, forcing out what he thought was an appropriate "appreciative" smile. But that smile was stiff and fleeting, vanishing in an instant, leaving only a deepening sense of helplessness, inferiority, and a cold loneliness that isolated him from joy.

He looked at the young men who performed calmly on stage and chatted and laughed offstage, and then looked at his own out-of-place clothes and empty hands. A sense of powerlessness, almost desperate, quietly tightened around his heart like cold vines.

The performance segment ended amidst another round of applause. The host announced the start of the "free exchange and socializing" session. The gramophone was turned on again, this time playing a more soothing and exotic rendition of "Moscow Nights."

Several of the large lights at the front of the venue were turned off, making the light much softer and more hazy, seemingly to create a more relaxed and private atmosphere for the young people's private exchanges.

The restless young men began to leave their seats and move around. The bolder and better-off young men started to approach the women they had already noticed, whether they were alone or with female companions. They put on what they thought were the most appropriate and enthusiastic smiles, extended their hands, introduced themselves, and tried to strike up a conversation.

Most of the women responded shyly and softly, while some formed small circles with their companions, chatting and laughing in hushed tones while secretly glancing at the approaching young men out of the corner of their eyes, exchanging knowing glances and letting out knowing, low laughter.

Sha Zhu sat there, watching the gradually coming to life "cross-sections of humanity" before him, feeling as if a hundred claws were scratching at his heart. He also saw several women who looked quite pleasing to the eye and seemed to have gentle temperaments, sitting alone at a table not far away, or talking quietly with their female companions.

A strong, almost instinctive impulse surged in his chest: Go! Stand up! Go over there! Say something! You can't have come all this way for nothing! What are you here for? The old man said to take the initiative! Sister Qin encouraged you too! You have a job! You have a salary! What are you afraid of?

He kept encouraging himself, repeatedly reciting what he thought were appropriate lines he had prepared beforehand: "Hello comrade, I am He Yuzhu from the No. 1 canteen of the steel rolling mill. It's a pleasure to meet you..." "I am a cook, and I usually enjoy studying cooking..." He recited these lines in his mind, as if this would increase his courage.