Three years ago, in autumn, I went out as usual to scavenge for valuables.
That day, I found a treasure!

Next to a dumpster was an entire discarded old-style electric sewing machine!

Electric sewing machines come in old and new models.
New ones are integrated, while old ones have a large motor underneath.
The motor contains magnets and copper wire, which I figured could sell for about 8 yuan.
The main body, made of alloy, might fetch 3 yuan at most.

That’s 11 yuan total—not bad.

I decided to take the whole thing, but it had no wheels and was heavy, especially the body and motor.

Plenty of people scavenged like me: sanitation workers selling empty bottles, fellow scavengers, and even old folks with kids who owned cars and houses but couldn’t resist.

Fearing someone would snatch my find, I planned to dismantle it and take it in parts.
I hurried to a nearby hardware store to borrow a screwdriver.
Filthy, with long hair and soft skin, the owner couldn’t tell my gender but assumed I was a female worker and lent it to me.

Ten minutes later, I had the sewing machine in pieces, stuffing the body and motor into a sack.

Grandma taught me that selling intact items to a scrapyard was a loss.
Secondhand shops were better.
Their owners, jack-of-all-trades repairmen, would buy low if the item wasn’t beyond repair, fix it, and sell it for double or triple—pure profit!

I knew this because I’d once found a nearly pristine shoe cabinet.

It was huge, likely discarded because its owner wanted something new.
I spent 2 yuan to borrow a cart—after hard bargaining.
The cart owner wanted a 50-yuan deposit.

Where would I get that?
If the cabinet got stolen, I’d lose the 2 yuan!

Panicked, I kept reassuring him.
Moved by my sincerity, he waived the deposit.
Looking back, I’m still grateful.

Back at the site, I struggled to load the cabinet onto the cart.
The uneven pavement, with gaps between tiles, was a nightmare for a loaded cart, like stumbling blocks.
The cabinet kept shaking, forcing me to stop and steady it to prevent it from tipping or getting damaged.

Two kilometers took over half an hour.
The cabinet was more delicate than me.
A downhill stretch nearly killed me.
At the secondhand shop, the owner’s wife didn’t help unload, probably hoping for damage to haggle down the price.

I gave her no chance.
The cabinet was too big—my arm span barely reached, and my strength was spent.
Unloading carefully, I started from the bottom.

My fingers touched the ground, already exhausted, and I couldn’t grip properly, bruising them.
Thankfully, the cabinet stayed unscathed.

It drained me completely.
Parched and sweaty, I haggled, selling it for 30 yuan.
I was thrilled for half a day, though my arms were limp and my body ached the next day.

But I could fill my stomach—that pain was nothing.

Later, passing the shop, I saw the cabinet waxed and gleaming, transformed from a plain girl to a polished lady, priced at 99 yuan!

I felt like a matchmaker delivering a bride.
Back then, I’d asked for 50.
She refused, offering 20, firm as stone, saying to take it or leave.

I lost the mental chess game and sold it, fuming in hindsight.
I should’ve held out for at least 40.

The gap depressed me for days.
Her heart was too cruel, bullying a beggar like me…

I didn’t let it stop me.
I had to keep going until Grandma returned.

If this sewing machine worked, it could fetch two or three hundred yuan.

Even broken, it didn’t matter—structural integrity could still get me 50!

Worried the sanitation truck might take it, I found the table wasn’t too heavy.
I hoisted it with my hip and moved it to a less noticeable spot, relieved.

Done, I shouldered the heavy sack, its weight digging into my frail shoulders, swaying and hitting my waist, frustrating me.

But thinking of the profit—tens to hundreds of yuan—I was pained yet joyful, muttering excitedly: “I’ve got such a business mind. I’ll be a big boss someday!”

The shoe cabinet shop was chosen for convenience, but it was a monopoly with no other secondhand stores nearby.
I had no choice but to sell to her.
Never again, even if I had to run my legs off.

This time, I was close to Secondhand Street, mostly run by couples.
I avoided shops with a “lady boss”—they were often stingy, whispering to their husbands, signaling price dissatisfaction.

Male owners alone were usually fairer, a lesson from my long scavenging days.

After scouting, I chose a shop, walked in with the sack, and talked to the owner.
He nodded, generously lending me a cart to haul everything.

I wasn’t worried he’d cheat me—carts aren’t cheap.
If this deal netted 200 yuan, I’d buy a secondhand cart to boost efficiency.

Back at the site, the table was still there.
I loaded it onto the cart and pushed.
The uneven pavement was annoying, but the table part was light, and the shop was close, so it didn’t take long.

The owner had tested the motor and shook his head: “It’s burnt out, useless.”

I froze, pursing my lips: “For real? You’re not tricking me?”

“Come see.”
He was straightforward, hooking the motor to a meter for testing.

The meter read zero—dead.

My mood plummeted.
Of course, who’d throw out a working machine?
If they didn’t need it, they’d sell it secondhand.
It was just too heavy to bother with, worth little, so they dumped it.

I’d been unrealistic, dreaming of getting rich overnight.

“The top part’s usable, but a new motor costs 150. Old machines don’t sell high—you get it?”

He still wanted it, likely hoping I’d ask for less.

I didn’t hesitate long, starting high: “200!”

His mouth twitched: “50 max. But next time you come, whatever you sell, I’ll add 10 yuan.”

My eyes lit up: “Deal!”

He was sharp—this extra 10 yuan was a bonus.
I was so thrilled I wanted to dance.
The price matched my expectations, and next time, I’d get 10 more.

Ten yuan was a lot!

He went inside for money, returning with my 50 yuan and an extra 1-yuan coin.

“My wife had this left from groceries. Next time, I’ll give you any spare coins.”

“Thanks, Brother!”

He felt sincere, just for that extra yuan and the promise of 10 more.
I was overjoyed—good people were rare.

But bad ones were everywhere.

It was dismissal time.
Watching students stream out of the school gate, I felt a pang.
School was my lifelong dream, Grandma’s too, but she couldn’t afford it, and I had no ID—a black household.

Until last year, I’d studied with Grandma’s textbooks.
Now, with nothing, survival was hard enough.
Maybe the heavens finally took pity, letting me score this small fortune.

Lingering at the gate, I yearned to enter, touch a desk, face a blackboard, recite lessons.

For students, it was ordinary.
For me, outside and inside the gate were different worlds.
I held garbage, not textbooks or pens.

All dreams.

Forget it—tonight, I’d eat a better dinner, relax a little.