我坐在施总的办公室里，看着茶杯里的碎茶叶在温水里打转。它们转得很慢，最后都沉到了杯底，像一堆不想再动的沙子。
施总是我见过最不想赚钱的企业家。
外面的世界很喧闹，每天都在叫喊着转型，流量，变现和产值，那些声音穿过产业园区的围墙传进来，到了他这里就变成了一种没有意义的嗡嗡声。
我说，那你不如早点退休，回家含饴弄孙，或者出去周游世界，看看外面的山水。
后来我发现，他是不是资本家，其实并不重要。
I was sitting in Mr. Shi's office, watching the tea leaves swirl slowly in a glass cup. They moved lazily in the warm water, then eventually sank to the bottom, like a handful of sand that had given up on moving again.
Mr. Shi was the least profit-driven entrepreneur I have ever met.
Outside, the world was loud. It kept shouting words like transformation, traffic, monetisation, output. Those words passed through the walls of the industrial park and arrived here only as a meaningless hum.
He never accepted orders beyond what his factory could realistically produce.
I once joked with him, saying he must be making too much money already, otherwise why refuse work.
He didn't argue. He just tapped ash into the same old plastic ashtray he had used for years.
“I don't want to exhaust myself,” he said. “When people are too tired, even holding a teacup becomes unsteady.”
I told him he should retire early then. Go home. Spend time with grandchildren. Travel. See mountains and rivers.
He said nothing. Instead, he raised his hand and pointed outside the window.
A few workers were working across the yard.
They wore faded uniforms. Most of them were no longer young. Their hair had already turned grey in places.
“These people have worked with me since they were young,” he said. “Now they are old.”
“If I shut the factory and go travel the world, they will end up sitting at home watching television. But you can't live on television.”
Some of them still had children who had not started working. Some had grandchildren to support. Some had not yet reached retirement age. “I can't just walk away from them.”
He pointed to a lean man with greying hair.
“He's almost sixty. In a few years he will retire. Every month he sends part of his salary to support his grandson. The child's tutoring fees alone cost several thousand.”
Then he pointed to a woman working at a sewing machine.
“Her son is going to university this year. That alone is a heavy burden.”
He pointed again.
“Mrs. Wang. Her child had an accident in a steel plant. A boiler explosion. Severe burns. Her son has no income now. She depends on this job.”
He knew each of them like he was reading from memory, line by line.
When everyone retires, he said, if someone else is willing to take over the factory, then let them take it.
I knew he didn’t earn much.
With his order volume, once you subtract rent, depreciation, maintenance, and the wages of a dozen ageing workers, what remains on paper is thin—almost fragile.
I once told him he was not a proper capitalist.
In today’s world, every owner is chasing orders, pushing machines to the limit, trying to squeeze out every last drop of output.
But he stayed here, running a factory that barely expanded, just enough to keep a few dozen people in place.
He laughed.
“Big orders,” he said, “turn people into spinning tops whipped by machines.”
“People like us carry a strange sense of responsibility. We try to answer to the customers above us, and to the workers below us.”
“If we only chase money and slowly erase decades of trust and familiarity, in the end we will sit alone with a ledger in front of us. Not a single person to sit down with and drink tea. That kind of life must be very lonely.”
I thought his logic was strange at first.
In an industrial zone built on expand, he felt like a wooden post planted in the wrong place.
Everything else was rushing forward. His factory was not. It simply stood there, holding space for a few dozen ageing hands.
And then I realised his logic might also be right.
Because those machines that run the fastest do not necessarily arrive anywhere better. They simply wear themselves out more quickly, turning into scrap in less time.
His factory moved slowly. So the benches inside still kept their shape. So did the people.
There is something remarkable about simply keeping a group of human beings, and oneself, in a condition that still resembles a life that can be lived.
We like to sit in conference rooms, holding coffee, looking at carefully designed PowerPoint slides, and talking about “entrepreneurship.”
Entrepreneurship, that word usually means expansion, acquisition, scale, and efficiency—the transformation of thousands of living people into percentages on a spreadsheet.
But in Mr. Shi's dusty office, watching him count his workers one by one with that thick finger of his, I began to feel that all those grand strategies sounded more like unanchored talk.
He did not read financial news. He did not speak in management frameworks.
His version of entrepreneurship lived in the needle holes of old sewing machines.
He kept this unprofitable place running not for an IPO, not for scale, not for applause—but so that the people who had spent most of their lives here could still go home with a few notes in their pockets to buy ice cream for their grandchildren.
Later, I realised it didn’t really matter whether he was a capitalist or not.
In a time obsessed with speed, extraction, and constant recalculation by algorithms, a place like this—where people are allowed to age at a human pace—already feels like a kind of blessing.
In the end, when everyone grows old, this place too will probably become nothing more than an empty plot of land covered in wild grass.
外面的世界很喧闹，每天都在叫喊着转型，流量，变现和产值，那些声音穿过产业园区的围墙传进来，到了他这里就变成了一种没有意义的嗡嗡声。
他从不接超出自己生产能力的订单。
我总是笑他，说施总你这是钱赚得太多了，满出来了，都不接单了。
他不反驳，只是把烟灰在那个用了好几年的塑料烟灰缸里弹了弹。
他说，不想把自己搞得太累。人太累了，端茶杯的手就会抖。
他说，不想把自己搞得太累。人太累了，端茶杯的手就会抖。
我说，那你不如早点退休，回家含饴弄孙，或者出去周游世界，看看外面的山水。
他没说话，只是抬起手指，指了指窗户外面正在走动的几个工人。
那些人穿着褪色的工作服，大多上了年纪，头发有点花白。
那些人穿着褪色的工作服，大多上了年纪，头发有点花白。
施总说，他们从年轻的时候就跟着我了，现在都老了。我如果把厂子关了，去周游世界，他们就只能在家里看电视。看电视是看不饱肚子的。他们中，有的孩子还没开始工作，有的有孙子要养，有些人没有到退休的年龄，我不能弃他们不顾。
他指了指那个身材精干的头发花白的男子，他快60岁了，再过几年也要退休了，每个月的工资要补贴儿子，孙子一个月的补习费要好几千。
他又指了指在车台上踩缝纫机的中年妇女，她的儿子今年考大学，读大学可是一大笔钱。
那个王婶，孩子在钢厂里出了事，锅炉爆炸，烧的皮都没了，现在在家没有收入。
他一个一个的指，对一个人都如数家珍。
等他们都退休了，施总说，这厂子有人接就让人接手吧。
其实，我知道他赚得并不多。就他的那点订单量，刨去厂房的房租租金、设备的折旧，机器维修，还有那十几号老工人的工资，剩下的数字在账本上显得很单薄。
其实，我知道他赚得并不多。就他的那点订单量，刨去厂房的房租租金、设备的折旧，机器维修，还有那十几号老工人的工资，剩下的数字在账本上显得很单薄。
我笑他不是个合格的资本家——现在的老板哪一个不是卯足了劲儿在外面抢单子，恨不得把机器开出火星来。你倒好，守着这么个地方，一人吃饱全家不饿。
他笑笑，外面那些大单子接过来，人就变成了被机器抽打的陀螺。我们这种人，身上长了点去不掉的责任心，总觉得上得对得起付钱的客户，下得对得起出力的工人。要是为了多赚点钱，把这几十年的交情和人情味都给抠搜没了，到头来一个人守着账本，连个能坐下来一起安稳喝茶的人都没有，那日子过得得多孤单。
我觉得他的逻辑有点怪。
他笑笑，外面那些大单子接过来，人就变成了被机器抽打的陀螺。我们这种人，身上长了点去不掉的责任心，总觉得上得对得起付钱的客户，下得对得起出力的工人。要是为了多赚点钱，把这几十年的交情和人情味都给抠搜没了，到头来一个人守着账本，连个能坐下来一起安稳喝茶的人都没有，那日子过得得多孤单。
我觉得他的逻辑有点怪。
在这个到处都在往前赶的工业区里，他像是一根长错了地方的木桩子。别的机器都在拼命地往前跑，他的机器只是在原地踏步——为了让几十双同样见老的手有地方放。
我又觉得他的逻辑很对。
因为那些跑得飞快的机器，最后也并没有去到什么更好的地方，它们只是在更短的时间里，把自己磨损成了一堆废铁。
施总的厂子开得慢，所以里面的板凳和人，都还保留着原来的形状。人活在这个世上，能把自己和身边这几十号人安顿得像个活人的样子，其实就已经是一件很了不起的事情。
我们总喜欢坐在那会议室里，端着咖啡，看着那些装订精美的PPT，讨论什么叫作“企业家精神”。这个词通常意味着冒险、吞并、规模，以及把一万个活生生的人变成报表上的一串百分比。
而在施总这个落了灰的办公室里，看着他用那根粗短的手指头，一个一个地数着外面那些不算年轻的老工人，每一个人的家底都如数家常。我突然觉得，那些所谓的宏大战略听起来更像是一种没着没落的胡话。
施总不看经济新闻，也不懂什么管理矩阵，他的企业家精神就长在那些老车工的针眼里。他把这个不怎么赚钱的摊子撑着，不是为了去纳斯达克敲钟，只是为了让这些跟了他半辈子的人，在下工的时候，兜里还能揣着几张给儿孙买冰棍的零钱。
后来我发现，他是不是资本家，其实并不重要。
在这个膨胀的，充斥着快速变现、每天都被各种日新月异的算法重新计算和淘汰的年头，能有这么个地方，让人老老实实地变老，这本身就是一种福气。
反正等大家都老了，这里总归是要变成一片长满杂草的空地。
Mr. Shi was the least profit-driven entrepreneur I have ever met.
Outside, the world was loud. It kept shouting words like transformation, traffic, monetisation, output. Those words passed through the walls of the industrial park and arrived here only as a meaningless hum.
He never accepted orders beyond what his factory could realistically produce.
I once joked with him, saying he must be making too much money already, otherwise why refuse work.
He didn't argue. He just tapped ash into the same old plastic ashtray he had used for years.
“I don't want to exhaust myself,” he said. “When people are too tired, even holding a teacup becomes unsteady.”
I told him he should retire early then. Go home. Spend time with grandchildren. Travel. See mountains and rivers.
He said nothing. Instead, he raised his hand and pointed outside the window.
A few workers were working across the yard.
They wore faded uniforms. Most of them were no longer young. Their hair had already turned grey in places.
“These people have worked with me since they were young,” he said. “Now they are old.”
“If I shut the factory and go travel the world, they will end up sitting at home watching television. But you can't live on television.”
Some of them still had children who had not started working. Some had grandchildren to support. Some had not yet reached retirement age. “I can't just walk away from them.”
He pointed to a lean man with greying hair.
“He's almost sixty. In a few years he will retire. Every month he sends part of his salary to support his grandson. The child's tutoring fees alone cost several thousand.”
Then he pointed to a woman working at a sewing machine.
“Her son is going to university this year. That alone is a heavy burden.”
He pointed again.
“Mrs. Wang. Her child had an accident in a steel plant. A boiler explosion. Severe burns. Her son has no income now. She depends on this job.”
He knew each of them like he was reading from memory, line by line.
When everyone retires, he said, if someone else is willing to take over the factory, then let them take it.
I knew he didn’t earn much.
With his order volume, once you subtract rent, depreciation, maintenance, and the wages of a dozen ageing workers, what remains on paper is thin—almost fragile.
I once told him he was not a proper capitalist.
In today’s world, every owner is chasing orders, pushing machines to the limit, trying to squeeze out every last drop of output.
But he stayed here, running a factory that barely expanded, just enough to keep a few dozen people in place.
He laughed.
“Big orders,” he said, “turn people into spinning tops whipped by machines.”
“People like us carry a strange sense of responsibility. We try to answer to the customers above us, and to the workers below us.”
“If we only chase money and slowly erase decades of trust and familiarity, in the end we will sit alone with a ledger in front of us. Not a single person to sit down with and drink tea. That kind of life must be very lonely.”
I thought his logic was strange at first.
In an industrial zone built on expand, he felt like a wooden post planted in the wrong place.
Everything else was rushing forward. His factory was not. It simply stood there, holding space for a few dozen ageing hands.
And then I realised his logic might also be right.
Because those machines that run the fastest do not necessarily arrive anywhere better. They simply wear themselves out more quickly, turning into scrap in less time.
His factory moved slowly. So the benches inside still kept their shape. So did the people.
There is something remarkable about simply keeping a group of human beings, and oneself, in a condition that still resembles a life that can be lived.
We like to sit in conference rooms, holding coffee, looking at carefully designed PowerPoint slides, and talking about “entrepreneurship.”
Entrepreneurship, that word usually means expansion, acquisition, scale, and efficiency—the transformation of thousands of living people into percentages on a spreadsheet.
But in Mr. Shi's dusty office, watching him count his workers one by one with that thick finger of his, I began to feel that all those grand strategies sounded more like unanchored talk.
He did not read financial news. He did not speak in management frameworks.
His version of entrepreneurship lived in the needle holes of old sewing machines.
He kept this unprofitable place running not for an IPO, not for scale, not for applause—but so that the people who had spent most of their lives here could still go home with a few notes in their pockets to buy ice cream for their grandchildren.
Later, I realised it didn’t really matter whether he was a capitalist or not.
In a time obsessed with speed, extraction, and constant recalculation by algorithms, a place like this—where people are allowed to age at a human pace—already feels like a kind of blessing.
In the end, when everyone grows old, this place too will probably become nothing more than an empty plot of land covered in wild grass.