Signal gap on the high-speed train: A message shattered the daily rhythm
On January 3, 2012, the high-speed train was like an iron dragon gasping for breath. When it entered the tunnel in Anhui Province, the mobile phone signal suddenly plunged into a black hole. I stared at the words "Loading" constantly flashing on the screen and unconsciously rubbed my fingertips against the scratches on the phone case. It wasn't until the third refresh that Hao's message popped up like a fish that slipped through the net: "Blackface is leaving and going back to Singapore."
At that time, I was curled up in the corner of the second-class seat, with an unfinished weekly report spread out on my knees and the pen cap still between my teeth. Amid the intermittent hissing of the signal, I stared at the words "Return to Singapore" and suddenly recalled that three days ago, the manager had patted me on the shoulder and said, "I'll take you to meet the client next week. After revising your proposal three times, it finally looks decent." At 11:37, I dialed his number, but what came through the receiver was the echo of the high-speed train's announcement: "The next stop is Tongling North Station..." The busy signal was like a fine needle, making the tips of my ears itch.
The "reluctance" in the text message: The unspoken "bulldozer" past
I stared at the phone keyboard, deleting and retyping. I originally wanted to type, "Why are you leaving suddenly?" but was afraid it would be too abrupt. I also considered writing, "You actually look quite cute when you scold people," but thought it was too sentimental. In the end, the message I sent was like a sugarcane with all the juice squeezed out: "Boss, I'm on the high - speed train. A Hao said you're going back to Singapore. I'm quite surprised. We've just gotten along well. I really like your 'bulldozer' style—you don't beat around the bush and just push forward by smashing through problems. I'll miss you. Have a smooth journey and a happy Spring Festival."
The moment I pressed the send button, I recalled what happened when I was working on a client's proposal last week. In order to "optimize the user experience", I added three irrelevant functions. The manager threw the proposal on my desk and tapped the paper with his knuckles, saying, "Are you making a proposal or creating a work of art? What the client wants is something 'feasible', not something 'to be hung on the wall for display'!" I rolled my eyes at that time but still deleted those three functions overnight. Later, the client indeed praised the proposal for being "concise and efficient". It turns out that the so - called "bulldozer style" is not about brute - force work but directly hitting the crucial point of the problem.
The "Standing at Attention Manager" Who Emerged from Singapore's Military Service
The manager is from Singapore. His name is Chen Yongsheng. We secretly call him "Blackface". It's not because his face is dark, but because he always frowns, as if someone owes him five million. It wasn't until one time when we worked overtime until ten o'clock that he rummaged through his drawer, took out a can of coffee made in Singapore and threw it to me. Then he started talking about his military service: "All Singaporean men under 40 have to serve in the military. I entered the barracks at the age of 21. We had marches at 3 a.m. We had to run 5 kilometers with 20-kilogram equipment on our backs. If we couldn't finish the run, we'd be punished by standing in a horse stance until our legs trembled like a sieve."
As he said these words, his fingers unconsciously rubbed the corner of the table, as if feeling the equipment belt back then. "Later, during the intermittent training, we had to go back for two weeks every year. Once it was raining, and we took shelter under a tree. The instructor held an umbrella and scolded, 'Are you soldiers or rabbits? Can the rain kill you?'" Suddenly, I understood why he always held his head high and chest out - it was a habit engraved in his bones from the military camp. Even when sitting, he was like standing at attention, with his shoulders as taut as a bowstring.
The face that "doesn't look like a professional manager": The acne pits hold the sweat of youth
The manager's appearance really doesn't match the label of a "senior professional manager": His crew cut is so short that you can see his scalp, and the roots of his hair are tinged with a bluish hue. Standing at 178 cm tall, his broad shoulders are wide enough to block half of the office door. When he stands in front of the workstation, his shadow can cover my laptop. The pockmarks on his face are like the peeling wall plaster, all bumpy and uneven – he said himself that they were from his days in the recruit company: "Back then when I was on sentry duty from 12 a.m. to 2 a.m., mosquitoes bit me and left bumps all over my neck. I scratched the pimples and didn't take care of them, so these marks were left behind."
But there was a warm streak hidden beneath his serious demeanor. Once, when I asked for leave due to a fever, he called me at noon and said, "I've asked my secretary to buy you some congee. It's on your desk. Heat it up if it gets cold." Another time, at a department dinner, as he watched us making a ruckus, he secretly took a sip of beer and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly – like a sprout emerging from a crack in the rock, a rare sight that one would remember for a lifetime.
The quarrel on the third day: What he scolded about was "procrastination", and what I argued for was "face"
My first conflict with him occurred on the third day after he arrived. That day, the project plan I was working on was two days overdue. He directly rushed into my office, threw the plan onto the table, and roared like thunder, "Are you waiting for the deadline to devour you?" I was so angry at that moment that I slapped the table and shouted, "I was double - checking the data!" He stared at me with fire in his eyes and said, "Does it take two days to double - check the data? You could calculate faster with your toes!"
When I slammed the door and went out, I heard him shouting behind me, "If you're a man, use results to slap me in the face!" In the afternoon, he knocked on the door of my office and handed me a cup of hot coffee – it was still the latte I liked. He said, "What I scolded was your procrastination, not you as a person." That day, I stayed up until the early morning, finished revising the proposal and sent it to him. He replied instantly, "Now this is more like it."
Since then, we've never quarreled again. It's not because I'm afraid of him, but because I've understood his rules: He may scold, but the work must be done; One may make mistakes, but it's okay as long as one corrects them.
Those recorded "insulting quotes": They are all treasures when looked through now
In the three months since the manager came, he has held meetings and scolded people almost every day, euphemistically calling it "educational training". I have a black notebook specifically for recording his "classic scolding lines": "Don't give me any excuses. I only want results." "Your little tricks in the proposal are more obvious than a mouse hiding its grain." "Procrastination is not an illness; it's just laziness – so lazy that you don't even care about your own future."
Whenever I wrote down his words, I always put a cross beside them and scolded him for being "unreasonable". It wasn't until last week when I was working on a proposal that I stared at the computer screen and suddenly remembered what he said: "First tackle the core issues, then fill in the details. The core is the root, and the details are the leaves. If the root is rotten, it's useless for the leaves to look good." I deleted those fancy charts and put "cost control", which the client cared about most, on the first page. Sure enough, the proposal was approved at the first attempt.
Now open that notebook. The edges of the pages are curled, and the words written in pencil are a bit blurred, but it's like the manager's voice ringing in your ear: "Don't be lazy. Laziness can kill people."
Empty seats at the morning meeting: What's lost is not the manager, but "the one who wakes you up"
At the morning meeting yesterday, I habitually looked at the manager's seat. It was empty. The teacup was still on the table, with a circle of coffee stains at the bottom. The secretary came in to tidy up and asked me, "Shall I put the cup away?" I shook my head and said, "Let it stay there for another two days."
This morning, when I was scrolling through my WeChat Moments, I saw the photo posted by Ahao: The manager was at the airport in Singapore, holding his suitcase. His crew cut was still as short as ever, and there was actually a smile on his face. I left a comment saying "Have a smooth journey", but suddenly I remembered the text message I sent on the high - speed train. In fact, what I really wanted to say was not "I can't bear to part with you", but "Thank you": Thank you for scolding me awake from my procrastination. Thank you for teaching me to get straight to the core of the problem. Thank you for letting me know that a real "good manager" doesn't just buddy around with you, but helps you turn "can't" into "can".
Suddenly, the whistle of the high-speed train floated in through the window. I stroked the notebook on the table and suddenly understood that old saying: When some people are around, you find them annoying, fierce, and as cold as a stone. But when they're gone, you realize that stone was actually a stepping stone, helping you stand taller and see farther.
The trees outside the window are quickly retreating backwards, just like those "thank you"s that were never said in time, like those concerns hidden in scoldings, and like that man who always held his head high. He's gone, but what he taught me has already taken root in the strokes of my pen when making plans, in my thinking when solving problems, and in the way I hold my head high.