I recently met a writer, but I can't really say that I know him. I don't even know his name. It's just that he has been coming to my barbecue stall every day this week to eat barbecue. And he clearly loves to eat spicy bean curd skin and always drinks a can of beer.
As a competent owner of a small barbecue stall, I naturally pay attention to my regular customers. So I know that he always comes after eleven o'clock at night, silently selects the barbecue ingredients and hands them to me, then goes to the refrigerator to get a can of beer and sits in his usual spot. He sips his beer while waiting for me to finish processing his barbecue, then he eats it and drinks the beer in silence. After that, he sits for a while, about three minutes, and then asks me how much it costs in total. After I tell him the price, he scans the QR code on my stall with his phone to pay, and then leaves silently.
Today, there are not many customers, so I plan to chat with him because he makes me feel uneasy and pitiful, and I think I can help him a little. After all, he looks really lonely. After a few words of conversation, I learned that he is a writer who just moved into a nearby rental house less than a month ago. He said he tried several barbecue stalls nearby, but only mine suits his taste.
Knowing his identity as a writer, I no longer feel sorry for him. On the contrary, I think he is impressive. It's probably because I don't know what writers actually do, but I can't help but believe that there must be a reasonable reason for his way of life, and his life is probably better than mine.
"Wow, that's impressive. I've never known any writers before." In my opinion, being a writer is a high-level intellectual work, and intellectual work is impressive.
"Not at all!" He confidently shakes his head, looking like he used to be talkative. "It's all for the sake of eating. You have your way, and I have mine. It's like fish living in water and birds flying in the sky."
"Indeed, you're a writer." I admire him.
He shakes his head again, seemingly thinking that I'm naive. Then he takes a sip of his drink and suddenly asks, "Do you know the meaning of life?"
"Eating well, drinking well, dressing well," I said, "marrying a good wife, having healthy children."
"And then?"
"And then everyone is the same."
"How so?" He insists on asking me.
"What else can there be? Of course, death."
"Just like that?" He stares at me.
"What else?" I ask him in return. He's a writer, so he must have different thoughts.
"Writers are different. Writers don't wait for death to come knocking."
It sounds profound, but he doesn't explain further. Maybe he thinks I wouldn't understand. But I don't mind. There are many things in this world that I don't understand. Just then, a new customer arrives, so I get up and leave.
After the writer finishes eating and drinking, he comes to pay.
"Sixteen yuan," I say, and continue to barbecue.
He scans the QR code to pay, but instead of leaving in a hurry like usual, he stares at my barbecue grill.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"I have a job tomorrow," he says, "so I won't be able to come for barbecue at night."
"Work is important."
"You may know, being a writer is risky. If the work doesn't go well, I may never have the chance to eat barbecue again."
Although I don't know the risks of being a writer, it's clear that the topic has become a bit heavy. I decide to pretend I didn't hear it.
The atmosphere becomes awkward, but fortunately, the writer doesn't continue. He walks away.
The next night, the writer comes with a crutch, indicating that his right leg is injured. Probably because of the injury, he doesn't choose the ingredients himself today, but verbally orders a few dishes.
"I'm very curious. What happened to you?"
"The work isn't going well."
"Aren't you a writer? Can't writers make their work successful?"
"For writers, this is a mild situation. Some writers accidentally lose their lives."
"What are you..." Then I shut up. I suddenly realize that this writer is probably writing things that people don't like, things that the government doesn't like, so he got his leg broken. It's possible that he's a writer influenced by anti-China forces in the West, always writing and spreading things about freedom and democracy, which are used by Western countries to interfere in other countries' internal affairs. I feel some sympathy and hatred towards him, but most importantly, I decide not to get too involved with him. This way, even if one day he is arrested by the government and secretly executed, it won't harm me and my family. I turn around to get him a beer.
"A can of beer is better than anything!" the writer says, with excitement in his voice.
I don't respond, but the writer doesn't seem to mind. He continues to sigh, "Ah, writers can't eat well, drink well, dress well, marry a good wife, or have healthy children."
"Why not? Aren't writers human beings?" I didn't want to talk to him at first, but now there are no other customers, and I really disagree with what he said.
He seems surprised by my sudden anger, and his face is filled with astonishment. "My job has a lot of risks," he says calmly.
"Then don't do it! Change your job! You're still young, you can still live! Besides, you should consider your parents!"
He stares at me, then takes a sip of his drink. "Someone has to do this job!" he sighs and continues, "In China, there aren't many people who truly do my job anymore." Then he raises his left hand, "You can count them on one hand."
"That's impossible. Although I don't read books, I know about Mo Yan..." I wanted to list a few more names, but I can't remember them. "He's the one who won that United Nations award." I remember reading the news.
"Nobel Prize in Literature," the writer says, "I'm not that kind of writer."
"I'm not interfering with you. You should write things that the country likes. You can still win awards and make money, right? Don't write those things that attack the government and the country. What's the benefit for you? You won't even know how you'll die!"
"No, haha," the writer laughs unexpectedly, "I mean, I'm not the kind of writer who writes. I'm a professional daredevil. I won't wait for death to come knocking. Yesterday, I jumped off a building, luckily I only broke one leg."