Chinese
rated e10 * completed 1.4.24
"Shane, you're gonna have to give me a sec… My mom is banging on my door again," Xian grimaces, anger seeping into his voice.
"Damn," Shane chuckles, not turning his head from the video game on his TV screen. "I'm so glad that isn't me anymore."
"I want it to fucking stop," Xian groans. "I can't ever focus like this."
"Take another hit, Sheen. She's prolly gonna be on your ass like that forever 'til you move out."
"Damnit, she's so annoying. She's crying so loud now."
"Play some music."
"That won't stop her. She'll only get louder. Trust me…"
"That's gross. What does she want," Shane raises an eyebrow, still doing what he's doing.
"Probably, just…" Xian turns his head toward the door. "The usual frantic and mentally unstable ramblings I cannot understand or help with."
"Tell her you're on the phone," Shane whistles.
"No," Xian snaps, bristling. "No. If it's happened this much, what the hell do you think that's going to do?"
It doesn't stop. Shane doesn't say anything else.
Sigh…
"Give me a second." Mute call.
"Okay," Shane deadpans.
Xian grips his headset, tugging it off his head and tossing it against the books on his desk. They topple aside, falling off its surface and into the trash. He tugs at his hair until there's only head left to grip.
More Chinese.
He looks up at the ceiling fan turning placidly in circles. It wiggles and wavers in warbly distortion brought on by his high.
Mom's crying. About what? Mournful, ragged sobs. Chunks of unrelated English shrapnel fly out the pan in an effort to connect to Xian's tongue, but it's all Greek to him. What is it about? Xian will never understand her! He knows that for a fact. Trudging barefoot to the door, he drags each step miserably through the rug.
"Mom, I'm on the phone," Xian mumbles, trying what Shane said.
She's angry. He's been ignoring her, and all her many needs. Xian doesn't speak Chinese, but the words aren't unfamiliar to him.
"Mom… Can you stop? Just, stop," he declares through the door. "This isn't right." Mom knows what stop means. It's one of her favorites to hurl when he picks up his car keys and marches toward the apartment door. It's also one of her favorites to shout again and again in the parking lot when he starts up his car he's financing for himself, all by himself.
In a sudden drawn out caterwaul, Mom weeps for him to stop instead. In broken English, she demands Xian stop his phone call and open the door right now. Xian feels his head swell with psychological damage. The headache is brewing… Mom cries out, hammering her tiny fists on the wooden pane. Her throat is raw.
She's probably been smoking again.
"Help me," she cries inbetween speaking Chinese. Xian can't grit his teeth any harder.
"Mom, what?!"
She twists and fidangles the locked knob to no avail. Howling sweeping claims in Chinese, the word love is peppered throughout. Is Mom questioning his love?
"Mom, I just said I'm on the phone!"
"You forgotten about me," she weeps, adding something clearly self-deprecating at that. She goes on and on and on… It would be a big mistake to open the door. There is no reason in meeting her snotty red mug head on, letting her have her way with his time, energy, and emotions. What she's asking for, what she wants him to do— there isn't any point in giving it.
It wouldn't be enough, and there would always be something else.
"You know I don't know what you're saying," Xian groans. "Please, stop. I'll talk to you later…"
Mom rants over Xian, pushing feebly on the doorframe. He can't even imagine what she's trying to tell him. It sounds like sadness, it sounds like displeasure. Like she's angry he's gone off to school, making friends, trying something new besides looking after her and loving her for a change.
"Mom!" Xian's fed up, reaching his limit. "Get off my door!"
"Open it," she cries between phrases foreign to him. "Xian, please…"
"What's that gonna do?" Xian shouts. "What am I supposed to do to help you when I don't even know what you're saying? Look, the neighbors downstairs can hear you, mom. They already think you're crazy! Get off my door! I already hate being here, just give me a break at night, would you?!"
"If you just o-open door," she pitifully pleads, shaking Xian's bedroom door by its handle. The shaking, the twisting— that's not gonna to do anything.
…Is she trying to pick his lock?
Xian groans loud, throwing his fist against its surface. The thud shakes his mother to her core on the other side— he hears her drop to her knees and cry out in sincere fear and anguish.
"You need mental help, mom! Seriously!"
Gutwrenching and muffled howls bore into his bedroom. She sits, probably with her face in her hands. He can imagine her curled into a ball on the shaggy hallway rug as he's seen her a million times before. Why won't she just call laolao about these things? She's someone who can at least know what the hell she's talking about.
"What am I gonna do, dammit?! Hug you all night? Kiss it better? File all your paperwork for you until you feel better?! Yell at Mr. Hape until he finally fires you, and nothing gets any better? Yell at our landlord again, and we get evicted for real this time? I can't do it, mom. I don't speak Chinese. I can't do it anymore. I can't pretend I can do it."
Mom is silent, weeping. She has no idea what the fuck he's talking about, and it's a fact. It's meaningless. It's all Greek. Angry, hopeless Greek.
"There's nothing more I can say," Xian scoffs, bitter. He bangs his fist against the door again.
"I-I like a hug and kiss." It's pitiful, but Mom's high-pitched voice is broken into pieces. "That is all."
Feeling stress plunge the bags on his face lower than they've ever been before, Xian immediately unlocks his bedroom door. It's pathetic, but he drops to his knees in the dark of the hall and scoops his mother in his arms.
Makeup splotched and spattered across her wrinkled, swollen, wet face stains his pudgy cheek. He squeezes the fragile woman into his body, and she smells like alcohol and old addictions. Trembling with a deep, psychic ache, the mother twists to bury her body into the white fabric of his eternal hoodie. Now, it's stained soggy with the colors of her face. Her hot pink nails sink into his coat, gripping like he'll flee at any second if she lets go.
Her sapphire earring digs into his neck. Every time they hug, the edges of the gem cut into his skin— a pleasant and expensive reminder of the financial sacrifice it took to buy her those four years ago to cheer her up… after the divorce. That was many, many paychecks ago. Many, many, many, many…
"Is this okay, mom?" Xian grunts, staring blankly at her quivering feet digging into the carpet. An unfurled bobby pin lies in its matted hairs.
Dryly, Xian kisses through the dark bang covering her weathered forehead, holding her tight. When he licks his lips, it tastes like sweat and the cheapest dry shampoo.
Mom is unmoving and silent. For once, Xian doesn't have to hear any godforsaken Chinese. He stares bleak at that spot where her feet tremble on the rug, clutching the hopeless and displaced Asian woman who mistakenly bore him almost twenty years ago. If only it were time to release her already. It's been well past time for her to do the same for him.
Fold.
…