Chapter 63: Letting Go of the Jeans

It was a little after three in the afternoon.

The oppressive heat of summer made sweat stream down everyone’s faces. Suddenly, Wang Qiang felt a cool breeze slip in through the crack under the door. He looked up at the glass window; the willow branches on the roadside swayed gently twice, and then the sunlight gradually dimmed—bright one moment, shadowed the next, as if a veil of drifting sand floated above.

All at once, the wind picked up. The willow branches, which had been still for half the day, were now whipped about as if yanked by some great force, their slender twigs seeming to stretch longer as they swayed.

When the gust passed, the sky darkened, dust spun up into the air, and in the north, ink-black clouds appeared on the horizon. He had just finished covering things with a rain tarp when another furious wind swept in, rolling the dark clouds across half of the sky. The southern half remained clear and bright, while the north was shrouded in thick storm clouds, as though some great catastrophe was imminent.

Suddenly, the street filled with people, all rushing for shelter under the eaves of the nearby shops.

Rain was coming.

Inside, the people seemed oblivious to the brewing storm; two women and a young man were busy sifting through a sack, searching for trousers of the right size.

“Buy a pair for my Junsong as well,” said the plump woman.

The other woman in a floral dress agreed, “Yes, only twenty yuan. I’ve never seen jeans this cheap.”

Wang Qiang was snapped out of his thoughts by Boss Yao’s booming voice.

“These trousers are on special for our store’s one-year anniversary—just twenty yuan each! Tomorrow they’ll go back to the regular price!” shouted Boss Yao.

“What?”

“Just one day?”

“Then I’ll take two more pairs.”

Those who had been rummaging leisurely now hastened their search.

Suddenly, the sky darkened abruptly. A deafening thunderclap resounded, and a few fat raindrops smacked onto the parched ground, raising little puffs of dust. Then, with a roar, the rain fell in sheets, filling the world with its downpour.

“Oh no, it’s raining!” The plump woman looked up, forgot all about finding the perfect size, grabbed the two pairs she was holding, hurried over to Boss Yao, and asked, “Forty, right?” She pulled four ten-yuan notes from her blue wallet, pressed them into his hand, and rushed out.

The young people did the same.

None bothered to pick through the trousers anymore; they all crowded around Boss Yao, handing over their money.

In just two minutes, the packed shop was suddenly empty, leaving only two people—

Wait.

Where was Boss Zhu?

Wang Qiang glanced outside and finally saw Boss Zhu, who, unbeknownst to him, had slipped out and was now struggling to push his motorcycle under the eaves, drenched and bedraggled.

“Xiao Wang.”

“Huh?” Wang Qiang turned his head.

Boss Yao held a wad of cash in his hand. “You saw just now, all the money for the trousers is here. I didn’t pocket a single cent.”

Wang Qiang had thought he was about to say something else. He couldn’t help but feel a little more warmly toward the big, bald man. After all, with everyone grabbing trousers at will, there was no way to know exactly how many pairs had sold. If Boss Yao had hidden a few dozen yuan, Wang Qiang would have been none the wiser.

“What a downpour,” Boss Zhu said, coming in from outside. He wiped the water from his hair and flicked it away.

Boss Yao handed him a dry towel.

Boss Zhu sat by the counter, toweling off and cursing the wretched weather until Boss Yao handed him an Ashima cigarette, which shut him up.

“Xiao Wang,” Boss Yao said, squinting through the smoke as he finished counting the money. “There’s a total of three hundred and eighty yuan here—nineteen pairs of jeans sold. Count it.”

Wang Qiang smiled and waved his hand. “I trust you.”

Boss Zhu took a deep drag on his cigarette. “Even with family, accounts should be clear. Count it.”

So Wang Qiang took the money and counted. Sure enough, it was three hundred and eighty.

“Old Zhu, your cousin isn’t very kind,” Boss Yao said with a smile. “I told him to set a price, and he gave me a price that nearly ruined the business.”

Old Zhu snorted. “Didn’t you say to write any price he liked?”

Boss Yao’s smile faltered; he didn’t know how to reply.

After all, Wang Qiang was helping him sell jeans, sharing his business. Wang Qiang felt grateful and apologized, “Boss Yao, sorry about earlier. I was too eager to sell off my jeans and didn’t consider your store’s prices.”

“It’s not your fault,” Boss Yao said, shaking his cigarette. Then he asked, puzzled, “But you’re selling these so cheap—do you just want to recover your costs?” He assumed Wang Qiang’s purchase price was similar to his own.

Feeling a little awkward, Wang Qiang replied, “To be honest, I was going to put fifteen yuan at first.”

“Cough, cough, cough!” Boss Yao choked on his cigarette, coughing until his eyes watered. He looked up, astonished. “How much did they cost you?”

Before Wang Qiang could answer, Boss Zhu cut in. “He was just trying to offload at cost. If he was thinking fifteen, that’s what they cost him.”

Wang Qiang nodded with a smile. He didn’t want to talk more about his costs—if they pressed for details, it would be a hassle to explain. He had no wish to reveal his advantage in information; even if it didn’t matter now, who could guarantee they wouldn’t spread the word, ending his information advantage too soon.

Edward Lorenz, the American meteorologist, once said that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in the Amazon could set off a tornado in Texas two weeks later.

Though it was an exaggeration, it illustrated how a chain reaction could be triggered by the smallest of things.

He felt like the “butterfly in the rainforest” who had barged into 1994, hoping to improve his family’s fortunes with a few flutters of his wings. That didn’t mean he was willing to flap those wings for just anyone, especially if it might change history. So, apart from his own needs, Wang Qiang tried to avoid changing too much.

Knowing his cost was only fifteen yuan, Boss Yao was less shocked, but even so, his heart pounded. Saving three yuan per pair was a big temptation for any businessman. “So, uh, can I ask where you get your goods?”

Wang Qiang hesitated.

Boss Zhu frowned. “Old Yao, that’s a bit much. Would you tell someone else your way to make money?”

“Right, right, I shouldn’t have asked.” Boss Yao put on a broad smile, then continued, “Xiao Wang, I’d like to discuss something with you.”

Wang Qiang looked at him. “Go ahead.”

Boss Yao glanced at Boss Zhu, who was still puffing away, seemed worried, but finally spoke, “You saw what happened just now. If I sell your jeans at twenty yuan a pair, my other jeans won’t sell at all.”

Boss Zhu bristled. “Are you going back on your word? Don’t want to sell Xiao Wang’s jeans anymore?” He was a proud man. Not being able to help Wang Qiang sell his jeans had already stung; now, hearing that Boss Yao might refuse to help further, he was naturally upset.

“No, no, Old Zhu, don’t get upset. Hear me out—if I didn’t want to help, I wouldn’t have let you bring the jeans here in the first place,” Boss Yao said, half amused, half exasperated. “Look at you, always shouting at me. If you have the guts, go shout at your wife at home.”

Boss Zhu’s face reddened at the misunderstanding, but he retorted, “As if I never do! I only hold back when you’re around to save her some face.”

Who would believe that? Even Wang Qiang, who hadn’t known him long, had to stifle a smile. He didn’t speak, just looked at Boss Yao, wanting to hear his proposal.

Sure enough, Boss Yao took a deep drag on his cigarette and said, “I have two options for you. If neither suits, for Old Zhu’s sake, I’ll still sell at twenty yuan a pair.”

“Go on,” said Wang Qiang.

Boss Zhu also looked over.

Boss Yao stubbed out his cigarette in an old tin. “First, you can keep selling your jeans here, but the price goes up to twenty-five yuan a pair.”

Wang Qiang nodded slightly to show he was listening. Twenty was already undercutting the market; twenty-five would slow his break-even, but Boss Yao was being fair, mainly because of Boss Zhu.

“And the second?” Boss Zhu asked.

“The second…” Boss Yao drew out the words, looking at Wang Qiang. “You’re in a hurry to offload this batch, right? I’ll buy all the remaining jeans for fifteen yuan a pair. The nineteen pairs sold just now don’t count. The rest, I’ll take them all.”

If he’d known from the start that the price was fifteen, he would have bought the whole batch at once and not waited until now. If he’d known Wang Qiang had first wanted to sell by the dozen, he’d probably spit blood.

Boss Zhu sneered, “My cousin’s cost is fifteen yuan, and you want to take it all without leaving a penny…”

“Deal,” Wang Qiang interrupted.

He was already planning to recover his costs, and had even considered selling by the dozen just to break even. Now that Boss Yao was offering to buy the lot at cost, he had no objections.

To be honest, if he’d made this deal at the start, he’d have sold at cost for Boss Yao’s sake—he’d needed help. But now, things had shifted. It was Boss Yao who needed him. Wang Qiang felt no guilt making a little extra, at least to cover his shipping costs.

Boss Yao was overjoyed. “I’ll go count how many are left.”

“I’ll help,” Wang Qiang said.

The three of them squatted down to count. In the end, Wang Qiang counted thirty, Boss Yao thirty-two, and Boss Zhu, a little slower, waited until they finished and announced twenty-two.

All told, there were eighty-four pairs left.

Actually, there should have been eighty-six, but Wang Qiang had kept two for himself. The trousers he’d brought were all patched and worn. Now that he was going into business, he had to dress the part—people judge by appearances, after all. He didn’t need to wear famous brands, just look presentable; it would help his chances.

Let’s be honest—if one person is dressed in rags and another is well dressed, and both are selling the same thing at the same price, who will most people choose?

The answer is clear. Barring other factors, people buy from the better-dressed one.

Wang Qiang’s clothes were clean, but the patches left a poor impression. People do judge by appearances.

At last, the troublesome jeans were taken care of.

Wang Qiang was in good spirits. He decided to have dinner with Boss Zhu and then hurry to Shenzhen, hoping to earn ten thousand as soon as possible, and then return home to give his mother a pleasant surprise.