Reborn in 2005, starting with repairing mobile phones

Chapter 182 Oriental Mobile Phone Launch Event 1 (Seeking Monthly Tickets!)

December 25th, 2017 (Year 2, Northwest), Futian District, Shenzhen.

At seven o'clock in the morning, Shennan Avenue was not yet fully awake.

Half of the road in front of the flagship store was blocked off. A red carpet stretched from the roadside all the way into the store, and two rows of golden bollards created a passageway, which was crowded with people on both sides.

Early-arriving media reporters, TV crews carrying cameras, passersby holding up their phones, and stall owners who came all the way from Huaqiangbei.

Some people were adjusting the camera lens, some were tidying up the microphone, and some were making phone calls to urge their colleagues, "Hurry up, they're coming soon."

The countdown clock at the end of the red carpet had turned to "0".

Black background with white lettering, standing there quietly, like a period.

At 7:30, the media began to arrive.

When reporter Chen from Southern Metropolis Daily got out of the car, she almost tripped over the camera cable, and her colleague next to her helped her up.

The first thing she did after regaining her balance wasn't to straighten her clothes, but to look up at the store—a glass curtain wall with light coming from three sides, and a metal sun logo embedded above the main entrance, gleaming matte in the morning light.

She'd been covering tech news for three years, attending product launches by Huawei, ZTE, and Lenovo, but she'd never seen a store like this before.

Futian CBD.

She walked inside, but a security guard stopped her to check her invitation. She took it out of her bag and handed it to him. The guard glanced at it and then let her pass.

By eight o'clock, both sides of the red carpet were already packed with people.

The media set up a row of cameras and microphones, and the TV cameramen carried their equipment on their shoulders to adjust the focus.

The security guards maintaining order stood behind the barriers, holding walkie-talkies and pressing the button every few minutes.

Pedestrians were kept outside the cordon, and some people stood on tiptoe to peek inside.

The sun rose a little higher, and the glass curtain walls of the office buildings in Futian CBD began to reflect light. The traffic on Shennan Avenue changed from sparse to dense, and there was a traffic jam.

Someone leaned out of the car window, wondering what was going on ahead. Then they saw the red carpet, the bollards on both sides, and the people. What happened in front of that store? Was it an opening? A press conference? What brand was it?

Then the first car arrived.

8:15.

A black Mercedes-Benz S600 drove from the east side of Shennan Avenue and slowly stopped at the end of the red carpet.

The car body was gleaming black, and the rims completed their final half-turn in the morning light before coming to a stop. The door opened, and Principal Wang stepped out.

He wore a dark gray jacket, his hair was neatly combed, and he wore a pair of black leather shoes that were polished to a shine.

He wasn't the type to stand still on the red carpet and let people take pictures; he just sat in the car the whole way, and when the door opened, he got out.

He stood up straight, straightened his collar, and then took a step.

His pace was neither fast nor slow, as steady as if he were taking a stroll on the Shenzhen University campus.

The flashbulbs popped and lit up his face, his body, and his dark gray jacket.

As he walked over, people on both sides called out, "Hello, Principal Wang."

He nodded and walked through the glass door.

8:20.

A black Maybach was parked at the end of the red carpet.

The car was longer than the Mercedes we had just seen, and the emblem on the hood flashed briefly in the morning light.

The car door opened, and Ma Huateng got out.

Dark blue suit, no tie.

The flashes were even more intense than before. Some people shouted "Boss Ma," some shouted "Pony," and some pushed their cameras right in front of him, almost shoving them in his face.

The security guard reached out to stop him, and the man took a half step back, but the shutter didn't stop.

Click click click click click.

Ma Huateng didn't look at the camera; he just walked over quickly, the hem of his suit jacket fluttering in the wind.

Security guards on both sides of the red carpet blocked the crowd from moving forward, and some people reached out their hands to shake his.

Someone in the group of reporters shouted, "Mr. Ma! Will Tencent invest in Oriental Technology?"

He didn't stop, and he didn't look back.

But those words lingered in the air, landed on the red carpet, and were trampled on by those behind them.

Everyone who heard this was stunned. Tencent investing in Oriental Technology? Ma Huateng came in person—wasn't it just to show his support?

Ma Huateng walked through that glass door.

8:25.

A dark gray Porsche Cayenne was parked at the end of the red carpet.

The car was low-slung and had sharp lines, making it stand out among the black sedans. The door opened, and Wu Ming got out.

He wore a dark, well-tailored suit, and the watch on his wrist flashed briefly under the strobe light.

After getting out of the car, he didn't walk straight in like the previous two. Instead, he stood for a second, straightened his cuffs, and then walked away.

He walked slowly, glancing at both sides as he went. At the end of the red carpet was a glass door with a metal sun emblem above it.

8:30.

A silver-gray Mercedes was parked at the end of the red carpet.

The car body was more understated than the previous ones, but the paint shone with a smooth sheen in the morning light.

The car door opened, and Anderson got out.

The dark blue custom-made suit, ironed all night, now has every crease perfectly smooth.

He almost missed a step when he got off the bus; he was too excited and didn't watch where he was going.

The translator next to him helped him up, and he smiled, waved his hand, said "Thank you," and then stood up straight.

The flashbulbs went off one after another.

He waved at the camera, grinning like an American tourist who suddenly found himself on television.

The translator whispered "move forward," and he realized that they were on a red carpet, not in his living room.

He walked slowly, waving to both sides as he went.

Someone called out "Hello," and he replied "你好" (Ni Hao), his Mandarin not very standard, but he said it very earnestly.

He flew over ten hours from San Francisco. He came to see MagicLin.

MagicLin is having a press conference today, and he absolutely has to come.

He stopped at the doorway and looked up at the metal sun emblem. The sunlight shone directly on it, and the bright edge glittered in the morning light.

He glanced at it for a second, then pushed the door open and went inside.

8:35.

A black Audi A8 was parked at the end of the red carpet.

The car body had no extra decorations whatsoever; it was black, very black. The door opened, and Jamal got out.

A dark gray cashmere coat, with a scarf draped over the shoulders.

He didn't look to either side, didn't look at the camera, and didn't look at anyone.

As he got out of the car, the hem of his coat fluttered in the wind, and then he walked past.

His steps were neither fast nor slow, and his gaze was fixed straight ahead.

The flashes went off a few times, but not as frequently as before.

Because nobody recognized him. Someone in the group of reporters whispered, "Who is this?" and the person next to him said, "I don't know, maybe he's from abroad."

They didn't know who Jamal was, what Gulf Capital was, or which branch of the Middle Eastern royal family he belonged to.

But what they did know was that this person was sitting on the far right of the first row.

The seat that Lin Dong had reserved for him.

The person who could get Lin Dong to reserve a seat for him must be no ordinary person.

Jamal walked through the glass door.

8:45 AM. First floor of the flagship store.

More than half of the two hundred chairs were occupied.

The media area was located slightly to the right of center. The cameras were already set up, and the cameraman was crouching behind the equipment, holding the lens with one hand and a walkie-talkie with the other, waiting for the director's instructions.

The guest area was slightly to the left of center, where representatives from Huawei, ZTE, Lenovo, and TCL were seated—influential figures in Shenzhen's mobile phone industry.

Everyone with a face has arrived.

Dongfang Technology has made a lot of noise this year: a shop in Futian CBD, a hundred students at Shenzhen University, and a guy at the subway station.

If you don't glance at the countdown timer at the bus stop, you won't be able to chat with anyone in your social circle.

The dealer area, located in the back rows, was filled with agents who had come from all over the country.

Some people came with contracts, some with checks, and some with a "let's see first" mentality.

Their eyes kept scanning the stage, the prototype, and the seats in the first row that weren't full yet.

Several seats on the side of the first row were empty.

One of them, the one on the far left, is still unoccupied.

When Chen Wei'an entered through the side door, no one noticed her.

She made her way through the crowd, past the chatting guests, the cameramen adjusting their equipment, and the dealers looking for seats. She walked to the far end of the first row, to Anderson's left, and sat down.

Anderson turned to the side, leaned closer, and whispered, "Vivian, you're late."

She said, "I'm not late. It hasn't started yet."

Anderson smiled and turned back.

Chen Wei'an sat there, straightened the collar of her coat, and then placed her hands on her knees.

She remembered a year ago in San Francisco, when Lin Dong stood by the window of that coffee shop, his back to her, and said, "Would you like to stay and help me?" She said, "Yes."

She spent a year in North America, building the Eastern trade business from scratch.

She came back today, not on a business trip.

She came to see him.

8:55. The lights went out.

The entire room fell silent.

The metal sunrise emblem in the center of the stage lit up, its bright edge gleaming faintly in the dim light, like the first rays of sunlight just breaking through the horizon at sunrise.

Lin Dong walked out from the side curtain.

Gray casual suit, black crew neck T-shirt, jeans, sneakers. No tie.

My hair was styled a little neater than usual, but that's about it.

He walked to the center of the stage, stood under the metal emblem, and scanned the audience, from the first row to the last, from left to right.

The flagship store is 2,500 square meters, with more than 200 chairs and hundreds of people standing behind them.

The second floor was filled with experience consultants, dressed in white overalls with the sunrise logo printed on their chests.

Zhou Jing stood at the front, holding a walkie-talkie in her hand.

Everyone was watching him.

"Today is Christmas." His voice came from the speakers.

The audience was silent.

"I know you were supposed to be at home opening your presents. Thank you for coming." He paused. "Open mine."

There was a half-second silence in the audience. Then someone laughed. The laughter spread from the first row to the last, from left to right. After a few seconds of laughter, silence returned.

Lin Dong did not laugh.

He stood there, waiting for the laughter to completely subside.

"I'd like to talk to you about a few things today."

He took a step forward, and the spotlight followed him.

"First, what exactly is wrong with current mobile phones? Second, what kind of mobile phone do we think is good to use? Third, how do we make it?"

Some people in the audience took out their notebooks, and others raised their voice recorders a little higher.

"You might think he looked at the audience, his gaze lingering in one direction for a moment, and said, 'These days, mobile phones are pretty good. Nokia is good, Motorola is good, Samsung is good. I've used them for so many years, I'm used to them.'"

He paused for a moment. "But habit doesn't equal ease of use."

The big screen lit up.

A video begins to play.

The scene shows a subway station in Shenzhen, on Line 1. It's crowded, with people jostling together. Some are looking at their phones, some are swiping their cards to pass through the turnstiles, and some are leaning against pillars waiting for the train.

A man in a gray coat stood on the platform, holding a Nokia in his left hand and a Motorola flip phone in his right.

Slider and candybar models were all laid out in front of me, like a street stall.

He typed on the Nokia keypad with his thumb, pressed a few times, deleted, and pressed again.

He pressed the button a few more times, stopped, stared at the screen for a few seconds, then put the phone back in his pocket and picked up another one.

The next scene is a university campus.

A boy wearing a dark blue down jacket sat on the stone steps at the entrance of the library, with a textbook and a mobile phone spread out in front of him.

His phone screen was small, and the text was even smaller. He squinted at it for a few seconds, then moved the phone a little further away, squinted at it again for a few seconds, then sighed and put the phone in his bag.

The scene shifts to a farmers' market.

An old woman in a floral cotton-padded jacket stood in front of a pork stall, holding a flip phone in her hand. She opened it, stared at the screen for a long time, and then closed it again.

The person next to her asked, "What's wrong?" She said, "I can't see clearly." Her fingers tapped on the keyboard several times, but she became more and more confused. Finally, she put her phone back in her pocket, took out some change from her cloth bag, and handed it to the stall owner.

The scene sped up again, as if someone had pressed the fast-forward button, showing scenes in the subway, on the bus, at the entrance of a shopping mall, in a hospital corridor, and in a school cafeteria.

In every scene, someone is using a mobile phone, but everyone's expression is almost the same: frowning, squinting, pressing buttons several times without getting a response, or scrolling around without finding what they want.

Not a single person was smiling.

Lin Dong stood in front of the screen, his back to the audience. He didn't turn around to look at the screen; he didn't need to.

He had seen those scenes far too many times.

The image freezes.

A line of white text appeared on the screen: "Is this a problem with the phone, or a problem with the person?"

The audience was completely silent.

Lin Dong turned around and looked at the audience.

"Do you think this is a problem with the phone, or a problem with the people?"

He waited for three seconds.

I don't think so.

He took a step forward.

"It's a design problem."

"The problem with the design isn't that it couldn't be made. It's that it was made, but nobody thought of changing it. Did Nokia think of changing it? Yes, they did. But they changed it for twenty years, and it was still the same keyboard, the same flip phone, the same slider phone."

The screen was changed from 1.5 inches to 2 inches, then from 2 inches to 2.2 inches. The keyboard was changed from gray to black, then from black to silver. Twenty years of changes, and this is what they achieved.

He picked up a Nokia from the table and held it up.

"It still looks the same."

A photo of the Nokia appeared on the big screen, magnified several times, with every button clearly visible.

"This phone sells for three thousand yuan. The screen is two inches. The keyboard takes up a third of the screen area."