At six in the morning, Hanoi wasn't fully awake, but the air outside the warehouse of Kim Hai Construction Company in Tan My Development Zone, Cau Giay District, was already thick with dust and the roar of engines. Massive dump trucks queued, churning up clouds of yellow sand; forklifts darted in and out of the warehouse, their shrill beeps piercing the air; workers in grimy overalls, sweat soaking through their backs, hurried past, some hauling heavy steel bars, others pushing carts laden with cement sacks. The air was pungent with the acrid smell of cement dust, the sharp tang of diesel exhaust, and the salty reek of sweat.
Nguyễn Văn stood at the warehouse entrance, wearing a brand new, slightly oversized dark blue work uniform – bought yesterday for 200,000 VND at a second-hand market in a desperate attempt to look like a "worker." He clutched a slip of paper bearing the name "Warehouse Foreman Hùng," his heart pounding like a drum against his ribs. The scene before him – chaotic, noisy, pulsing with raw energy – was worlds apart from his past three years navigating the streets around Hoan Kiem Lake and the Old Quarter on his Grab bike. The unfamiliarity pressed down on him, a suffocating mix of fear for the unknown and a desperate hunger for the opportunity it represented. His palms were slick with cold sweat.
He took a deep breath, inhaling air thick with grit and diesel fumes, trying to quell the churning in his stomach. He stepped through the warehouse doors.
Inside was even darker and noisier than outside. Towering shelves groaned under the weight of construction materials: bundled steel rebar, stacks of timber planks, sacks of cement, pipes of various calibers, valves, coils of electrical wire. Forklifts rumbled through narrow aisles, kicking up more dust. A group of workers huddled around a pile of goods, shouting numbers as they counted.
Van scanned the space, unsure where to go. He spotted a middle-aged man in the same dark blue uniform but with a "Foreman" badge pinned to his chest pocket. He was facing away, jabbing a finger at a delivery note and berating a truck driver in a booming voice: "...Quantity's wrong! Three bags short! Sign? Sign my ass! Count it properly before you unload! Whose time are you wasting?!"
The driver tried to placate him with a smile, but the foreman remained unmoved, his stance aggressive.
Van hesitated, then mustered his courage and approached, bowing slightly. "Excuse me... are you Foreman Hùng?"
Hùng turned around. He looked about forty, solidly built, with rough, dark skin, a buzz cut, and eyes as sharp as knives, radiating the toughness and a hint of ingrained harshness forged on construction sites. He sized Van up, his brow furrowed into a deep scowl. "Who're you? New?"
"Y-yes, Foreman! My name is Nguyễn Văn! Mr. Nguyễn Kim Hải sent me to report to you today!" Van hurriedly offered the slip of paper, trying to keep his voice steady, though a tremor betrayed his nerves.
Hùng took the paper, glanced at it, snorted dismissively, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it in his pocket. "Nguyễn Văn? Oh, the motorbike guy?" His tone dripped with undisguised contempt. "Alright, consider yourself lucky Mr. Hải spoke up. Warehouse needs a grunt assistant. You'll follow Minh." He bellowed towards the warehouse depths, "Minh! Get over here! Show the new guy the ropes!"
A young man, looking only slightly older than Van, wearing similar work clothes but appearing thinner and more frail, scurried over, a timid smile on his face. "Yes, Hùng? You called?"
"Here, new guy, Nguyễn Văn. Stick with him, learn how to register stuff, organize, move things. Hands and feet quick! Don't cause me headaches!" Hùng waved dismissively. "First, get him gear! Gloves, hard hat! Then sort that pile of PVC pipes that came in yesterday by spec in Zone B! Truck's coming for 'em this afternoon!"
"Yes, Hùng!" Minh replied quickly, then turned to Van with a friendly smile. "Come on, Van. Follow me."
Van followed Minh to a corner tool cabinet where he was issued a hard hat and a pair of gloves. The hat was old, edges worn; the gloves were caked with dried cement dust. Minh whispered, "New stuff goes to the site foremen first. We make do with old. Be careful. Hùng's got a temper. Don't mess up."
Van nodded, putting on the hard hat. The smell of sweat and dust filled his nostrils. He mimicked Minh, pulling on the gloves.
Zone B held a mountain of newly arrived white PVC pipes, various diameters and lengths jumbled together. Minh pointed to a crumpled delivery note. "Here, the specs list. We gotta sort 'em by diameter and length, stack 'em neat for easy picking later. C'mon, I'll show you how to read the specs."
Van stared at the dense columns of numbers and letter codes on the sheet, feeling dizzy. He knew motorcycle parts, but these building material specs were a foreign language. He forced himself to focus, listening intently as Minh explained: "DN20 is 20mm diameter, DN25 is 25mm... lengths are usually 4m or 6m..."
"Got it," Van said, taking a deep breath. He walked to the pile and tried lifting a DN25, 4m pipe. The pipe itself wasn't heavy, but its length made maneuvering and stacking in the confined space tricky. He'd barely lifted two when he stumbled, drawing mocking laughter from a group of workers nearby sorting steel bars.
"Hey! Newbie! Watch it! Don't crack the pipes! That stuff ain't cheap!" a burly worker with a face like a bulldog yelled around a cigarette clenched between his teeth.
Van flushed but didn't respond, just adjusted his grip more carefully. Sweat quickly soaked his back, dust clinging to his damp skin, itching and uncomfortable. The hard hat strap dug into his forehead. He gritted his teeth, pipe by pipe, mimicking Minh's technique, sorting and stacking them neatly by specification.
At lunch break, workers squatted in patches of shade outside the warehouse. Van pulled out the lunchbox Mai had packed for him that morning – simple rice with salted fish and a bit of greens. Minh scooted over, offering a small piece of roasted sweet potato. "Here, try it. My mom roasted it. First day's tough, you'll get used to. Hùng's like that with everyone, don't take it personal. Those guys too, picking on the new guy, they'll ease up in a few days."
Van gratefully accepted the sweet potato, biting into its soft, sweet flesh. "Thanks, Minh. This job... it's definitely harder than riding a bike."
"Riding's freer, sure, sun and rain are tough, but no one breathing down your neck," Minh said, picking at his own lunchbox. "Warehouse work? Messy, exhausting, easy to screw up. Screw up, Hùng's curses'll peel paint. But... Mr. Hải sent you... must be a bit different?" he probed.
Van shook his head. "No different. Family's struggling. Mr. Hải gave me a chance. I gotta do well."
In the afternoon, Hùng came to inspect the PVC pipes. His face was thunderous. He kicked the neatly stacked piles, checked the delivery note. "DN20, 4m pipes! Three short! Minh! Did you count properly?"
Minh paled. "Hùng... I... I counted! Should be all there..."
"Should? There's no 'should' in the warehouse! Only 'is' and 'isn't'!" Hùng roared, spittle flying close to Minh's face. "Short is short! Did you lose 'em moving? Or sign off without counting? Useless!"
Van stood nearby, his heart in his throat. He remembered being careful, placing each pipe where Minh instructed. He gathered his courage, speaking softly, "Foreman... when I was moving them... I think I saw a few loose ones over in that corner..." He pointed towards an inconspicuous corner behind the pipe pile.
Hùng shot him a skeptical look but walked over. Sure enough, three DN20, 4m pipes leaned against the wall, half-buried under discarded packaging bags.
"Hmph! Eyes in your ass? Can't see what's right there?" Hùng grumbled, returning. Though still cursing, his tone had lost some of its edge. He glanced at Van. "New guy, eyesight's okay. This afternoon, ride along to the site, deliver two cement bags and some rebar. Minh, you take him, teach him counting, signing!"
"Yes, Hùng!" Minh breathed a sigh of relief, throwing Van a grateful look.
The delivery run was another ordeal. The open-back truck jolted violently over the potholed construction site. Van and Minh sat atop the cement bags in the back, tossed around, dust choking them. At the site, they had to unload, count, and sign off with the site storekeeper. The site workers eyed their warehouse uniforms with detachment and impatience.
"Warehouse? Hurry up and unload! We need this!"
"Careful! Don't bust the cement bags!"
"Rebar over there! Yeah, there! Quit dawdling!"
Van and Minh strained under the heavy cement bags, sweat mixing with cement dust, streaking their faces with grime. Shoulders burned from the rough sacks. Van gritted his teeth, working silently. Yet, Mr. Chen's words echoed: "...from managing stockrooms to managing supplies to managing projects... step by step upwards!"
Managing stockrooms? He could barely handle cement bags now. The upstream? It felt impossibly distant. He realized for the first time the true cost and challenge of breaking that "dead-end cycle" and stepping into this new world. For that "seed" to sprout, it had to pierce this hard, barren soil of reality.
Evening found him back at the warehouse, body aching. Hùng threw a stack of papers at him. "Copy today's in-out records into the ledger! Write clearly! Not like chicken scratch!"
Van sat at a rickety corner desk under a dim overhead light and began transcribing. The handwriting on the slips was messy, material names, specs, quantities swimming before his eyes. He forced himself to concentrate, writing carefully. Some characters he didn't know, he secretly copied from Minh's previous entries.
Minh walked over, seeing his focus. "Take it easy. I was like that too at first. Hùng made me cry a few times. You get used to it. Finish up and head home early. First day, must be wiped."
Van looked up, offering a tired smile. "It's okay. Thanks, Minh."
Stepping out of the warehouse, night had fallen. Lights flickered in the alleys of Dong Da. Van dragged his leaden legs home. Shoulders burned, knees weak. Removing the hard hat, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His uniform was smeared with cement dust and grease, smelling foul.
Opening the door, his mother and Mai stared, shocked.
"Van! You... fell in a mud pit?" his mother struggled to sit up, her face etched with worry.
"Brother! Are you okay?" Mai rushed to fetch water.
Van waved a hand, voice hoarse. "It's okay, Mom. New job... moving stuff in the warehouse, gets dirty." He peeled off the grimy uniform, revealing an equally sweat-soaked old T-shirt beneath. Red marks from the cement sacks were visible on his shoulders and arms.
Mai brought a basin of warm water, handing him a towel. The warmth on his burning shoulders offered brief relief. Seeing his mother's concern, his sister's care, warmth flooded him, mixed with a deeper ache.
"Tired?" his mother asked softly.
"Tired," Van admitted, pressing the towel to his face, taking a deep breath before looking up, eyes weary but resolute. "But I can keep going."
He walked to the corner, picked up his backpack, and pulled out the small booklet on basic management Mr. Chen had lent him. The cover was dusty. He wiped it clean and opened to the first page. Under the dim yellow light, the unfamiliar terms and diagrams seemed daunting. But he knew this was his only "seed." No matter how tired, how hard, he had to squeeze out time to nourish it.
The pain in his shoulders reminded him of reality's harshness, but the words on the page faintly illuminated the thorny path Mr. Chen had pointed towards, the path leading to hope. He had stumbled across the construction site's threshold. The world behind the door was harder, rougher than he imagined. But he had no retreat. He could only grit his teeth, dig deep, and try to take root in this dust-choked "crack."