The Internet Bar Chronicles: A Life Lived in the Present

I knew Wei back in middle school in Xi’an, China. He was the kind of guy who seemed almost invisible at school, always on the fringes, and often a target for the meaner kids. Perhaps out of pity or something else, I took him under my wing. On Friday nights, we’d sneak out to the Internet bar in the "village inside the city"— a dense, chaotic maze of narrow streets and old brick buildings hidden within the city’s modern exterior. The village was alive with activity, neon lights from restaurants and street stalls painting the night in vibrant colors. We’d stay there until midnight on Friday and Saturday nights, lost in the glow of the computer screens in the Internet bar, playing games until our eyes were heavy with sleep. But after middle school, our paths diverged. I went to a different high school, then abroad for college. We lost touch, and I wasn’t even sure which high school he attended—perhaps he didn’t make it to a regular one, likely ending up in a trade school instead. It was only earlier this year, on a whim, that I wished him a happy birthday. To my surprise, we ended up exchanging messages, and through these conversations, I learned more about his life over the past years.

Wei’s life had taken a different path. He hadn’t found a regular job and was still living in the same village where we spent our youth. The area hadn’t changed much: the same three-story red brick buildings, the same flickering neon lights casting long shadows on the worn streets below. He rented a tiny, sparsely furnished apartment—little more than a bed and a shared restroom down the hall.

Surprisingly, despite the 12-hour time difference between us, Wei and I had the same daily schedule. He’d wake up around 6 or 7 in the evening, just as the city began to cool down from the intense summer heat. After grabbing a meal from a street stall—a quick bite of spicy noodles or skewered meat—and a cold drink from the convenience store, he’d head to the Internet bar. There, he’d rent a computer for the night, staying from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m., all for around 15 yuan, sometimes less if he caught a discount. This was his life: gaming and streaming into the early hours of the morning, his main source of income coming from game videos and streaming on BiliBili, a Chinese equivalence of YouTube. When his funds ran low, he’d flip his schedule for one day or two, waking up during the day—an ordeal akin to waking up at midnight for us—to find freelance work. He’d pick up video editing gigs or write short stories for a quick 100 yuan, or, if nothing else was available, take on light physical labor like distributing flyers. His health prevents him from taking on anything more strenuous.

When I asked Wei why he didn’t just buy his own computer, he explained that his living situation was too unstable. He usually stayed in one place for only a few months at a time, so it was impractical to accumulate belongings. Besides, the apartment’s electricity rates were exorbitant—1.5 yuan per kWh, with the landlord undoubtedly pocketing the difference. Despite the oppressive heat of Xi’an’s summer, where temperatures often soared above 40°C, Wei rarely used the air conditioning. The old, energy-guzzling unit was too expensive to run. Instead, he found solace in the Internet bar, where the air was cool, the Wi-Fi was free, and the gaming machines were top-notch. Most importantly, he simply didn’t have the savings to buy a gaming computer, which would have cost thousands.

I couldn’t help but express my concerns about his health—the nocturnal schedule, the lack of sunlight, the diet of greasy street food and sugary drinks. Wei brushed off my worries, assuring me that he felt perfectly fine. But as someone who’s always planning for the future, I couldn’t stop thinking about what his life might look like in 10 or 20 years, when the vitality of youth inevitably fades. “We all die one day,” he replied casually. “That’s just the common fate for all of us, no matter how we live today.” Still, he did concede to my suggestion of replacing his sugary drinks with water, though I suspect it was just to placate me.

Wei was reluctant to talk about the past few years in detail, and he asked me not to share much of what he did tell me. In short, he hadn’t gone to college and had drifted from one job to another, never staying in one place for long. After a series of failures, he gave up on finding regular work and settled into his current routine, numbing himself in the glow of the Internet bar.

When I asked about his future, Wei’s answers were vague and untroubled. The typical concerns of securing a job, buying a house, or starting a family didn’t seem to cross his mind. He lived entirely in the present, waking up each evening, heading to the Internet bar, and squeezing out every bit of joy from the one thing that still intrigued him. It’s easy to dismiss his way of life as short-sighted or irresponsible, but in some ways, he was capturing happiness in a way that many of us overlook.

In the end, perhaps annoyed by my persistent questioning about the future, Wei said, “In China, every minute, someone dies from heart disease; every 10 minutes, someone dies in a car accident. What’s the point of living in the so-called ‘future’ that will always stay ahead?”

Note: "Wei" is a pseudonym, and while this story is inspired by real events, certain details have been fictionalized for narrative purposes.