The Parallel Me

Uncle Wu

At 5:40, the alarm went off.

Plastic case. The screen was missing two strokes, making a "5" look like a "3".

I turned it off. Rolled over.

The blanket was damp. The whole building was damp. The family on the first floor put up wallpaper last year. It bubbled within three months, peeling off piece by piece. We didn't put up wallpaper. The paint fell off by itself, landing by the headboard like snow.

I lay there for another three minutes. Three minutes. I counted.

Got up.

The overdue notice was still on the door. The edges were frayed. I peeled it off, folded it twice, and shoved it in my pocket. People who wake up at this hour are either going to make money or pay back money. I was doing both.

Brushing my teeth. The faucet dripped. It had been broken for two years. Twenty-seven drips a minute. I could hear it from the living room at night. I counted to the seventh drip and reached out to twist it. Couldn't tighten it. Halfway through rinsing, there was a hair in the cup. Not mine. Mine wasn't that long. I poured it out and refilled the cup.

Went downstairs. It wasn't light yet. There was a tricycle in the alley. An old man who collected scrap was tying up cardboard. The rope creaked. He glanced at me and nodded. I nodded back. We had never spoken. He wore a pair of gloves. There was a hole at the index finger of his right hand, and his fingernails were black with dirt. I thought about buying him a pair of gloves. Thought about it three times. Forgot all three times.

The trash station was behind the building. Three green bins. One was knocked over, trash spilled out. Plastic bags. Rotten vegetable leaves. And half a mop, the mop head facing up, like it was raising its hand. A sour smell mixed with a fermented sweetness.

Someone was lying face down there.

I walked over and crouched down. A man. Around fifty. A bit chubby, hunched back, even more obvious lying down. A bald patch on top of his head. The hair around it was combed toward the center, but it didn't stay, sticking up. Gray jacket, broken zipper, wide open. White tank top underneath, yellow stains. His belt was pulled up high, almost to his chest. One hand was reached into the bin. The other clutched a liquor bottle. The bottle was empty. There were three more empty bottles in the bin. Erguotou. All 125ml bottles. Three bottles, 375ml. He'd been drinking all night.

"Uncle." No response.

"Uncle." He moved a bit. Groaned.

I reached out to pull his arm. He suddenly flipped over and threw up. All over my pant leg.

A hot smell rushed up. Alcohol. Stomach acid. And something else, hard to describe. So sour it made my eyes hurt. I stood there without moving. I took half a step back, my heel sinking into the mud. The cold seeped up from my socks.

"...You little brat." He mumbled, dazed. "You kicked me."

"I didn't kick you."

"You did."

"I was helping you up."

He opened one eye. The eye was very red. The whites were completely bloodshot.

"Who are you?"

"From upstairs."

"Which family?"

"Chen Guo's."

He froze for a second. Then he laughed. Laughed so hard he coughed.

"Chen Guo." He said. "That gambling addict."

"Yeah."

"You're his son?"

"Yeah."

"Your dad owes me two hundred."

I didn't say anything. I bit my back teeth. Two hundred. I was familiar with that number. I felt like I could recite all the numbers my dad owed. Two hundred, three hundred, five hundred. Never one hundred. One hundred wasn't worth owing.

He propped himself up on my shoulder and stood, swaying a bit, then held onto the bin. He was half a head taller than me. Hunched over, he looked about my height. He wiped his face, smearing dirt all over it.

"What's your name?"

"Chen Mo."

"Which Mo?"

"The Mo in 'silence'."

"Bad name." He said. "Silent your whole life, you'll suffer your whole life." He patted my shoulder. "I'm Wu Min. School staff. Logistics."

"No. 1 High School?"

"No. 1 High School." He said. "Fix desks and chairs, manage the warehouse, do all the odd jobs." He sized me up. "What class are you in?"

"Senior 3, Class 7."

"Class 7." He thought for a moment. "Director Zhou's class."

I didn't reply.

"Why are you so dirty?"

"You threw up on me."

He looked down at my pant leg. Looked for a while, then suddenly let out a "Heh."

"These pants are mine."

"What?"

"These pants." He pointed at my leg. "I lost them last month."

I looked down. Blue. Old. A patch on the knee.

"I didn't know."

"Didn't know what?"

"Didn't know they were yours."

He looked at me for another moment, then smiled.

"Fine." He said. "Then I definitely have to return them to you."

I went upstairs with him. He walked in front. Going up the stairs, he stepped with his left foot first, then his right followed. By the sixth floor, he was panting.

"No elevator in this building." He said. "Been climbing for twenty years."

"Twenty years."

"About that."

Wu Min lived on the sixth floor. Same floor as me. Door to door. Two pairs of shoes were by his door. One pair of cloth shoes, one pair of rain boots. Newspaper was stuffed inside the rain boots. The moment his door opened, a smell hit me. Not a stench. The smell of cardboard sitting for too long. Damp. Stuffy.

The room was filled with stuff. Eight old chairs, stacked. The top one was missing a leg. Three old electric fans, blades covered in dust. I took half a step in and stepped on a stack of newspapers. The papers were dry, crushing at the touch. Scrap paper tied into bundles, stacked to the ceiling. Over a dozen woven bags stuffed with plastic bottles, bulging. The TV was on, muted. A medicine commercial. A guy in a white coat holding a pill box, smiling forcefully.

"What does this medicine cure?" I asked.

"Cures everything." He said. "On TV, everything cures everything."

A clock hung on the wall. Stopped. Hands pointing at 4:20. There was only one walking path on the floor, a foot wide. I walked through sideways.

A row of glass bottles sat on the windowsill. Thirteen bottles. I counted. Filled with things. Some soaked screws, some nails. One bottle held a few white things, looked like teeth. The one closest to the edge held a set of dentures.

"Where are the teeth?" I asked.

"Soaking." He said. "People get old, teeth need a bath too."

He dug a pair of pants out of the cabinet. Blue. Very old. Clean.

"Change into these."

I changed. They were a bit short. A section short, my ankles exposed. He pulled a plastic bag out from under the TV stand and shook it twice. The bag had held rice. A layer of white powder was still at the bottom.

"Take it."

"No need."

"Take it. It's dirty."

I stuffed the pants I'd taken off into it.

"Where's your dad?" He asked.

"Don't know."

"How many days?"

"Three days."

He clicked his tongue and poured a cup of hot water. An enamel mug, white background, printed with a red flower. Half the flower was gone. A chip in the rim. I took it, didn't drink.

"You short on money right now?"

"Yeah."

"How much?"

"1,200. Rent."

He stood up and went into the inner room. Rummaged for a while. I followed and glanced inside. The inner room was messier. A single bed, clothes piled on it. A photo frame on the nightstand, face down. He dragged an iron box out from under the bed with a "clang". Opened it. A stack of cash, tied with a rubber band. He closed the door to the inner room as he came out. The door wasn't shut tight. Left a crack. Through the crack, I could see the face-down photo frame.

He counted out a thousand and came out.

"This is all the cash I have."

I looked up.

"What for?"

"Lending it to you."

"I have nothing to pawn."

"Pawning what?" He shoved the money into my hand. "Your dad helped me back in the day."

"How did he help you?"

"...Pulled me up."

"When?"

"Long ago." He said. "Before you were born."

"How did he pull you up?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it.

"Forgot." He said.

I counted the money. Ten bills. All old. One was missing a corner, taped with clear tape. I counted again. Still ten bills. One thousand. Same as the number on my phone. I folded the money, didn't think further.

He pushed the enamel mug toward me.

"Drink water."

"No thanks."

"You look down on me."

"I don't."

"Then drink it."

I drank it. Warm. Had a rusty taste.

He pointed at the window.

"That window, I stood there watching twenty years ago."

I looked in the direction he pointed. Across was a residential building. Windows densely packed. A few still had lights on.

"See that one?" He said. "The one with red curtains."

"Yeah."

"My wife used to live there. I stood here watching every day."

"And then?"

"Then she married someone else." He said. "I watched for three years, never wrote a single letter." He put down the cup. "So don't be like me. If you f*****g have something to say, say it early."

I walked to the door.

"Uncle Wu Min."

"Call me Old Wu." He said. "Or Uncle Wu. Uncle Wu Min sounds weird."

"Uncle Wu."

"Hey."

"Why did you help me?"

He stood amid the pile of scrap paper, looking at me. Looked for a long time. Not looking at a person. Like measuring something.

"The smell on you..."

"What smell?"

"Your dad didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

He opened his mouth. Then smiled and shoved his hand into his pocket.

"Nothing." He said. "My nose is shot. Everything smells like gas to me."

"I smell like gas?"

"No." He said. "I'm just talking nonsense." He walked over and pulled the door open. "Go on back."

"Yeah."

"Chen Mo."

I turned back.

"Tell your dad to go to those places less often."

"Which places?"

"He knows."

The door closed.

The phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulled it out.

[Mission 1: Completed.]

Just that one line. No payment notification. No balance. I stared at the words. One thousand. I had just taken one thousand from Uncle Wu's hand. I shoved the phone back into my pocket. I didn't think further about it.

When I went downstairs, dawn had broken. She stood by the utility pole. High ponytail, uniform, white canvas shoes. The shoes were clean. She stepped in a puddle. Water splashed up. The shoes were still white. She glanced at my pants.

"Whose?"

"Uncle Wu's."

"Ugly."

"I know."

"What's that smell on you?"

"He threw up on me."

She wrinkled her nose and stepped back.

"Don't come over here."

"Didn't you come to watch?"

"I'm done watching." She said. "I thought you'd get beaten up."

"Why?"

"Because the way you walk, you look like someone who gets beaten up."

I looked down at my legs. Two legs. One in front of the other. Very normal.

She followed behind me. Walked half a street. I stopped. She stopped too. Three steps away.

"Why are you following me?"

"I'm not."

"Then walk on that side."

"I'm going the same way."

I didn't ask again.

Passing the convenience store, I stopped at the entrance. A row of sodas in the freezer. Glass bottles, green. The owner was inside knitting a sweater, didn't even look up.

"Buying or not?"

"Just looking."

"What's there to look at?"

I left. At the alley entrance, someone was frying dough sticks. Fifty cents each. I bought one. Took two bites, stuffed the rest in my pocket.

At the landlord's house, he was eating breakfast. A bowl of porridge, a plate of pickles. Slurping loudly. Half a steamed bun soaked in the porridge. His surname was Ma. Around fifty. Skinny, long neck, big Adam's apple. Three holes in his white tank top. I pulled out the money. Ten bills. Smoothed them out one by one, laid them on the table. One was missing a corner, I put it at the bottom. He counted once. Counted again. Rubbed his finger on his lips. While counting, he didn't speak, just moved his lips.

"One thousand."

"Yeah."

"Still short 1,400."

"End of the month."

"You said end of the month last month too."

"Last month I had no money."

"You have it this month?"

"Got a thousand."

He glanced at me, put the money in the drawer, pressed it under a calendar. The calendar was from last year. A dog printed on it, holding a red envelope in its mouth.

"Your dad took down the electric meter."

"What?"

"Stealing electricity." He said. "The power company fined him three hundred."

"Where's the ticket?"

He rummaged in the drawer, pulled out a piece of paper, handed it to me. I read it once. Read it again.

"This three hundred, when do you need it?"

"End of the month."

I put my hand back in my pocket, felt around. 17.5 yuan.

"Fine." I said. "End of the month."

Went out. An empty can was at the alley entrance. I kicked it. Kicked it over twenty meters. I walked over, picked it up, threw it into the trash. Ten cents per can. I didn't sell it. I threw it away. When I was a kid, I collected cans. Saved up three hundred, sold them for thirty yuan. With that thirty yuan, I bought a basketball. The ball disappeared later. I don't know why either.

My eyes stung a bit. The wind was strong.

That night, I passed by Uncle Wu's door. Light shone through the crack. Not lamp light. Lamp light is yellow. That light was very white. Flashed, then gone. I stood for a while. Someone was talking inside. Not one person. Two. One was him. The other was reading numbers.

"...Seven, four, zero, nine, two..."

Exactly the same as the numbers from the radio at my house.

I raised my hand, wanting to knock.

My hand stopped mid-air. Then dropped.

Went home. I carried the radio to the table. The plug was still unplugged. I turned it on. The numbers were still there. I pressed my ear against the wall. The other side of the wall was reading them too. Two voices, half a beat apart. Like two people taking turns calling out numbers.

I turned off the radio.

The one in the wall didn't stop.

I sat on the edge of the bed and listened.

The rubber band was still on my wrist. Didn't know whose it was. I put it back on.