Sometimes I feel gloomy.

The chubby man didn’t argue with him. “If you say it’s not hard, then it’s not hard. Let’s drink.” Then he asked, “You finished your work?”
“All done.” Zhang Pa sat down, knocked the cap off a bottle of beer on the table with a crisp pop, and asked, “How are things with you and Long Xiaole?”
“Nothing much. It’s over, I guess,” the chubby man replied. “But there’s no point going to the billiards competition—Ma Ping and Long Xiaole are both on the provincial team, there’s no way to beat them.”
“They signed up too?” Zhang Pa asked.
“Didn’t ask, but I’m sure they did. If you were on the provincial team and saw ten thousand up for grabs, wouldn’t you sign up?”
Zhang Pa shook his head, raised the beer bottle, and took a swig.

The night passed like this. The next morning, he got to work, then in the afternoon visited the hospital to help Wang Baihe bring Sun Yi home.
On the way back, Sun Yi thanked him and apologized for the trouble.
Zhang Pa said it was only right.
Wang Baihe didn’t join in, just stared at her phone the whole way, probably chatting with someone.
Sun Yi asked, “Who was that young man who took you home last time?”
Wang Baihe replied impatiently, “How many times are you going to ask? He’s no one.”
Sun Yi just sighed.
When the taxi arrived, Zhang Pa insisted on paying, carried the luggage inside, fussed around, and all he got from Wang Baihe was, “Thanks, I’ll treat you to dinner sometime.”
Zhang Pa smiled, went upstairs to keep typing, then uploaded his work and called it a day.

He ate an early dinner, packed a box of books, and headed to the teachers’ college to set up a stall by the gate.
There were always plenty of students there selling trinkets to support themselves, but the school and city inspectors didn’t allow it, so things had gotten quiet. Zhang Pa had come four times before—three of which he’d been chased off, running all over.
This was his fifth time. In the dusky night, he sat on the curb in a daze, a box of books in front of him.
He barely sold anything. By ten he’d only managed to sell one book, for eighteen yuan.
He was about to leave when a bunch of cars pulled up and stopped at the roadside, but no one got out.
Curious, Zhang Pa stayed put to see what would happen.
But then, out of nowhere, a huge dog appeared—enormous, fat, with jet-black fur that shone under the streetlight.
Old Zhang had two big dogs, fierce-looking ones. But this beast was twice as big as Old Zhang’s black dog, with a massive head and big, silly ears, looking both goofy and dazed.
It was a black Saint Bernard, with white fur running from the center of its head down to its mouth, chest, and belly, while its back, legs, and tail were black.
The giant loped over, glanced back at Zhang Pa, and then flopped down next to him.
Zhang Pa was confused. What was this about? Did the dog know him? He cocked his head, studying the dog.
The big dog lolled its tongue, glancing around, then met Zhang Pa’s eyes for a moment.
Zhang Pa looked around behind and ahead, then across the street, but didn’t see anyone who looked like the dog’s owner. He had no choice but to sit and wait for the owner to turn up.
Half an hour passed. The school’s lights would go out at eleven, and from ten o’clock the crowds at the gate thinned. By ten-thirty, the area was nearly deserted, with only two taxis waiting for fares.
During this time, people kept getting in and out of the cars parked by the roadside, pacing back and forth; someone chalked lines on the ground. A young man in a baseball cap stood idly at the school gate.
By this point, the gate was almost deserted. The man in the cap called out, and people began getting out of the cars—some carrying equipment, others lugging props, and a few extras.
So they were filming a movie. Zhang Pa wanted to leave, but the big dog stuck to his side, its owner nowhere to be seen...

He tried petting the dog; the beast didn’t react. Emboldened, Zhang Pa felt for its collar, sliding his hand along, but found only a simple ring—no tag.
He sighed and asked, “Who are you? Where’s your owner?”
From the dog’s well-kept fur, it was obvious it had an owner—no stray could look so nicely groomed.
The dog just stuck out its tongue in response.
Looking back at the school gate, Zhang Pa saw that the extras—dressed as students—had taken their places. A pretty girl in a white dress paced at the gate, books in her arms, probably getting into character.
The guy in the cap was the director, quite young, giving instructions to several actors in suits.
Zhang Pa wanted to leave but couldn’t, so he watched out of boredom. But the crew soon came over to ask him to leave, saying he might interfere with filming.
Zhang Pa agreed, packed his books into the box, and hefted his bicycle. Curiously, the big dog followed him.
A crew member complimented, “Nice dog.”
Zhang Pa, on behalf of the absent owner, thanked him and started to leave.
The director noticed, thought for a moment, and came over to ask.
Zhang Pa explained he was just selling books.
The director’s eyes lit up, and he asked Zhang Pa to set up closer to the gate and sell books as usual—head down, no looking at the camera. He glanced at the dog. “It doesn’t bite, does it?”
Zhang Pa replied, “It hasn’t bitten me.”
The director muttered something and pointed out the spot, telling Zhang Pa to get ready and promising fifty yuan for his trouble, payable after filming.
Fifty yuan? Not bad. Zhang Pa agreed and went over to sell books, keeping his head down and staying silent.
The director instructed him to keep the dog under control—no matter what happened, don’t let the dog cause a scene.
For fifty yuan, Zhang Pa readily promised.
Soon everything was ready. The director called action, and the actors began.
There were a few takes at first, but finally it was done on the fifth try. The crew handed Zhang Pa fifty yuan, packed up, and the actors got into their cars.
Zhang Pa had been a background extra five times; many of the actors eyed the big dog jealously, especially the girls. When filming wrapped, the pretty girl in the white dress ran over, squatted in front of the dog, and asked, “It doesn’t bite, does it?”
Zhang Pa replied, “If you’re squatting this close, you’re clearly not afraid of being bitten, so why ask?”
She laughed. “This dog is adorable.” She reached out to pet it.
Strangely enough, the dog seemed to be friendly with everyone, letting her pet it without a sound or a move.
The girl grew even happier, took out her phone for selfies—first squatting beside the dog, then hugging its head with one hand and snapping photos with the other. She handed her phone to Zhang Pa to take pictures for her.
In return, she took a couple of photos with Zhang Pa using his phone. But she didn’t leave her contact info or add him on WeChat.
The crew quickly packed up, calling the girl to leave. She hesitated, then asked Zhang Pa for his WeChat, saying she’d hang out with him when not filming, but only if he brought the dog along.
Zhang Pa said, “No need to add me—the dog isn’t mine.”
“It’s not yours? Why does it listen to you, then? Hmph.” She pouted and walked away, not adding him in the end.
A while later, the cars drove off, leaving Zhang Pa helplessly eyeing the dog. “Buddy, let’s go. If you don’t leave, how am I supposed to get home?”
The dog ignored him, settling in as if to say, “You sit, I lie down.”
It really was uncanny. In the filming, the girl had played the heroine’s sister, who gets abducted at the school gate. That was the scene, shot five times over. The first two takes, Zhang Pa worried the dog might attack the actor playing the villain, but the dog acted as if nothing was happening. Again: “You sit, I lie down.”

He checked his phone: twelve-thirty. Nearly two hours for a single scene—making movies was truly a time sink.
But it was so late already... Zhang Pa got up, strapped the box to the bike rack, and told the dog, “I have to go.”
The big dog stood, blocking his way, probably heavier than he was. Zhang Pa wheeled his bike off the curb, and after a moment’s hesitation, the dog trotted off the way it had come.
Zhang Pa thought it over—it was on his way home anyway—so he pedaled after the dog at a slow pace.
So, in the dead of night, a fat black dog jogged along the sidewalk of the provincial capital, with a man on a bike trailing behind.
At the next intersection, the dog turned right without a second thought.
Zhang Pa hesitated but followed.
Ahead was a residential complex. The dog trotted inside and disappeared.
Zhang Pa breathed a sigh of relief—the dog was home, and now it was his turn.
It was a long way from the teachers’ college to Xingfuli. Over half an hour later he finally got home, exhausted, and fell straight into bed.
The life of a writer was dull—every day was writing. He woke up the next morning and got to work.
Last night, while setting up his stall at the college gate, the chubby man had called, scolding him for being a pig, asking if he understood the value of his time. Selling books wasted hours—if he spent that time writing, wouldn’t it be much better?
Zhang Pa thought he had a point, but if he didn’t get out of the house every day, wouldn’t he become a complete shut-in?
He worked on stories until after nine, when the chubby man arrived, carrying a guitar.
Seeing the guitar, Zhang Pa asked, “You said you were going to sing on the street yesterday?”
The chubby man replied, “Yeah, starting today. You can sell books while you’re at it.”
That’s what he’d said on the phone yesterday. The Pretty Boy—the best-looking guy in their group—had signed up for The Voice, but they wanted recordings and demos, and he had nothing, not even experience.
He’d never studied voice, either.
The chubby man, bored, had a bright idea: let Pretty Boy sing on the street to build confidence and stage presence. If he couldn’t do that, he might as well not sign up—he’d only embarrass himself.
Pretty Boy was reluctant, and honestly, any normal person—even a professional singer—wouldn’t want to stand on the street and sing.
So, the chubby man volunteered Zhang Pa, saying he was thick-skinned and sold books on the street every day. He could sell books, Pretty Boy could sing, and the chubby man would cheer them on and act as bodyguard.
And, somehow, Pretty Boy’s brain short-circuited and he agreed.
So, not long after the chubby man arrived, Pretty Boy showed up too.
Whatever his real name was, he always had two pretty girls in tow—that was the power of good looks.
The chubby man, full of mischief, saw the girls and teased, “Haven’t seen these two before—new ones?”
Pretty Boy shot back, “Shut your filthy mouth. These are my teachers—top students from the Conservatory.”
Zhang Pa was surprised and looked the two girls over. They really did look like students from the Conservatory. He asked, “What year are you in?”
The two girls, with barely any makeup—just some skincare—and dressed casually and simply, looked every bit the students. Hearing his question, the one with the ponytail answered, “Second year.”