The sun had risen early, climbing slowly above the skyline of high-rises. Saigon’s heat blazed down like fire, yet inside him everything felt dim and wintry, as if it were the gray days of the northern winter. Truly, when the heart is heavy, can the world ever feel bright? That morning the traffic lights were broken, and the streets fell into chaos – three lanes of cars weaving, horns blaring, pedestrians inching through gaps with frightened steps, while hot-tempered drivers leaned out of their windows to curse. He stood watching for a moment, then turned away toward his office. Some days, it all felt like a dull repetition: routines, work, the same monotonous rhythm unfolding without pause.
And now, the massage shop that had opened only months ago was already gone. The place sat in darkness, the reception desk holding nothing but a few lonely chairs. Before that, the space had been a bustling two-story KFC, always crowded. He used to love the foil-wrapped chicken drumsticks, wondered why it was so addictive – chicken, Pepsi, Coca-Cola, and that slogan: “Finger-lickin’ good.” On nights he didn’t want to think, he would just go there, eat quickly, and be done. If not chicken, then at least a cone of ice cream for seven thousand dong – small but sweet enough to rival Tràng Tiền.
So much had changed since the day he returned. After Covid, it seemed every business struggled. The bedding store in front of the supermarket had closed too. He remembered carrying home a few spring mattresses and feather quilts for his family. But they had hated them – too soft, too buoyant. “We’re used to hard beds,” they complained. “These just make us restless.”
The shopfronts stayed shuttered, dust piling thick on for-rent signs. Tour les Jours had faded into memory – no more fragrance of bread drifting out in the afternoons. He remembered slipping in, buying an egg tart or two, filling the hunger of habit. His girlfriend had loved desserts, always craving something “sweet” after dinner. She had eaten so many cakes her cheeks puffed round as dumplings, but to him that softness was endlessly dear. A sudden pang came – where was she now? Laughing with someone else, maybe even with children.
The Japanese restaurant was gone too, where he had once lingered over salmon hotpot, the fatty parts near the gills, mushrooms piled high – especially enoki. Now, in its place, stood a specialty grocery selling rare produce: moringa leaves, dien dien flowers, single-clove garlic. At lunchtime they laid out prepared meals, more than a hundred thousand a box. How could ordinary office clerks eat like that every day? Their business strategy, it seemed, was to dodge the giant supermarket next door by selling what the big chain didn’t have. But shoppers had their habits: they always went to the big store first, cheaper and louder, only wandering here when they couldn’t find what they wanted. So these clerks could only watch in silence as customers walked past with arms full of bags bearing the rival’s logo.
No surprise the shop couldn’t last. Staff came and went, service soured. One morning he stopped in, asking to buy just two bananas for breakfast. At the supermarket next door, they’d have smiled, broken off a couple, weighed and sold them. Here, the owner-cashier frowned, insisting on selling the whole bunch. “First sale of the day,” she muttered, scowling as though he had brought her bad luck. He left embarrassed, half-wondering if she had burned incense after him to chase the curse away. Later, when he saw the shop shuttered, he wasn’t surprised.
He had only gone in because the other store was out of ripe bananas, and he needed them with his morning yogurt. That one awkward exchange – being treated as an unwelcome customer – was enough to keep him away. Who wants to buy a whole bunch of bananas on the way to work, carrying them until they bruise?
But another time, he returned – not for bananas, but to buy custard apples, and to linger at the cashier’s counter. She was there: a girl with the poise of a dancer, like a swan from Black Swan adrift in the wrong place. Her figure curved like the S-shape of the country itself, her style and makeup impossible to overlook. He thought: if she worked here long enough, she alone could bring in business. Indeed, whenever he passed by and saw her at the counter, there were always more customers – men, mostly – lined up to pay.
On another day, he noticed a young guy selling coffee upstairs. After his shift, the kid would scamper down to the store below, complaining that the pay was too low. Everywhere he tried, it was the same – wages that barely scratched the surface, just 22–25 thousand an hour. In the end, he settled for filling his stomach with a part-time job at a modest sidewalk eatery.
As for that massage parlor – it was tucked neatly on the ground floor of a luxury apartment building. The owners looked every bit the part of wealthy entrepreneurs, or at least they dressed the role convincingly enough. There were about five to seven staff taking turns in shifts. He still remembered their grand opening: flowers lined the stairs from the entrance to the door, bouquets from friends, companies, and partners piled high with congratulatory cards. You could almost feel their excitement and joy. There were promotional packages, balloons bobbing in the air, even a lion dance troupe to kick off the festivities. Kids and adults from the neighborhood gathered curiously. The staff took advantage of the crowd, slipping in a quick introduction to their services, offering tempting deals. Some people came only to watch out of curiosity, some dropped by to show support, others accepted flyers politely only to toss them into the trash a few steps away. He even overheard someone muttering: “These days, people are barely scraping by just to eat. Who has the money for these kinds of luxuries?”
He thought the problem wasn’t only the economy – it was about service quality too. He once knew of another massage shop, not nearly as well-located, yet still running strong for over ten years. He had tried it once himself – maybe a massage and a haircut – and remembered how professional they were.
It wasn’t his business, but it still felt heavy watching someone else’s dream falter. Staff sitting around yawning, owners staring blankly, everyone’s faces weighed down by waiting. Those fresh flowers that bloomed brightly on opening day had already wilted. He couldn’t help but think: why not close sooner, instead of bleeding money to keep idle staff sitting there? Even though the owners lit incense, laid out fruit offerings at the God of Wealth altar every day, that alone couldn’t save them. If all you do is pray without effort – without marketing, without improving quality, without creating something unique to draw people in – then customers will only ever come once, “just to try” or “to show support.”
A few days later, he saw them moving out. He almost didn’t recognize the owner. Normally dressed head-to-toe in crisp white with polished shoes, the man now wore a faded T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops that slapped against the pavement. Their belongings were piled up outside, wrapped and bundled: fans, air conditioners, beds, sofas, cupboards, towels, beauty machines, treatment devices – strewn across the yard. Setting up the place must have cost them dearly, and tearing it all down seemed just as exhausting.
And so, farewell. The giant signboard still hung in place, with a phone number and the words “Store for Lease” boldly printed on it.
Just then, the faint fragrance of fresh cotton blossoms drifted by. A bold thought flickered across his mind for a split second:
“What if… I rented that place myself, and turned it into a PUP?”
Excerpt: His Post-Covid Musings – TV HK
