BEIJING – Wang Bin and I are the same age. While I spend four hours a
day learning how to say "fan club" and "lazy as a pig," Wang Bin lives
a life where even his victories can be destroyed by petty despots.
Wing Bin sells chicken wings and roast lamb slices cooked on a
portable barbecue grills outside Wudaokou's small bar street. He cooks
every day of the week from 8 p.m. to 6 in the morning. Several vendors
sell the same product, but I think Wang's are the best: always plump
and sweet when they come off the grill.
I'm not alone, I've met many fellow Tsinghua students standing around
Wang Bin's booth at 3 or 4 in the morning, everyone praising the work
of the man we call "Three Thumbs" in English. Some people argue at
these alcohol fueled pit-side discussion that this genetic anomaly –
Wang's left thumb splits below the second knuckle – makes him
predisposed to make great wings.
His wings are so good that my friend Zach decided to make them the
centerpiece of his 23rd birthday celebration. He wanted to hire Wang
and the cart for a couple hours, invite friends and savor the
delicious food without having to worry about avoiding the vomit from
the Malaysian who drank too much on the sidewalk.
Zach broached the idea a couple weeks ago during a late-night session,
and Wang immediately said yes. A few days later I finalized the deal
with a sober, mid-afternoon phone call. For 400 RMB (about $50), Wang
would give us 200 chicken wings, 50 skewers of chopped chicken breast
and 50 pieces of marinated bread.
I wanted to give Wang Bin his deposit money on the rainy Wednesday
before the party, but when I arrived with my bicycle and 200 RMB, he
wasn't there. Another wing seller told me that Wang had come in a
couple hours later than usual the last two nights. With the party on
the books and the weather crummy, Wang decided to rest a bit.
I met Wang just before dusk at Tsinghua's northeast gate. He rode a
miniature bicycle with two grapefruit-sized wheels and a low seat – a
cross between a tricycle and scooter – that is popular in China.
Behind him a thin man struggled to keep up while pulling a large cart
behind his regular bike.
"This is my friend," Wang said.
The party was held near the library, at a place called Lover's Hill.
Here in the afternoon there are always young couples celebrating their
love by either staring into the sky with wonder or falling asleep.
Night activities at the hill were rumored to be more X-rated. Wang Bin
setup his barbecue in a walled picnic area, protected from Beijing's
howling night winds.
The party was a rousing success. More than 30 people came to enjoy the
food (which was excellent), drink cold beer from a nearby dining hall
and chat in a mixture of Chinese and English. Our international
friends, classmates and even our teachers showed up. Brown told an
amusing story about how other teachers thought we were an item earlier
in the semester. I met my roommate's partners in the biology lab, and
impressed them by talking a bit about Du Fu's poetry, which I studied
in college.
Three hours after he arrived, Wang Bin finished cooking and began to
mingle with his guests. He was the man of the hour; everybody wanted a
picture with this 22-year-old master chef. It's been three years since
Wang migrated to Beijing from the southwestern city of Chongqing, and
things were good. He wore new clothes to the barbecue, and probably
pocketed close to two week's wages in one part of the night.
After the last chicken wing was eaten, I led Wang and his colleague
out of the campus. He didn't take the night off, rather headed
straight to his stop on the Wudaokou sidewalk. Exiting the club
Propaganda in the early morning, Zach and I saw Wang Bin's setup in
its familiar place. Wang wasn't there, so Zach took a wing and
started grilling it.
"Chicken wings," he shouted to the passing revelers. "Hot
motherfucking chicken wings! Get them here!"
He didn't get any customers, but his wing finished cooking just as
Wang Bin returned to his booth and grinned at the birthday man. I
stepped inside 7-11 to buy a bottle of water.
When I returned five minutes later, Wang Bin's booth was in chaos.
Wang had a sour expression, and stared down at his chicken wings. A
crowd of people were gathered around, but none were buying wings. Zach
stood at Wang's side in a very paternal way.
"Did you see that," he said. Right after I left, the chicken wing
seller to Wang Bin's right came over, but him in a headlock and
punched him a couple times. These weren't joke punches, but Wang Bin
didn't try to fight back.
A Chinese-American who I didn't know chimed in with an explanation.
"That guy is older than him," he said, referring to the other seller.
"He was pissed that you [Zach] started selling wings at his booth. So
he decided to cut him down to size."
Wang Bin insisted he was fine, but clearly he wasn't. He may have made
a tidy sum by catering his foreign friend's party, but here on the
streets he was still just the Little Brother, someone who has to
respect his elders.
I wonder which event dominated Wang Bin's mind that evening as he
pedaled his cart back to his tiny dwelling – the good or the bad?
Probably his scolding, reminding him of his lowly status after three
long years in the city. Wang Bin is bright and ambitious. Someday soon
I think he will be the Big Brother, or even better, life this winged
life for greener pastures.
