We Call It Drama, Then a Joke, Then Just Aging

The elevator reached the seventeenth floor and stopped.

A man in his early fifties came in, gray jacket, carrying two bags of groceries. Behind him was a man in work clothes, a badge clipped to his chest. The gray jacket said his son was acting up again, saying he was stressed and couldn't sleep. The work-clothes man laughed and said, Don't worry, big brother. Wait till he's my age. It'll be fine. You're almost free anyway. The female colleague next to him added, Kids today aren't like us back then. They're a bit dramatic.

The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. The gray jacket walked out. His grocery bag brushed the door frame. No one said anything else.

The gray jacket was Lao Zhou. When he got home, his son's door was closed. Phone light leaked through the crack. He knocked twice and said, Milk's outside the door. From inside: Leave it there. Lao Zhou stood for two seconds. The phrases in his mouth made a circle: What do you have to be upset about. Back in our day. In the end he said, Drink it while it's hot. His son didn't answer. Lao Zhou put the cup on the floor and left.

Half an hour later, the cup was empty, sitting by the door. The son didn't come out.

Lao Zhou didn't know that his son had typed into the search bar: How do I stop feeling sad. Deleted it. Typed again: What do I do when I can't sleep. Deleted it. Finally locked the screen and buried his face in the pillow. The next morning at six thirty, the son got up as usual, put on his backpack, and said, I'm off. Lao Zhou said, Slow down on the road. The door closed.

At school, the son sat in the second-to-last row. The math teacher was explaining a problem, chalk tapping the blackboard. He stared at a tree outside the window, its leaves turned over by the wind. The teacher called his name. He stood up, not knowing what had been asked. His deskmate whispered a hint. He repeated it. The teacher told him to sit down and not drift off in class. Someone in the back row laughed. He looked down and turned the pages. The book stayed on yesterday's page.

During break, he went to the bathroom. He locked the stall door and stood against the wall for a while. Someone came in to wash his hands. The water ran loud. He waited until the water stopped, then came out.

Lao Zhou didn't know these things either. Lao Zhou only knew his son had been quiet lately, still ate okay, no fever.

That night at three in the morning, Lao Zhou woke up. His wife had her back to him, breathing evenly. He reached for his phone. The last message in the work group was from one a.m.: Revise the proposal again tomorrow. He sat up and went to the living room for stomach medicine. The box was on the second shelf of the coffee table, two pills left. He swallowed one dry and drank water. A car passed outside. Its lights swept the ceiling.

He thought of last month, when his father had tests. The chairs in the hospital corridor were metal, cold. He sat there all night, disinfectant mixed with boxed-meal smell. At dawn a nurse called for family members. He stood up, his leg asleep. During the day a colleague asked what was wrong. He said, Middle-aged and greasy, what else. The colleague laughed. He laughed too. After laughing, he changed his phone wallpaper to a photo from the day his father left the hospital. No one saw.

Lao Zhou had sat in his car downstairs at the office for ten minutes. Engine off, not going up. The radio was doing traffic. The host said there was congestion ahead. He turned the volume down and looked at the parking garage wall. An old scratch ran across it, like someone had scraped it backing up. He looked for a while, unbuckled his seat belt, and went upstairs.

At a dinner, a client patted his shoulder and said, Brother Zhou can still drink. He raised his glass and said, I'll risk my life to keep the gentlemen company. After drinking, he went to the bathroom and threw up. Coming out, he wiped his mouth at the mirror. His tie was crooked. He retied it and went back to keep smiling. That night he got home and his son's room was already dark. He stood at the door and listened for a while. No sound.

Lao Zhou's mother lived in the west of the city. On the phone she said, Everything's fine. My leg hurts a little, the old problem. The TV was on, loud. Lao Zhou said, Then think about it less. His mother said, I don't, I don't. Before hanging up, she asked, Come for dinner next week? Lao Zhou said, Depends. His mother said, Okay, you're busy.

After hanging up, she sat on the sofa. A commercial was on. A person held up laundry detergent and smiled. She picked up the remote and didn't change the channel. Medicine boxes on the coffee table, lined up. She counted them once, then counted again. Outside, the sky went dark. She didn't turn on the light.

The next day, someone from the community came around with flyers for free blood pressure checks. She went and stood in line. An old man ahead of her said his son hadn't called for a week. She said, Everyone's busy. After the check, the nurse said, Auntie, your blood pressure is a little high, make sure to rest. She said, Okay. On the way home, she passed a funeral wreath shop. New wreaths stood at the door, white and yellow. She glanced at them and kept walking.

Lao Zhou didn't know his mother counted medicine boxes. His mother didn't know Lao Zhou sat in the car for ten minutes. The son didn't know Lao Zhou had sat all night in a hospital corridor.

They only knew that the words in the elevator scattered as soon as they were spoken.

The next day at work, Lao Zhou ran into the work-clothes man in the elevator again. The work-clothes man asked, Your son doing better? Lao Zhou said, Better. Kids. The work-clothes man said, Exactly. The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. Lao Zhou's phone buzzed. A message from his son: Not coming home for dinner tonight. Lao Zhou replied: Okay.

He put the phone in his pocket and walked into the crowd. The elevator doors closed behind him.