In the winter of 1998, the chimney of Hongqi Machinery Factory went out. Zhao Tiesheng, an eighth-level fitter, carried a buyout fee of 3,200 yuan and pushed a permanent brand 28 big car that rang except for the bell into the mud on the outskirts of the city.
The car repair stall is set up next to a garbage dump. The opponent is a local snake, the customers are vegetable sellers and wage earners, and the family has a sick wife and young son. Life is lived on a dime, but he has both hands and an uncompromising conscience.
If a car breaks down, it must be repaired, and if a person breaks down, he must repair it. From SARS masks to demolition turmoil, from Internet-addicted teenagers to serious illness medication expenses, the torrent of the times rolls past with sand and rocks, hitting every ordinary person. Zhao Tiesheng repaired bicycles, tricycles, rusty childhoods, and homes on the verge of falling apart. He used a wrench to try to tighten the loose world.
This is not a myth of counterattack, this is a craftsman who spends thirty years on the anvil of fate to temper, forge, and modify himself and his life over and over again, and finally let the voice of mortals become the endless echo of the times.
