Chapter 8 – A Returning Customer
As the foreign woman approached, Yang Wendong couldn't help but feel a little uneasy.
"Are you part of the Street Vendor Enforcement Team too?" she asked in fluent Cantonese.
"No," Yang Wendong replied quickly. "We're just regular street vendors."
The woman nodded and asked, "Then, would you be willing to help me take that man to the hospital?"
"To the hospital?" Yang Wendong looked at the injured man nearby, now being supported by his daughter.
The woman added, "He's badly hurt. He might have broken bones—he should see a doctor."
"No! I'm not going to the hospital," the man said quickly. He limped over, wincing in pain.
The woman frowned. "Why not? You might have internal injuries—you could die."
Shaking his head and gritting his teeth, the man said, "I don't even have money to pay the vendor fees—how can I afford the hospital? If I had money, they wouldn't have beaten me in the first place."
"I can cover the cost," the woman said. "You don't need to worry about the money."
Wendong said nothing. He felt sympathy for the father and daughter—but also knew there wasn't much he could do.
If he had truly died from the flu earlier, would Su Yiyi and Auntie Guo have been able to keep their place in the shack settlement? Probably not. Their future would've been equally bleak.
But hearing this woman's words, he couldn't help glancing at her again. A foreigner willing to help the poor? That was rare.
"No. I'm not going," the man said, firm in his refusal.
The woman furrowed her brow. "You could die if your internal injuries get worse."
"If you really want to help," the man said, "just buy my daughter something to eat. She hasn't had a full meal in a long time."
"Alright." The woman finally gave up on the hospital and pulled out a five-dollar bill, handing it to him. "This is a small token."
The man thanked her repeatedly and left with his daughter.
Wendong also began to turn away but was stopped by the woman again.
"Wait—you said you're a vendor here?"
"Yes," Yang Wendong nodded.
The woman glanced at the basket still by his side, which held a few remaining traps. "What are those?"
"Rat traps. Want one?" Yang Wendong replied instinctively, shifting into sales mode.
The woman examined one of the bamboo tubes. "How does it work?"
"Let me show you," Wendong said. He began explaining and demonstrating how the mechanism trapped the rat once it triggered the internal trigger stick.
After a few minutes, the woman nodded. "It's a clever design. Doesn't hurt people like snap traps do, and unlike cages, you don't need to handle the dead or injured rat afterward."
"Exactly. Just pull this little bamboo slat here and the rat will fall right out. Or, if you want, you can throw the whole trap away. It only costs fifty cents—much cheaper than a metal cage."
Over the last few days, Wendong had picked up quite a few old newspapers and taught himself to read them. Although he couldn't write much, he could recognize most of the words—especially when reading them in context.
Through those papers, he'd come to understand a lot more about Hong Kong in 1958—including the fact that the average monthly income was about 80 dollars.
But that number was misleading. Most Chinese workers toiled twelve hours a day just to earn a little over a dollar. The real income that skewed the average came from the few foreigners and elites making hundreds or thousands per month.
For them, fifty cents was nothing—like a piece of candy.
"This is definitely convenient. Rats are a nightmare," the woman nodded. "Alright, I'll buy two. If they work well, I'll come back."
"Great." Wendong smiled. He never passed up a potential sale. Today, he had already delivered the 200-piece order, but he'd also brought along a few extra to try and make additional sales.
After all, even though that 30-dollar payday had been his best yet, it still wasn't enough. He desperately needed more money.
Business continued as usual. Though he wasn't getting rich, the fact that rats were so prevalent in poor neighborhoods meant people would occasionally buy his cheap traps.
Bit by bit, Yang Wendong and Zhao Liming earned just enough to scrape together a basic living.
At Wendong's suggestion, Su Yiyi stopped doing embroidery work—which strained her eyes—and joined him in selling traps, while Zhao Liming stayed home and focused on building them.
One day, while working the market, Su Yiyi said with a smile, "You were right, Brother Dong. A lot of people copied our trap design, but none of them came to sell here at the market. They're just selling inside the shack settlements or maybe trying other areas."
"Of course. Coming here means paying money and having to convince strangers to buy your product—not everyone can do that," Yang Wendong said.
Some probably tried—and gave up on day one.
Street vending was much harder than it looked. It wasn't just about having a product—it meant talking to strangers, dealing with fees, enduring rejection. And most part-timers weren't willing to gamble on something so uncertain.
But if you could stick with it, the rewards were higher than most low-paying jobs—just as Yang Wendong's income had now surpassed what he'd ever made doing physical labor.
"We've sold quite a few today," Su Yiyi said happily. "I was thinking—maybe we can buy half a chicken tonight. I want Mom to have something nice for once."
"Sure," Yang Wendong agreed. Even though money was still tight, they didn't need to starve themselves. It was okay to indulge once in a while.
Just then, a familiar figure appeared—it was the same foreign woman from before. She walked up to them and said, "Hello again. I'd like to buy more of your rat traps."
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