In the heart of a sun-drenched village, nestled amid fields that stretched like a patchwork quilt under a perpetually blue sky, stood a rickety repair shop. This was the realm of Old Liu, the village’s unofficial philosopher and washer repairman. Despite his stooped frame and scruffy beard, Old Liu possessed a sharp wit that gleamed subtly through his eyes, much like the well-worn tips of his screwdrivers.
Old Liu had a peculiar affection for the dead washers that cluttered his shop—a graveyard of rust and wires. “Ah, the 苦的washers,” he’d sigh wistfully to anyone who wandered in, “each one tells a tragic tale.”
Every villager had, at some point, brought their ailing appliance to Old Liu, trusting his hands more than newfangled gadgets. One sultry afternoon, a young man named Jin strode into the shop, his washer making a noise reminiscent of a wheezing donkey.
“Old Liu, the machine’s dying,” Jin announced.
Old Liu peeked over his spectacles. “Machines don’t die, they just lose the will to churn.”
Jin, bemused, watched as Old Liu performed what seemed like a surgical autopsy on the washer. “You ever think of retiring, Old Liu? Maybe let someone younger take over?”
Old Liu chuckled, a sound like a distant rumble of thunder. “Retire? What would I do without my darlings? Besides, you wouldn’t understand. This is art,” he declared, gesturing to the scattered debris.
Jin shrugged. “Maybe. But it looks more like a junkyard.”
Their banter was the daily bread of the village, nourishing the otherwise banal rhythms with bursts of black humor—a nod to Wang Xiaobo’s style. It was this casual irreverence, woven with shards of deep truths, that filled the space between Old Liu’s ears.
“Beneath the grit and grime, these washers hold the secrets of life, you know,” Old Liu murmured, his hands deftly twisting wires. “People think they’re just machines, but they’ve witnessed us at our best and worst. Births, deaths, even those disastrous New Year parties.”
“Guess they know us better than we know ourselves,” Jin mused, caught up in the strange nostalgia.
Old Liu nodded sagely. “That’s why they’re 苦—the bittersweet observers of our struggles and joys.”
Jin laughed. “Maybe they should write a book.”
“Who says they haven’t?” Old Liu shot back, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Just then, there was a loud snap, followed by the triumphant whirr of the resurrected washer. Jin whooped, clapping Old Liu on the back with a camaraderie born from shared absurdities.
“You’ve done it again, Old Liu. You’re a miracle worker.”
Old Liu waved him off, pride dimming his eyes like an evening sun touched with clouds. “Nah, just an old man with a spanner and too much time on his hands.”
As Jin hoisted the washer out the door, Old Liu resumed his place among the washers, surrounded by silence like an artist in a forgotten gallery. Each appliance held its silent testimony, waiting for their moment to spin tales of human folly.
And just like every day in the life of Old Liu, the scene ended abruptly, as if the hands of the narrative clock had decided it was time to stop ticking.