Wanderings of the God of Bad Reviews

Old Wang felt like he was about to merge with his electric scooter, not in that cool Transformers kind of way, but more like a puddle of melted asphalt, sticky and grimy, clinging to the city's skin. He was a delivery driver, one crowned with the title "God of Bad Reviews." This wasn't a crown he chose; it was forced upon him by the algorithm, that formless, colorless digital phantom said to be impartial and just.

At first, he tried to argue. Like that time he delivered a Malatang spicy hot pot. The summer sun was as vicious as a stepmother's slap. He rode that broken-down scooter, where everything rattled except the bell, winding through a maze-like residential complex for twenty minutes, sweat soaking his yellow uniform into a map. Finally delivered, the customer was a drowsy-eyed young woman who took the food and slammed the door shut with a "bang." Half an hour later, a bad review hit: "Soup spilled half the bowl, bad attitude too." Old Wang stared at his phone screen, so angry he wanted to rip the handlebars off. The soup had spilled a bit, but that was because the road was too rotten, pitted with potholes like marks left by God sneezing. As for the bad attitude? He was so exhausted he could barely speak properly, where would he find the energy to put on a face? He appealed. Customer service replied with a string of standard phrases, basically saying, "We understand your feelings, but we cannot change customer reviews. Please focus on improving your service quality." Improve what? Old Wang thought. Did they expect him to master levitation, gliding over potholes with the Malatang balanced perfectly?

Later, he couldn't be bothered to argue anymore. Bad reviews came like summer mosquitoes, buzzing relentlessly, impossible to defend against. Sometimes it was because the restaurant was slow, and the customer got impatient, blaming him. Sometimes it was because the navigation led him into a dead end, delaying him, blaming him. Once, a customer gave a bad review with the reason: "His appearance ruined my appetite." Old Wang looked at his own face in the rearview mirror, weathered by wind and sun like dried orange peel, and let out a couple of dry chuckles. This, he figured, was probably the highest level of insult; his very existence had become an offense.

He became a legendary figure at the station. Other riders avoided him as if he carried the bad-review plague. Only Old Li, another veteran rider, would occasionally pat his shoulder, offer him a cigarette, sigh, and say, "Old Wang, take it easy. This world... it's just a joke." Old Wang took the cigarette, took a deep drag. Amidst the swirling smoke, he felt Old Li's words had more humanity than all that "Dear customer, please..." bullshit from customer service.

He started studying the bad reviews, trying to find some pattern, some curse he could avoid. He discovered that bad reviews often weren't because you did something wrong, but because you failed to meet some unspoken, perhaps even customer-unaware, expectation. For instance, the expectation that you'd be like Superman, ignoring traffic rules and the laws of physics; the expectation that food delivered in a downpour would still be piping hot and perfectly dry; the expectation that you weren't just delivering food, but also a polite, mind-reading, pleasant-looking servant. These expectations clung to him like a dense spiderweb; the slightest misstep would get him stuck, followed by a cold, one-star rating.

This damn system was like Kafka's castle: you never knew its rules, only that it could condemn you at any moment. Old Wang felt like K, the land surveyor from the castle, always approaching, never arriving, forever toyed with by invisible rules. He even began to suspect there might be a department specifically tasked with giving him bad reviews, whose daily job was to find fault with him in creative ways. The idea was absurd, but compared to the actual reasons for the bad reviews, it felt strangely more logical.

One day, he got an order to deliver a bowl of lamb soup to the tallest office building downtown. The elevator was broken. Thirty-eight floors. Old Wang looked up at the skyscraper piercing the clouds, his heart thumping like a rabbit. Climbing up, he thought, would guarantee another bad review, probably for "soup got cold" or "delivery too slow, starved to death." Not climbing, canceling directly, meant a bad review plus a fine. Standing downstairs, watching the distorted sky and his own ant-like figure reflected in the glass curtain wall, he suddenly felt an unprecedented fatigue and absurdity.

He remembered what Wang Er said, "All human suffering is essentially anger at one's own incompetence." He didn't feel entirely incompetent; he felt pinned down by something enormous, stupid, yet terrifyingly powerful. This thing might be the algorithm, maybe capital, maybe some essence of modern life – hard to say, impossible to articulate, but it was there, like a silent black well, trying to suck people in.

In the end, he climbed. Step by step, like a burdened snail. Sweat drenched his clothes. The lamb soup sloshed in his hand, as if it too sighed with exhaustion. When he knocked on the door, a young man in a suit took the soup, frowned at him, glanced at the soup, said nothing, and shut the door with a "bang."

Coming down, his calves were trembling. He leaned against his electric scooter and opened the app. Sure enough, a new bad review was glaringly present: "Severely late, affected my meeting." It was followed by an angry emoji.

Old Wang looked at the emoji and suddenly laughed. He laughed loudly, attracting glances from passersby. He thought this world was just too interesting, too damned interesting. He, Old Wang, a middle-aged man just trying to earn some hard money with his labor, had somehow become the "God of Bad Reviews," poked and prodded by countless anonymous fingers in a virtual temple built of digits.

He got on his electric scooter and started it. The engine let out a hoarse roar, like the last gasp of someone strangled by life. He didn't head home but rode aimlessly, weaving through the neon-lit, bustling streets. He felt like a ghost, a specter of the digital age. The city was a vast labyrinth, the algorithm an unforgiving judge, and he, the prisoner forever running, forever judged, forever unable to find an exit.

The light ahead turned red. He stopped, watching the flow of cars and people, and suddenly felt everything had lost its meaning. Good reviews, bad reviews, speed, money... these things floated like soap bubbles in the night sky, then popped, one by one. He thought, maybe being the "God of Bad Reviews" wasn't so bad after all. At least the title was unique, absurd, and damned darkly humorous.

The light turned green. He twisted the throttle and merged into the traffic, like a drop of water into a muddy river. He was still delivering food, still collecting bad reviews. He didn't know how much longer he could do this, nor whether he'd be "optimized" by the system tomorrow for too many bad reviews. But he kept riding, like a silent, stubborn, resigned beast of burden, carrying this absurd world, continuing his wandering. The night was deep, the streetlights dim, casting his shadow long, like a giant question mark printed on the cold asphalt road.