The Price of Survival

By a constantly flowing intersection, a rusty blue pickup truck was parked illegally on the red line. Standing next to it was A-Chuan, a tanned, burly middle-aged man with a weathered look, smoking a cigarette.

The truck bed was overflowing with a mountain of oranges, a mix of yellow and green, indicating various stages of ripeness. Placed among the fruit was a hand-written sign on a piece of cardboard: "Home Grown & Sold. Thin Skin, Juicy. 8 catties for NT$100." Although it was December, the southern town’s temperature was as warm as its people.

"Sir, my oranges are very sweet, and they’re home-grown! Would you like to buy some to try?" A-Chuan quickly extinguished his cigarette, plastered a smile on his face, and greeted an approaching man with enthusiasm.

🏡 New Town, Old Market

Wen-Rong had recently retired as an accountant in Taipei and moved to this quiet southern town. Tired of the capital’s fast-paced life, he bought a townhouse about fifteen years old, complete with a small patch of unused land in the front—perfect for gardening and "fiddling with flowers and weeds." Having just moved in and appreciating the town's simplicity, he often rode his bicycle through the main streets and alleys in the early morning to familiarize himself with his new, long-term home.

As he enjoys cooking, the traditional market is a frequent destination. Compared to the supermarkets and big-box stores in the big city, the traditional market offers a genuine, heartwarming human touch and a symphony of cheerful noise.

The alley right next to the illegally parked truck leads directly into the market. Wen-Rong was about to turn in when the yellow-green splash of oranges on the pickup caught his eye. He remembered his wife loves oranges, so he decided to buy some.

Seeing Wen-Rong approach with interest, A-Chuan immediately handed him a red and white striped plastic bag.

"This is 8 catties for NT$100?" Wen-Rong double-checked the price.

"That's right! You won't find a better deal," A-Chuan said with a look of resignation. "We grew these ourselves. Times are tough, so I’m selling them cheap—low profit, high volume. Just trying to scrape by."

"Is there any profit at this price?" Wen-Rong asked.

"This variety, Ponkan, had a bumper crop this year, so the market price is terrible," A-Chuan explained. "I didn’t want to be exploited by the wholesalers, so I loaded them up and brought them out here to sell myself."

He managed a small smile. "On weekends, I sometimes drive up to Taipei. The price is better there. Even after deducting gas and time, I can often sell them for 6 catties for NT$100, and most people don’t even haggle."

"Driving all the way to Taipei must be exhausting," Wen-Rong commented.

"I have no choice, sir. What job isn't hard?" A-Chuan replied. "Especially when I have three kids and my parents to support. You just have to endure the hardship. I'm not aiming to get rich; I'd be satisfied just to keep us fed and warm, and break even on our daily expenses."

A lyric suddenly came to Wen-Rong’s mind: "Cheers, my friend. A man keeps his burdens tucked away. Even if he leaves no great legend, his departure must be decisive." The bitterness of a man's life is always kept hidden, swallowed down—a perfect description of the man standing before him.

🚨 The Weight of the Law

Wen-Rong took an orange and felt its weight. It was heavy in his hand, a clear sign of thin skin and ample juice. He hated buying oranges that were thick-skinned and dry—a waste of money, neither worth eating nor throwing away. As an orange lover himself, picking out good fruit was no challenge for Wen-Rong.

He took the plastic bag and started selecting fruit to fill the 8 catties when a police officer walked over.

"This is a red line. You cannot park here," the officer told A-Chuan, then pulled out his ticket book. "You are illegally parked, and I must issue a fine."

"Officer, please, I apologize. This is the first time I've parked here. I'll move immediately. Please, just let me off this time," A-Chuan pleaded.

"If I don't give you a ticket, you won't be afraid," the officer replied simply, then proceeded to write the citation.

A-Chuan took the ticket with a look of misery on his face.

The officer was, of course, correct. A-Chuan had violated the law by parking illegally. But Wen-Rong kept pondering the officer's cold remark: "If I don't give you a ticket, you won't be afraid."

If I were the orange seller, Wen-Rong thought, when my kids don't have milk money or tuition fees, what is there left to be afraid of? He risks this fine just to earn enough to survive.

Sometimes, the law is merely a minimum moral standard, passively restricting human behavior. But people's actions are rarely driven by a single factor; they are often dictated by numerous harsh realities. If everyone could live in peace and prosperity, well-fed and well-clothed, no one would willingly choose to push against that minimum standard.

With that thought, Wen-Rong, who had only intended to buy 8 catties of oranges, ended up buying 16 catties.

The 16 catties of oranges were heavy—not just in weight, but in the burden they represented. Wen-Rong slowly walked away, carrying the heavy bags in both hands.

Behind him, the traffic continued to flow relentlessly. The crowd grew, and the rising hubbub of voices drowned out the silent sighs of the men who were left behind.