欢迎光临
The first night shift
Name: ________________ Date: ________
我失眠半年了。宿舍里，室友们一个比一个睡得香，就我一个人睁着眼睛，听着别人的呼噜声，一直等到天亮。后来我想通了：反正睡不着，不如去便利店上夜班。同样是睡不着，至少还能赚钱。
大学后门有一家二十四小时便利店，名字有点怪，叫做“一直在”。它左边是医院，对面是一所小学。半夜，整条街都黑了，只剩它还亮着，像一盏不肯关的台灯。
老板黄姐四十多岁，说话又快又准，像一台收银机。第一天晚上十一点钟，她把钥匙交给我：“夜班就三条规矩。第一，谁要热水都给，不收钱。第二，三点送货车到，你去后门卸货，别让司机在外面等着。第三，门说‘欢迎光临’，你也得说。”
“门已经说过了，我还得说吗？”
“门是机器，你是人，不一样。”说完，她就下班了。
店门是自动门，有人一进来，它就用甜甜的声音喊：“欢迎光临！”我每次都比它慢一秒，听起来像回声。
我在收银台后面坐下，打开带来的课本。一页书，我看了一个小时，还停在第一句。
第一个晚上，客人不多。十二点，一个喝醉的小伙子买了三瓶水，说了五次谢谢。一点钟，一个穿旧军大衣的老人买了两个饭团。两点，一对情侣进来吵架，吵完又手拉手走了。两点以后，店里安静得只能听见关东煮在锅里冒泡。
三点，送货车准时到了。我在后门卸了一刻钟的货，忽然听见前面的门喊：“欢迎光临！”
我喊了一声“马上来”，但司机还在等着，我只好先把最后几箱搬完，才跑到前面。可是店里一个人也没有，只有热水机还在冒着热气。收银台上却放着一张小纸条，压在零钱盒下面。字很大，一笔一画，像小学生在写作业：
“新来的？你的‘欢迎光临’，比门慢了一秒。明天见。”
我跑到门口往外看。左边，医院的大楼黑着；对面，小学的大门关着。街上一个人也没有。
我回头看看那扇门。它一动不动，一句话也不说。
Key words
| Word | Pinyin | Meaning |
|---|---|---|
| 等到 | děngdào | to wait until |
| 同样 | tóngyàng | equally; likewise; same; similar |
| 至少 | zhìshǎo | at least |
| 整 | zhěng | exactly; sharp (as in 十点整) |
| 剩 | shèng | to remain; to be left over |
| 亮 | liàng | bright; shiny; to shine; to light up |
| 准 | zhǔn | accurate; exact |
| 台 | tái | station (radio, TV) |
| 钥匙 | yàoshi | key |
| 喊 | hǎn | to shout; to yell |
| 秒 | miǎo | second (unit of time or angle) |
| 停 | tíng | to stop; to halt |
English (for the teacher)
I haven’t slept properly for six months. In the dorm, my roommates each sleep more soundly than the next, while I lie there alone with my eyes open, listening to everyone snore, until it gets light. Then it came to me: if I can’t sleep anyway, I might as well work nights at a convenience store. I’d still be awake, but at least I’d be earning money.
By the university’s back gate there’s a twenty-four-hour convenience store with a slightly odd name: “Always Here”. There’s a hospital on its left and a primary school across the road. In the middle of the night the whole street goes dark, and only the shop stays lit, like a desk lamp that refuses to be switched off.
The owner, Sister Huang, is in her forties and talks fast and exact, like a till. At eleven o’clock on my first night she handed me the keys: “There are just three rules on nights. One: anyone who wants hot water gets it, free. Two: the van comes at three, so go out the back and unload it, and don’t keep the driver waiting. Three: when the door says ‘welcome’, you say it too.”
“If the door’s already said it, do I really have to?”
“The door’s a machine. You’re a person. It’s not the same.” And with that, she went home.
The shop has an automatic door, and whenever someone walks in it calls out in a sweet voice: “Welcome!” I’m always a second behind it, like an echo.
I sat down behind the till and opened the textbook I’d brought. I spent an hour on one page and was still on the first sentence.
There weren’t many customers that first night. At twelve, a drunk young guy bought three bottles of water and said thank you five times. At one o’clock, an old man in a worn army greatcoat bought two rice balls. At two, a couple came in arguing, finished arguing, and left hand in hand. After two the shop was so quiet that all I could hear was the oden bubbling in its pot.
At three the van arrived on time. I’d spent a quarter of an hour unloading out the back when I heard the door at the front call out: “Welcome!”
I shouted “Coming!”, but the driver was still waiting, so I had to finish the last few crates before I could run to the front. But there was nobody in the shop, only the hot-water machine, still steaming. Instead there was a little note on the counter, tucked under the coin tray. The characters were big, every stroke careful, like a schoolchild doing homework:
“New here? Your ‘welcome’ was a second slower than the door’s. See you tomorrow.”
I ran to the door and looked out. On the left, the hospital was dark; across the road, the school gate was shut. There wasn’t a soul on the street.
I turned round and looked at the door. It didn’t move, and it didn’t say a word.