Sock salesman
Scene on the train ride from Changsha to Yueyang last October:
Halfway through the train trip, as I dozed, Manabu poked my arm and woke me up. “Daniel, ohmygod, look here.”
And there was Manabu tugging on one end of a beige men's dress sock, with a hefty sock salesman, dressed in a spiffy brown suit, tugging on the other end. Immersed in this tug-of-war, the sock was three times its normal length. The sock salesman then screamed something in Chinese and, with dramatic flair, and still yanking on the sock, pulled out his lighter.
He lit it, and held the flame against the sock, moving it up and down the sock. Beneath the sock, you could see the lighter; above it, you could see the flame. And the sock didn’t light up! Oohs and ahhs came from the other passengers.
This was followed by numerous other feats of sock strength: the man played tug-of-war with another, very burly passenger, the sock as rope; the man did a pull-up, suspended from the luggage rack by the sock; the man poured water on the sock, and the sock stayed dry; the man rubbed dirt onto the sock, and the sock stayed clean; the man jabbed a knife at the sock, but the sock didn’t puncture. I half expected the man to put a sock on either arm and fly away. Then, I would have forked over 10 yuan for a pair.
As it was, the man nearly emptied his cart -- the train was standing-room-only, packed with Chinese people. They fought over the right to purchase a pair of the indestructable foot covers. I suppose it's a bargain for the only pair of socks a person will ever need. No washing or changing required. Walk without fear through a campfire. Rappel down mountains. Do pull-ups. All without packing any equipment, save for what you'd wear under your shoes anyway. All this for just a buck twenty-five. Opportunity of a lifetime, squandered.
