Everyone Is Just Trying to Get Home

One: The market

Marcus’s vegetable stall was the third one from the entrance. Cabbages stacked neat. Carrots still muddy. Spinach tied with straw rope, bundle after bundle, laid out on a plastic sheet. He went to the wholesale market at three in the morning, came back at four, opened at five. Twenty-three years.

Twenty-three years. Marcus did the math. He had stood behind that plastic sheet for more than eight thousand mornings. When he first came, the stall fee was eighty a month. Now it was six hundred. Cabbages had gone from twenty cents a pound to two and a half. His son had gone from six pounds eight ounces to five foot ten. Then he collapsed.

The day it happened, Marcus was weighing potatoes for a customer. His phone rang. His wife. He said, “Wait a minute, I’m busy.” Hung up. It rang again. He hung up again. The third time, he answered. His wife was crying on the other end, not making whole sentences. He listened. Then he put down the scale and said to the vendor next to him, “Watch my stall.” The man asked, “What happened?” Marcus didn’t answer. He got on his old motorbike. His hands shook. It took him three tries to get the key in. At the hospital, his son was already in the emergency room. Marcus stood in the hallway. White walls. White lights. White coats moving back and forth. His wife was crouched in the corner, hair messy, a wad of tissue in her hand. He walked over and stood beside her. Neither spoke. After a long time, the doctor came out and said, “Stable for now.” His wife stood up. Her legs had gone numb. She stumbled. He caught her. Her hand was cold. He said, “It’s okay.” He didn’t know if it was.

After that, the days changed. Treatment, checkups, more treatment. His wife quit her job and stayed at the hospital. He kept the stall alone, bought stock alone, went home alone. The house was empty. The kitchen light was broken. He didn’t fix it. At night he heated leftovers and ate them with pickles. Then he sat on the sofa. The TV was on. He watched for a while and fell asleep. When he woke, the TV was still on, static on the screen. He turned it off and went to shower. The water was cold. He didn’t wait. After showering, he lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. There was a crack running from the light fixture to the corner. He looked at it for a long time. Then he closed his eyes.

A woman crouched down, picked two cucumbers, and put them on the scale. Marcus looked and said, “Three twenty.”

The woman said, “Make it three.”

Marcus said, “No.”

The woman said, “Everyone else rounds down.”

Marcus said, “Not here.”

The woman put the cucumbers down, stood up, patted the dirt off her hands, and left. Marcus bent over, picked up the crushed leaves that had just fallen, and threw them into the red plastic bag by his feet. The bag was full. He tied it shut and shoved it under the cart. The vendor next to him said, “You’re stingy.”

Marcus didn’t look up. He took a handful of change from his waist pouch and counted it bill by bill. Ten, five, one, half. He counted three times. Then he put the money back, pulled the zipper, and patted the pouch. His son was in the hospital. The fee was due that afternoon. One treatment was four thousand six hundred. Insurance covered half. The rest came out of his pocket. His wife stayed at the hospital, sleeping on a folding bed. Every day after closing, Marcus rode forty minutes on the old motorbike to see them, carrying a thermos of porridge. The porridge was cooked in the morning, too much water, thin. His son took two sips and put it down. Marcus didn’t speak. He sat by the bed and watched the IV drip fall, drop by drop.

At the next stall, another vendor’s son was playing on his phone. Seventeen or eighteen, yellow hair, flip-flops, crouched by the vegetable baskets, gaming. The father called him to move stock. The boy didn’t move. The father cursed and bent to carry it himself. Marcus glanced over and said nothing. He remembered his own son at that age. No. Younger. Five years old, crouched by the stall, handing him plastic bags. He couldn’t reach the scale. He stood on tiptoe to watch. Marcus taught him the marks on the scale. He learned fast. Later, in middle school, he stopped coming. Later still, he was in the hospital.

Once, after a treatment, when his son had a little energy, he said he wanted potato pancakes. Marcus went to the market, bought potatoes, went home, mixed dough, and fried six. His son ate two and threw them up. Marcus and his wife ate the remaining four, two each, with plain porridge. That night, Marcus crouched on the balcony and smoked. One cigarette, then another. He didn’t cry. The next morning, he still got up at three to buy stock.

Another time, his son had a fever at midnight. Thirty-nine eight. His wife called, her voice shaking. Marcus jumped out of bed, threw on clothes, and ran out. The old motorbike died halfway. He pushed it two kilometers. At the hospital, his son had already been given a fever shot and was asleep. His wife sat by the bed, eyes red. Marcus walked over and touched his son’s forehead. Hot. He pulled his hand back. His wife said, “Go back. You have to open the stall tomorrow.” He said, “It’s fine.” He sat on a chair in the hallway all night. The next morning at five, he went straight from the hospital to the wholesale market. After buying stock, he returned to the stall. The vendor next to him saw his face and asked, “What’s wrong?” He said, “Nothing.” The man handed him a cigarette. He took it, lit it, took a drag. The smoke caught his throat. He coughed twice. The man patted his shoulder and didn’t ask again.

Marcus set out the last bundle of spinach. The sky darkened. Rain was coming. He looked up, then lowered his head and kept arranging.

Two: The office

The manager posted a photo in the group chat. Joe at his computer, screen bright, instant noodles on the desk. Caption: Team pillar, still fighting at midnight.

Joe liked it.

The next morning, Joe went to the manager’s office. He stood in the doorway, a printed raise request in his hand. The manager was reading reports, head down.

Joe said, “I want a raise.”

The manager said, “The company is struggling.”

Joe said, “My rent went up.”

The manager said, “Wait a little longer.”

Joe said, “I’ve waited two years.”

The manager looked up and smiled. He said, “Joe, you’re talent. The company won’t treat you badly.”

Joe said nothing. He went back to his desk, opened the drawer. Inside was a resignation letter. Printed. The date blank. He looked at it, then closed the drawer. He did the math: rent two thousand eight hundred, mother’s medicine six hundred, partner’s birthday coming. He opened the delivery app and ordered the cheapest meal. When he paid, the balance showed three hundred forty-two and sixty.

That afternoon, the manager posted again. A meeting room, fruit plates on the table, several executives laughing. Caption: Strategic upgrade, the future is bright. Joe saw it and scrolled past. He opened a document and started revising the proposal. The proposal was for a client, a construction company. Joe had pulled three all-nighters and revised it seven times. He knew the client wouldn’t read it closely. The manager would. The manager would take it to report and say, “Our team worked overtime.” Joe’s name would not appear in the report.

He kept revising. The keyboard was quiet.

At the third revision, he stopped and stared at the blinking cursor. He remembered his first day, when the manager patted his shoulder and said, “Work hard. We’re a family.” He believed it. He worked overtime. He stayed up. He revised the proposal seven times. He thought effort would be seen. Later he found that what was seen was only himself in the manager’s social feed. That Joe fighting at midnight was a prop. He played “team pillar.” The manager took the photo and posted it. When the performance ended, the prop went back to its place.

He deleted the third revision and started again. Halfway through, the colleague at the next desk leaned over and whispered, “Did you know? The manager gave himself a raise.” Joe didn’t answer. He kept typing. The colleague looked at him and left.

Joe had been at this company three years. The first year, he arrived earliest and left latest. He thought if he worked hard, he would be seen. The second year, he saw that the ones who got seen were the ones who talked. They smoked with the manager, drank with him, played cards. They got promoted. Joe didn’t. The third year, he learned not to talk. He only worked. When the work was done, he went home. Home was also alone. His partner was in another city. They met once a month. When they met, she asked, “When will you get a raise?” He said, “Soon.” She asked, “When is soon?” He said, “Wait a little longer.” She stopped asking. Her eyes went from expectation to disappointment to calm. Calm was the worst. Disappointment still had heat. Calm had nothing.

One night, he worked until eleven. He was the only one left. He went to the break room for water and saw the manager’s office light still on. The door was ajar. He heard the manager on the phone, voice low, but the hallway was too quiet. He heard clearly. The manager said, “That Joe, easy to use, cheap, doesn’t make trouble.” Joe stood there with the cup. The water went cold. He went back to his desk, put the cup down, turned off the computer. He left the building and stood downstairs, looking up at the lights. The manager’s office light was still on. He stood for a long time. Then he walked away.

He kept revising. The keyboard was quiet.

Three: The bedroom

The wife said, “You never care about me.”

The husband said, “I’m making money.”

The wife said, “Money, money, money.”

The husband said, “Without money you’d drink the north wind.”

The wife slammed the bedroom door. The husband sat on the sofa and found the stomach medicine on the coffee table. The bottle was empty. He put on his shoes and went downstairs. Next to the pharmacy was a fruit shop. He bought a pound of apples. Back home, he put them on the table. Said nothing.

She came out for water, saw the apples, and stood there for a moment. She picked one up and put it by his hand. He picked it up and bit into it. Sour. She sat on the other end of the sofa, scrolling her phone. He watched TV. A variety show was on. The laughter was loud. Neither changed the channel.

After a while, she said, “Pick up the child tomorrow.”

He said, “I’m working late.”

She said, “I have things too.”

He said, “What things?”

She said, “You don’t know what things?”

He said nothing. She stood up and went back to the bedroom. The door didn’t close all the way. He heard her on the phone inside, voice low. He didn’t listen. He put the rest of the apples in the fridge, turned off the light, and lay on the sofa. The ceiling had a crack running from the light fixture to the corner. He stared at it until his eyes hurt. His stomach hurt again. He turned over and curled up.

They had been married nine years. When they were dating, she loved apples. He peeled them every time, made the peel come off in one strip, and handed her slice after slice. She said he was careful. After they married, he got busy. She got busy. They still bought apples, but no one peeled them. They sat on the table. Whoever wanted one took one. Sometimes they sat too long, the skin wrinkled, and they threw them away. No one thought it was a waste.

He lay on the sofa and remembered the first year of marriage. They rented a small place. The kitchen could fit only one person. She cooked. He stood nearby, handing her a bowl, getting the salt. She hummed while she cooked. Off-key. He laughed at her. She hit his hand with the spatula. It didn’t hurt, but he pretended it did. She laughed. Now they had their own place. The kitchen was big enough for three people. But no one cooked. She ordered takeout. He ate out. When they were home together, they looked at their own phones. Sometimes he wanted to say something. He opened his mouth and swallowed it. What was there to say? That he was tired? She was tired too. That he was unhappy? She was unhappy too. That he still loved her? He didn’t believe it himself.

The child was five. A boy. Looked like her. Big eyes, long lashes. The child asked, “Dad, why are you never home?” He said, “Dad has to make money.” The child asked, “What for?” He said, “To buy you toys.” The child said, “I don’t want toys. I want you to play with me.” He paused. He said, “Dad is busy.” The child stopped talking. The child went to play with blocks. He sat on the sofa and watched the child’s back. He wanted to say something. He didn’t.

Once, the child had a fever. She called him. He was in a meeting. He hung up. After the meeting, he called back. She said, “We’re already at the hospital.” He asked, “How is he?” She said, “Better.” He asked, “How did you get there?” She said, “Taxi.” He said, “Why didn’t you call me?” She said, “What use would you be?” He said nothing. She said, “Go back to work.” Hung up. He sat in the office, holding the phone. The screen went dark. He didn’t move.

Four: The church

Worshippers lined up past the threshold. A man knelt before the pew, forehead to the floor. The donation box was full. He stood and put in a hundred. The old priest rang the bell, eyes half closed.

Outside, a beggar held out a hand. The man gave a dollar. The beggar said, “Thank you, boss.”

The man said, “You’re welcome.”

He turned and walked into the lottery kiosk. Bought ten tickets. While the owner printed them, he stood in the doorway and lit a cigarette. Smoke rose and scattered. He remembered kneeling before God, thinking: Let my investment break even. God said nothing. The bell didn’t stop. He finished the cigarette, stamped it out, and left with the tickets.

Inside the church, the old priest kept ringing the bell. The donation box was full. A young novice came to replace it with an empty one. He carried the full box to the back, poured the money out, and counted it bill by bill. He wrote the number in a ledger. The ledger was old, the cover worn. He counted carefully, wet his finger. When he finished, he locked the money in a cabinet and hung the key on his belt.

In the backyard stood an oak, hundreds of years old. The leaves had turned yellow and fallen. The young novice swept them into piles and stuffed them into burlap sacks. A worshipper passing by asked, “Father, how old is this tree?”

The novice said, “I don’t know.”

The worshipper said, “Hundreds of years, right?”

The novice said, “Maybe.”

The worshipper said, “It must have spirit.”

The novice said, “A tree is a tree.”

The worshipper paused, then left. The novice kept sweeping. He dragged the sacks to the corner and stacked them. Someone would come tomorrow to collect them, five a sack. He counted seven sacks. Thirty-five. He put the money in a drawer and locked it. In the drawer was a stack of change held by a rubber band. He undid the band and counted it again. Then he put it back.

The novice was eighteen. He had been at the church three years. His home was in the north. Poor. He left school after middle school. His father said, “Go to the church. At least you’ll eat.” He came. The church gave him food and a bed, and two hundred a month. He was satisfied. Every day he swept, rang the bell, counted money. He didn’t think about anything else. One day a worshipper asked him, “Do you miss home?” He thought and said, “No.” The worshipper said, “Your parents?” He said, “I send money back.” The worshipper said, “You don’t miss them?” He said, “What use is missing them?” The worshipper stopped talking.

At night, he lay in bed and looked at the moon outside the window. The moon was full. He thought of his father. He could barely remember his father’s face. He only remembered his father’s hands, large, rough, painful when they hit. He didn’t hate his father. He knew his father had it hard too. He turned over and closed his eyes. Tomorrow he had to get up early.

Five: The screen

On the phone screen, news from a distant conflict scrolled. A mother held a child, face covered in dust. Another mother was crying, an ambulance beside her. The comment section argued.

“Terrorists.”

“Colonizers.”

“Support this side.”

“Support that side.”

No one mentioned the two mothers. No one mentioned the children. The screen scrolled down. Next was a celebrity divorce. Then health tips. Then an ad.

Joe sat on the bed in his apartment, scrolling. He had just finished instant noodles. The soup was still in the bowl. The ivy on the windowsill had yellow leaves. He watered it. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot onto the floor. He wiped it with a rag. Then he sat on the edge of the bed. The phone lit up again. Manager: Come to work tomorrow. Raise.

Joe stared at the screen. Didn’t reply. He threw the apple peel into the trash. The trash was full. He tied the bag and went downstairs. The hallway light was broken. He turned on his phone flashlight. The beam was small. It showed the steps. He walked down one by one. Outside, it was raining. He threw the trash into the bin and stood under the eaves, watching the rain. It wasn’t heavy. Fine, slanting.

He thought of the news he had seen that day, the mother holding the child. He thought of his mother. He took out his phone and called her. It rang three times. She answered.

“Mom.”

“Hey.”

“Nothing. Just checking.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have enough money?”

“Enough.”

“Don’t save too much. Eat what you need.”

“Okay.”

He hung up. He stood in the rain and didn’t move. After a while, he turned and went upstairs. The light was still broken. He turned on the flashlight. The beam was small. It showed the steps. He walked up one by one.

Back in the apartment, he sat on the bed and opened his phone. The news was still there. The comments were still arguing. He watched for a while, then backed out. He opened his notes and typed: It rained today. Deleted it. Typed: I quit. Deleted it. Typed: I want to go home. He looked at it for a long time. Didn’t delete it. Didn’t send it.

He put the phone down and looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A window across the way was lit. He saw a figure moving in front of it, as if cooking. He watched for a while. Then he turned off the light and lay in bed. In the dark, the phone lit up again. A message from the manager. He didn’t look. He turned over and closed his eyes. The rain was soft.

Six: The mirror

The next day, Joe went to the company. He walked into the manager’s office and put the resignation letter on the desk. The manager glanced at it and said, “You’ve thought it through?”

Joe said, “Yes.”

The manager said, “The raise can be discussed.”

Joe said, “No need.”

The manager said, “Where will you go?”

Joe said, “I don’t know.”

The manager smiled. He said, “Young man, don’t be impulsive.”

Joe didn’t answer. He went back to his desk and packed. Not much: a cup, a pot of ivy, a few books. He put the ivy in a bag, the cup in his backpack. The books were heavy. He left two in the drawer. He carried the bag downstairs. The receptionist looked at him and said nothing. He walked out of the building and stood on the sidewalk. The sky had cleared. The sun was strong.

He took out his phone and texted his partner: I quit.

She replied: And then?

He typed a line, deleted it. Typed another, deleted it. Finally he sent: I don’t know.

She replied: Go home first. We’ll talk tonight.

He put the phone in his pocket. The ivy leaves brushed his arm. He walked on. He passed a pharmacy and stopped. Stomach medicine. He went in and bought a bottle. Outside, next to the pharmacy, a fruit shop was setting out apples. He stood for a moment. Didn’t buy any. He kept walking.

He passed a market. He stopped. Third stall from the entrance, an old man was arranging spinach. The old man bent to pick up crushed leaves, movements slow. Joe watched for a while. He thought of his father. His father used to run a stall too, back home. Later he stopped and went to construction sites. Later his back was hurt, and he lay at home. Joe took out his phone and called him. It rang once. His father answered.

“Dad.”

“Yeah.”

“How’s your health?”

“Same as always.”

“Do you still have medicine?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t save it.”

“I know.”

“I sent money home.”

“No need. Keep it yourself.”

“I have enough.”

Silence for a moment. His father said, “Is work tiring?”

Joe said, “Not tiring.”

His father said, “Don’t lie to me.”

Joe smiled a little. He said, “Really not tiring.”

His father said, “Good.”

He hung up. Joe stood at the market entrance. Marcus looked up at him, then lowered his head. Joe walked over and bought two cucumbers. Marcus said, “Three twenty.”

Joe said, “Make it three?”

Marcus said, “No.”

Joe said, “Everyone else rounds down.”

Marcus said, “Not here.”

Joe paid three twenty and handed it over. Marcus took it and put it in his waist pouch. Joe left with the cucumbers. Marcus went back to arranging spinach. The sky darkened. Rain was coming. He looked up, then lowered his head.

The rain hadn’t started yet.

Joe walked to the intersection and stopped. He looked back at the market. Marcus was still arranging spinach, movements slow. A customer crouched to pick vegetables. Marcus said something. The customer stood up and left. Marcus lowered his head and kept arranging.

Joe turned and walked on. The cucumbers were in the bag. The ivy was in the bag. He carried it with one hand, the other in his pocket. He touched the stomach medicine. The bottle was small, plastic, a little cold. He gripped it, then let go.

Ahead was the subway entrance. He stood at the top, looking down at the stairs that descended and disappeared around the corner. People went in and out, all fast. He stood for a moment. Then he walked in, swiped his card, and went down the stairs. The stairs were long. He took them one by one. On the platform, the train hadn’t come. He stood behind the yellow line and looked into the tunnel. In the dark, there was wind.

The train came. The doors opened. He got on. It was crowded. No seat. He held the rail and stood. The train started. Outside the window was black, with occasional lights flashing past. He thought of the ivy, the yellow leaves. He thought of Marcus’s spinach. He thought of his father. He thought of the line in his notes that he hadn’t deleted: I want to go home.

The train stopped. The doors opened. He got off. Transferred. Got on again. Got off again. Out of the subway, the sky had cleared. He walked toward his apartment. He passed a flower shop and stopped. Ivy. He looked, didn’t buy. He thought of the one at home, didn’t know if it was still alive.

He kept walking. At his building, the hallway light was broken. He turned on his phone flashlight. The beam was small. It showed the steps. He walked up one by one. At his door, he took out the key and opened it. The apartment was dark. He put the bag down and turned on the light. The ivy on the windowsill had yellow leaves, but it was still alive. He watered it. Water leaked from the bottom of the pot onto the floor. He wiped it with a rag.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed. The cucumbers were in the bag. He took one out, washed it, and bit into it. Crisp. He chewed and looked out the window. The sky had cleared. Across the way, someone was hanging laundry. A white shirt swayed in the wind.

He opened his phone. The line in his notes was still there: I want to go home. He looked at it for a long time. Then he locked the screen and put the phone by his pillow. He lay down and looked at the ceiling. There was a crack running from the light fixture to the corner. He watched it until his eyes burned.

Then he closed his eyes.

The rain began again.