Hi-Lee-Bon, Hi-Lee-Bon jumpin’,
Jump right up and land in a coffin
— Schoolyard Rhyme

Hi-Lee-Bon was a snack.

Zhang Guodian was an old man.

Zhang Guodian sold Hi-Lee-Bon.

Back then, we were young. We were so young we didn’t have two coins to rub together. Zhang Guodian set up shop by the school gates, his ratty tarp covered in colorful packages that drew every pair of needy eyes. We knew the names of everything he sold, even if we’d never tried them. Only the rich kids got to try some of the fancier stuff. He had a policy of swapping out anything that wasn’t selling well. Once it was gone, we might never see it again. All of us kids were raised by our grandmas, so we never had an easy time shaking down adults for spending money. When we got some change together, we would always go for the bestsellers. We knew those had to be good. We couldn’t risk getting a dud.

When we saw Zhang Guodian lording over this treasure trove of snacks, we imagined he must be a very wealthy man, though his clothes were worn. There were four people selling things in the school. Two of them were related to teachers. They rented rooms on both sides of the main gate. The other two were Zhang Guodian and Baoshan, who laid out tarps on the other side of the gate. Baoshan was a young guy. He wasn’t much of a talker. Zhang Guodian was the opposite. As soon as he saw a potential customer, he’d start making his pitch.

“Spend it or lose it,” he would say, if he saw a kid overthinking their selection or hesitating to part with their hard-earned money, then he’d go back to talking up whatever the hottest items were. His personal favorite was Hi-Lee-Bon.

“Hi-Lee-Bon, crick crack zoom,” he would rap. “Bump and jump across the room. Might jump all the way to North Korea. Like Jiguang when he got in the way or Cunrui when the pack went boom.”

He switched the lines each time. We were never quite sure what he was talking about. But it was fun to repeat. It was cool. That one with the lines about war heroes spread really fast. We had all read in our school books about Huang Jiguang sacrificing himself in the Korean War and Dong Cunrui’s heroic suicidal attack on the Nationalists. They were people to respect. For Zhang Guodian, associating them with Hi-Lee-Bon was a marketing masterstroke. With all the work he was doing to sell them, there weren’t many people left at our school that hadn’t tried Hi-Lee-Bon.

They were circular, multicolored discs of crispy deep-fried batter, although I forget now what kind of bag they came in or even what they tasted like. I don’t even remember why it was called Hi-Lee-Bon. At this point, probably nobody knows. All I can remember is that they weren’t anywhere close to as tasty as the other bestsellers. Any kid that’s ever tried Spicy Stix or Gummi Juice has that flavor permanently carved into their memory—and you can still go out to a supermarket and buy them. If it wasn’t for Zhang Guodian’s patter, I don’t think anybody would have tasted Hi-Lee-Bon. There were plenty of other snacks from that time that nobody remembers. They disappeared. But we remember Hi-Lee-Bon because of Zhang Guodian.

A little while ago, I was on the phone with an old friend, Ma Hong, and asked him if he remembered Hi-Lee-Bon. He laughed and repeated that rhyme—“Hi-Lee-Bon, Hi-Lee-Bon jumpin’, jump right up and land in a coffin”—and asked me what made me think of Zhang Guodian.

It’s true, Hi-Lee-Bon and Zhang Guodian became synonymous. You couldn’t mention one without the other.

Zhang Guodian was the only one selling Hi-Lee-Bon. He seemed to have a steady supply of it, but none of the other three vendors were able to get their hands on it. We never found out why until after the accident. You see, it turns out—

Hold on. I’m getting ahead of myself. Before we get to the final blow, I have to tell you about two incidents that happened before that. They were both pretty bad, even if they weren’t fatal.