In the fiery red era of the heavens, refrigerators are refreshed daily.

Chapter 116, Section 115: Job Adjustment, Substitute Workers for Cadres

Monday morning, office building of Hongxing State-owned Cotton Mill.

The summer dawn, carrying a sticky heat, climbed early onto the dusty office building of the Red Star State-owned Cotton Mill.

As Yang Guangming stepped onto the third floor, his footsteps were steady and clear. The soles of his shoes made a rhythmic, soft sound as they touched the smooth stone surface, which was particularly distinct in the empty corridor in the early morning.

He pushed open the door to the outer room of Deputy Factory Director Zhao Guodong's office and walked to his slightly worn desk by the window.

Apart from a telephone, an ink bottle, and a thick copy of the magazine "Red Flag," there was nothing else on the table.

He meticulously stacked several production reports and application documents that needed to be signed in the most conspicuous position on the corner of the table.

Then, I opened the dark blue-covered work log, my fingertips tracing the lines of text, outlining today's schedule—

At 9:00 AM, I accompanied Factory Director Zhao to the workshop to inspect and debug the new equipment; at 11:30 AM, I went to the factory office to pick up the meeting notice; in the afternoon, I checked the production reports of Workshop 3…

Morning light slanted in through the dusty glass windows, casting a few cool beams of light into the room, gilding the simple office with a pale, almost ethereal golden hue.

About fifteen minutes later, familiar footsteps came from the end of the corridor—slightly hesitant, but carrying an undeniable weight.

It's Deputy Factory Director Zhao.

The heavy wooden door was pushed open with a slight creak. Zhao Guodong's tall figure darted into the inner room, and the door closed behind him, shutting out the outside noise.

Sunlight streamed down, and he listened intently, trying to catch any sounds coming from inside.

Soon, the rustling sound of documents being turned and the distinctive rustling sound of paper could be clearly heard.

He then raised his hand and tapped the dark brown solid wood door three times with his knuckles, the sound crisp and restrained.

"Come in." Zhao Guodong's steady, short voice came from inside the door, carrying the distinctively robust quality of a northern accent, like a piece of raw iron being hammered onto an anvil.

Sunshine Ming pushed open the door and entered.

Zhao Guodong was hunched over his large desk.

The morning light outlined his broad, strong shoulders and back, like a silent mountain.

Without even looking up, a dark green "Hero" brand fountain pen moved steadily between his fingers, smoothly drawing deep blue ink marks on the document. The soft rustling sound of the pen tip gliding across the paper was particularly clear in the excessively quiet room, as if it were a concrete manifestation of the flow of time.

"Factory Director, the atmosphere at the lunch gathering with Deputy Director Zhang's group yesterday was generally very harmonious."

Yang Guangming stood about a step away from the desk, his posture as straight as a javelin, his voice clear and steady, without any unnecessary pleasantries, getting straight to the point.

Zhao Guodong let out a low "hmm" sound, the pen tip still gliding across the paper, his movements without the slightest pause.

Yang Guangming spoke as if he were reporting precise production data, his tone objective and calm, devoid of any personal emotion.

He briefly recounted the events of the previous day: how Deputy Director Zhang Weiqiang had warmly invited them to the gathering, which was held in a private room at a small restaurant outside the factory, where the atmosphere was relaxed and harmonious.

He emphasized the friendliness and care shown by Zhang Weiqiang during the meal—he specially arranged for him to sit to his right, and repeatedly steered the conversation toward him, asking about his adaptation to the secretary position, his words full of the meaning of mentoring a junior.

The group chatted mostly about everyday matters and interesting anecdotes from the factory, creating a harmonious and joyful atmosphere.

When Yang Guangming mentioned that Chen Guoqiang, the director of the Qinghua workshop, was drunk and his voice was getting louder, and his words vaguely revealed his dissatisfaction with being criticized at the last factory meeting, Zhao Guodong's smoothly moving pen tip finally paused for a very brief moment, and the ink seemed to spread out in a small circle almost imperceptibly.

Immediately, the pen tip resumed its smooth trajectory.

“I understand Chen Guoqiang’s intentions.” Zhao Guodong put down his pen and looked up.

The deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, like knife cuts, now carried a penetrating power as they swept across his young yet unusually serene face bathed in sunlight.

His lips twitched upwards slightly, a rare occurrence, a faint curve that clearly revealed a sense of worldly wisdom and indifference.

"The equipment was aging, malfunctions were frequent, and progress was lagging behind. He was under immense pressure and his mouth was covered in blisters from anxiety."

I called him out at the factory meeting, and I was seething with anger, so I just needed an excuse to vent.

He came from a working-class background, had a fiery temper, and couldn't keep secrets.

As long as it doesn't disrupt production, let him do whatever he wants. Don't take what's said at the dinner table too seriously.

He waved his hand, as if brushing away a tiny speck of dust.

Yang Guangming nodded slightly.

Zhao Guodong's composed demeanor and precise understanding of the subordinate's personality dispelled any remaining concerns he might have had about the matter. This deputy factory director possessed a profound and insightful understanding of the situation.

"But it's Zhang Weiqiang."

Zhao Guodong abruptly changed the subject, leaning forward slightly, his arms crossed and resting on the polished red lacquered table. His gaze deepened, as if trying to pierce through the young secretary's skin and reach the depths of her heart:
"His attitude towards you has always been...quite good?"

He deliberately slowed down his speech, emphasizing the word "always" with exceptional clarity, carrying a silent emphasis and scrutiny.

"Yes, Director." Yang Guangming answered decisively, his eyes open and clear, without a trace of skepticism. "From the first meeting, Deputy Director Zhang has been quite friendly. Yesterday's invitation was also natural and appropriate, and he was very considerate during the dinner, arranging seats and guiding the conversation very thoughtfully."

Zhao Guodong nodded thoughtfully, his thick fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the smooth tabletop, making a soft "tap, tap, tap" sound, like some kind of silent timer, or as if he was weighing something.

"Hmm. That's good." He pondered for a moment, his gaze passing over the sunlight and landing on the towering chimneys of the factory outside the window, lazily puffing out grayish-white plumes of smoke.

"Work-related communication between secretaries is commonplace. Smooth information transmission is the foundation and the key."

He withdrew his gaze, refocusing on Yang Guangming's face, his voice lower but each word clear:
"What I need between Secretary Tian and me is this smooth and unimpeded communication."

You and he also need to gradually cultivate this understanding. Make time for each other, communicate when necessary, and find the right balance.

Listen more, observe more, and you'll have a general idea.

He spoke the last few words with exceptional slowness and clarity, as if carving an imprint on a stone slab.

"Understood, Factory Director," Yang Guangming replied solemnly.

Zhao Guodong's words reaffirmed the core of Zhang Weiqiang's clandestine communication channel and also gave him the intangible responsibility of observing, filtering, and transmitting information.

Mastering this "degree" is like walking on a tightrope.

"Alright, go ahead and get busy." Zhao Guodong waved his hand, picked up his pen again, and looked back at the open documents, as if the conversation about personnel and the information network had never happened. "Check the production report from Workshop 3 carefully this afternoon and send it over as soon as possible."

"Okay." Yang Guangming responded, nimbly leaving the office and gently closing the heavy wooden door, once again separating the two worlds.

The outer office returned to silence, with only the faint hum of machinery coming from outside the window.

It was just past four in the afternoon.

The summer sun was still scorching, hanging brightly overhead, mercilessly baking the Red Star State-Owned Cotton Mill.

Yang Guangming had a stack of production reports, still warm from the machines in the workshop, tucked under his arm. Fine beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, soaking the collar of his faded polyester shirt.

He walked briskly towards the office building that was getting quite hot from the sun.

As he stepped onto the scorching hot cement steps in front of the office building, a familiar figure suddenly came into view.

Mother Zhang Xiuying stood awkwardly in the narrow shadow on one side of the gate, like a plant that had been exposed to the sun and desperately needed shelter.

She clutched a small, faded cloth bag with patches tightly in her hand.

She was wearing the same old work clothes that were also washed to a pale white, with frayed edges on the collar and cuffs, and the word "Red Star" printed in a blurry way, but her hair was neatly combed and tied into a tidy bun at the back of her head.

That face, deeply etched by time and factory work, was now covered with an unusual flush, as if he were drunk.

A mixture of immense joy and intense unease surged and collided deep within her eyes like two turbulent undercurrents, almost overflowing.

Seeing her son walking briskly from the direction of the workshop, Zhang Xiuying's eyes suddenly lit up, like a drowning person finally grasping at a straw.

She rushed forward eagerly, her steps unsteady and she almost tripped.

"Mingming!" Her voice was extremely low, as if afraid of disturbing something, but it couldn't hide the volcanic excitement and a slight, almost imperceptible tremor within it. "I've finally waited for you! I went to your office just now, but you weren't there..."

"Mom?" Yang Guangming was a little surprised. He quickly took two steps forward and firmly supported his mother's slightly thin arm. He could feel her body trembling slightly. "Why are you here? Is something wrong at the workshop?"

He keenly noticed that his mother wasn't wearing the signature dark blue apron of a machine operator today, nor was she carrying the dented enamel mug with the word "Red Star" printed on it. Her expression was also unusual, revealing a kind of panic and ecstasy that was out of the ordinary routine.

Zhang Xiuying grabbed her son's arm with such force that Yang Guangming frowned slightly.

She subconsciously looked around, nervously scanning the flow of people coming and going, making sure no familiar coworkers passed by, before suddenly leaning close to her son's ear, her voice urgent and rapid, carrying an unbelievable, dreamlike quality.

It was as if a myth had fallen from the sky: "Mingming! Something terrible has happened! Great news! Mom... Mom won't be the car stopper anymore!"

Yang Guangming's heart skipped a beat, as if struck by a heavy hammer.

But his face remained calm and expressionless as usual, only his eyes instantly became focused and sharp: "Not working as a parking attendant? What's wrong?"

He lowered his voice to match his mother's.

"Labor officer!" Zhang Xiuying's voice trembled slightly with extreme excitement, like a taut string.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her wildly beating heart. "The labor relations officer in the weaving workshop! He's been transferred! He was just transferred this morning! This afternoon... this afternoon, Director Wang from the workshop called me in for a talk!"

She spoke rapidly, each word brimming with burning excitement, “They said the factory has decided to let me work as a substitute worker and take over as the labor relations officer! The paperwork… all the paperwork is done! Just now! It was stamped by the labor relations department!”

She finished speaking in one breath, her chest heaving violently, her eyes shining brightly as she stared intently into her son's calm eyes, as if trying to confirm from this sole anchor point that this was not a beautiful daydream, nor a cruel joke played by fate.

"This...how is this possible? It's too sudden! It's like a dream! In the weaving workshop, the dispatcher, statistician, and labor relations officer—which of these three positions isn't a coveted prize that everyone envies?"
Labor relations officer! Managing attendance, payroll, and social security distribution... The work isn't strenuous, you sit in an office, sheltered from the wind and rain, and no more working shifts and all-nighters! You're respected! So many eyes are watching you with longing.

How... how did it have to be me?

Her words were filled with the dizziness of being struck by immense luck and a deep-seated sense of unreality.

After the initial excitement, a deep sense of worry washed over me like a cold tide, instantly drowning out my initial elation.

Her voice suddenly lowered, carrying a barely perceptible sob and the worry unique to a mother:

“Mingming, tell your mother honestly, is it... is it because of you? Did you ask someone for help or take some steps for your mother’s sake?”
Mom knows you mean well and feel sorry for Mom... but... but won't this cause you trouble?
If it affects your work, affects your impression on Director Zhao, or makes the leaders think you're getting special treatment... Mom would rather still be blocking the car in the workshop!

Three shifts it is, Mom's body can still handle it! She gripped her son's hand even tighter, her nails almost digging into his skin, her eyes filled with a mother's worry and determination.

Seeing the mix of ecstasy and trepidation on his mother's face, and the complex light filling her sunken eyes from years of working night shifts, Yang Guangming instantly understood.

Lang Tianrui!
This was definitely the work of Lang Tianrui, the head of the Labor and Wages Section!

What a shrewd Lang Tianrui!

That lean and capable man, with eyes as lively as a sparrow constantly searching for food, was indeed a genius among geniuses!
On his side, there was still no sign of that precious box of dried sea cucumbers, and he hadn't even revealed a single thought about his mother's work situation to her.

Through just a seemingly casual lunch and chat yesterday, Lang Tianrui accurately figured out his family background—his mother worked as a loom operator in a weaving workshop.

He immediately realized that resolving his mother's long-term hardship of working three shifts and transferring her away from the noisy, fuzzy, and sleep-deprived frontline work was one of the most core and urgent demands of him, the newly promoted deputy factory director's secretary!

This keen insight into people's hearts is simply terrifying.

The difference between taking initiative and waiting for others to ask you to do something is worlds apart!
Lang Tianrui not only took the initiative, but he did it so quickly and efficiently!

The position was hastily cleared in the morning, and by the afternoon, my mother had already completed all the formalities with the freshly issued transfer order, the ink still wet!
This ability to navigate the quagmire of personnel matters with ease, and the timing and weight of this favor, are all perfectly measured, making it a textbook example of "testing the waters"!
This "generous gift" is alarmingly heavy.

Yang Guangming's opinion of Lang Tianrui instantly rose several notches.

This person's ability to hold the position of head of the labor and personnel department for so many years, a sensitive and crucial position that affects countless people, is no accident.

His move was both a gesture of goodwill and a significant investment in what could become his "lifeline," and a silent yet crystal-clear demonstration of his ability and precision in managing personnel matters within the factory—the position of head of the labor relations department was well-deserved, not merely a nominal title.

Originally, Yang Guangming planned to delay the dried sea cucumber business for a while longer, firstly to show that the product was hard-won, and secondly to observe Lang Tianrui's subsequent reaction and sincerity.

In retrospect, it was completely unnecessary.

Lang Tianrui has demonstrated his sincerity and skill to the fullest extent through this thunderous action.

Therefore, we must also quickly offer a return commensurate with this "generous gift".

Without further ado, let's set it for this Sunday and deliver the things to him.

"Mom."

A gentle yet reassuring smile spread across Yang Ming's face as he patted his mother's hand, which was icy cold from nervousness, trying to dispel the biting chill.

"What are you thinking? This has little to do with me. The main thing is that you have been working diligently and responsibly in the workshop for decades. The leaders have seen and remembered this."

The position of labor relations officer just happened to become vacant. The organization considered your rich experience, steady and reliable character, and literacy, which is why they put you in the position.

This is a good thing; it means the organization trusts and recognizes you.

He paused, his tone becoming even more steady, carrying a reassuring strength, as solid as a rock:
"As for trouble, Mom, you're overthinking it. This is a normal job transfer, something that happens often in the factory. What trouble could there be?"
Just focus on doing your job well and don't let the organization down.

From now on, they'll be sitting in offices, sheltered from the wind and rain, which puts our minds at ease.

He deliberately used the word "we" to incorporate his family's concern, trying to add a touch of familial warmth to this great fortune.

As Zhang Xiuying listened to her son's clear, calm, and powerful words, the worry on her face gradually dissipated like a thin mist under the sunlight.

But the joy in his eyes shone even brighter, like stars that had been polished.

She was skeptical, but her son's steady and unwavering attitude gave her great comfort and confidence.

"Really...it's not related to you? Then...that's such a coincidence..."

She murmured to herself, as if trying to convince herself, then nodded vigorously, as if she had made up her mind, her voice gaining strength:

"Okay! Okay! Mom believes in you! Mom will definitely do a good job! I will never let you down! I will definitely bring honor to the organization!"

A surge of new energy seemed to flow into her body, which had become slightly hunched from years of hard work. Her back straightened unconsciously, and even her old work clothes seemed to regain their vitality.

"That's right." Yang Guangming smiled with satisfaction, his eyes as warm as spring water. "Go back quickly, it's a new position, get familiar with it as soon as possible. I still have some finishing work to do here, I'll go home after get off work."

"Okay, okay." Zhang Xiuying agreed repeatedly, and the smile on her face finally bloomed like a flower, as if a heavy burden had been lifted, or as if she was gently enveloped by great luck.

She released her son's arm, glanced at him one last time with a mixture of reluctance and hope, and then, turning back every few steps, walked towards the familiar yet soon-to-be-unfamiliar direction of the weaving workshop, filled with joy and a sense of lightness as if in a dream.

Her steps were so light they seemed to fly, and even the hem of her faded work clothes swayed gently, tracing a light path in the sweltering factory air.

In the afternoon, Zhao Guodong seemed to be in a good mood, and he processed the documents quickly. He put down his Hero fountain pen ahead of time, picked up the enamel mug with the words "Grasp the task and promote production" printed in red, and took a sip of strong tea.

Yang Guangming seized an opportunity, stepped forward, and spoke respectfully and clearly:
"Factory manager, everything for today has been taken care of."

My mother has just changed jobs; starting tomorrow, she'll be the personnel officer in the weaving workshop.

My family wants to go home early for a get-together, so... could I leave a little earlier?

He specifically mentioned the "new position," both to explain the reason and to subtly convey information.

Zhao Guodong looked up, his gaze lingering on Yang Guangming's calm face for a moment. Without any extra expression, he simply gave a faint "hmm," which was tantamount to acquiescence: "Go ahead. Be careful on the road."

His thoughtfulness is always reflected in these small details, like a faint but real ray of warm sunshine in winter.

"Thank you, Factory Director." Yang Guangming felt a warmth in his heart and thanked him sincerely.

He quickly tidied up his small desk, neatly organizing the documents by category, and placing an enamel teacup with the words "Serve the People" printed in red on the corner of the desk.

Then he picked up the grass-green military satchel, which was washed until it was faded, with worn edges revealing the canvas underneath, but was clean and spotless, and hurried downstairs.

Instead of heading straight for the bustling factory gate, crowded with workers leaving get off work, he turned a corner familiar with the area and headed towards a forgotten corner on the west side of the factory grounds.

Here lie piles of abandoned, enormous gears, rusty iron frames, and dust-covered, overgrown weeds. Amidst the broken walls and ruins, a few gray sparrows hop and forage, emitting soft, monotonous chirping.

The afternoon heat seemed to have been somewhat absorbed by the discarded metal, making the place rather cool.

After confirming that there was no one around and that even the sparrows had been startled away by his steady footsteps, Yang Guangming leaned against a mottled, peeling wall covered with withered vines and closed his eyes.

Consciousness seemed to sink into the deep sea, instantly arriving at that strange refrigerator space. A soft, constant, cold white light shone, and the mind probed like a precise probe.

The shoulder bag under his arm suddenly became heavy and bulging, the originally soft canvas stretched taut, revealing the irregular outline of the items inside.

He pulled back the cover and glanced at it quickly:
A box of neatly arranged duck gizzards, rich in dark brown color and glossy, exuding an irresistible and enticing aroma;
A large piece of braised beef, wrapped tightly in thick oil paper, with its firm texture and rich, savory aroma that could be felt even through the paper, weighed more than two pounds.

The most eye-catching fish was a large yellow croaker, over a foot long, with silver scales shimmering like newly minted silver coins, wide-open golden eyes, and as fresh as if it had just been pulled from the surging waves of the East China Sea! The fish was plump and full of elasticity.

In an instant, the intense, pure, salty, and vibrant aroma of seafood overpowered the richness of the braised dishes and the savory flavor of the soy sauce, spreading throughout this abandoned corner.

Yang Guangming quickly closed his bag, his movements fluid and natural, as if he were merely adjusting the strap.

He straightened the collar of his faded polyester shirt, took a deep breath, suppressed the tension caused by the preciousness of the materials and their secret origin, and walked toward the factory gate as usual.

He remained composed, his back straight, as if his satchel contained only a few thick notebooks of meeting minutes, rather than the astonishing delicacies of this impoverished era.

As soon as I arrived at the factory gate, I saw my mother, Zhang Xiuying, already waiting outside.

She changed out of her signature dark blue overalls and into a nearly new navy blue twill blouse. Her face, now free of the grease and fatigue of the workshop, was radiant, exuding a more composed and cheerful aura than when they parted that afternoon.

Upon seeing her son, she immediately greeted him with a smile, her eyes filled with anticipation and a radiant glow of new life.

"Mingming, you're leaving get off work early too?"

Her gaze involuntarily fell on her son's bulging, oddly shaped shoulder bag. Her nose twitched unconsciously, and a complex expression of surprise, satisfaction, and instinctive heartache bloomed on her face.

"This...this is...you went to prepare things again? You child, what's wrong with you again..."

The word "again" was drawn out, carrying a mother's unique reproach and helplessness.

Yang Guangming chuckled and patted the heavy shoulder bag, making a muffled, meaningful sound.

"Yes, we're lucky to have found something so good. Since Mom is getting a promotion today, we should at least add a couple of dishes to celebrate and let the family share in the joy."

His smile carried a hint of youthful intimacy toward his mother and a subtle, almost imperceptible, desire for credit.

"Oh dear! You!" Zhang Xiuying couldn't help but reach out and gently pat her son's strong arm with a mixture of reproach and deep affection.

"All you do is waste money! Why waste money like that! It's not a big deal for Mom to change jobs, why spend so much?"

Be frugal! There will be many expenses in the future! Weddings, starting a family... all of these cost money! You're too generous, kid!

She kept repeating the principles of thrift and saving every penny, but her eyes and brows were full of undisguised smiles, as if she had been bathed in honey.

The alluring fragrance emanating from her handbag, so out of place in this impoverished era, warmed her heart and filled her with joy.

Her son is capable, knows how to care for his mother, and understands how to take care of the family. This is her simplest and proudest source of comfort as a mother.

However, decades of living frugally had ingrained her habits, making her instinctively feel the pain of spending money and precious coupons. In her simple mind, these valuable coins shouldn't be spent on her.

"Alright, alright, Mom, it's rare for you to be happy. Let's go home!"

With a bright smile, Yang Guangming naturally reached out and put his arm around his mother's slightly thin shoulder, conveying warmth and strength.

The mother and son walked side by side on the road home, bathed in the golden-red light of the setting sun. Their long shadows trailed behind them, leaping across the uneven pavement.

Zhang Xiuying opened up completely, her voice filled with boundless anticipation for her new life and the satisfaction of being relieved of a heavy burden:
"Mingming, you have no idea how clean and bright that office is! The desks and chairs are all gleaming! We no longer have to listen to that rumbling, head-shaking, ear-ringing machine noise all day long!"

No more bending over, weaving through those spinning spindles, my back aching and broken by the end of the day...

Not to mention the three-shift system, which leaves people with dark circles under their eyes, dizziness, and unsteady gait...

From now on, it'll be a proper daytime shift! We'll go to work when the sun rises and go home when the sun sets!

As she spoke, she let out a long sigh of relief, her steps becoming much lighter, as if she had become ten years younger.

Yang Guangming listened quietly, occasionally responding with a word or two, feeling his mother's heartfelt and pure joy.

The afterglow of the setting sun stretched their shadows long, blending into the wisps of smoke rising from the depths of the alley, carrying the aroma of firewood and food, merging into the July dusk of Shanghai.

(End of this chapter)