always.
It’s too hard to pretend to be somebody else.
I make my way to my house.
I T ’ S A STONE HOUSE , surrounded by a wooden deck, against a backdrop of pines. As I approach it, a big three-legged dog lopes toward me, barks, then halts and wags its tail. An orange cat sleeps on the stoop. I cross the threshold, and it starts to purr.
Home.
I go inside, and the place lights up. I sit on the couch, across from the huge picture window that looks out onto the beach, watch the animated waves swell and crash and send up spouts of foam. Occasionally huge goldfish surface, puffing their cheeks, mouths pursed in perfect O’s. Dolphins surf in the waves.
If Lao Zhang is online, he’ll know that I’m here.
I wait. Order another cup of coffee—I mean, a real cup. The coffee place is decorated like it’s French or English or something—uneven wooden tables, puffy chintz cushions, old coffee grinders, prints of gardens and flowers on the walls. The coffee’s good, too. They do designs in the foam of theircappuccinos. The other customers, some hip young Chinese, maybe from Hong Kong or Shanghai, a family from France, sit and drink their coffees and chat and laugh, leaning back in their chairs, enjoying themselves. A couple of the kids play a board game, Pictionary, I think. On vacation. Like I should be.
Outside, the fog has thickened into drizzle. I can see the drops suspended in the halo of light from the streetlamps.
Halfway through my second cup of coffee, Lao Zhang knocks on the door.
Monastery Pig, I guess I should say. That’s the name he goes by here.
I used to be Little Mountain Tiger, but I changed it. That was a different game, one I want to leave behind.
Now I’m Alley Rat. I was born in the Year of the Rat, and rats are a good sign in China, they tell me: clever and quick and good at surviving. Rats and cockroaches, right?
Lao Zhang’s gone for simple in his avatar, too. He’s wearing a beanie, a black T-shirt, and cargo shorts. All his work goes into the pieces he creates for this place. Like my house.
A text box appears over his head. YILI , NI HAO .
NI HAO , I type.
My house is a private chat room. I still don’t know what the fuck to say after HI , HOW ’ S IT GOING ?
Lao Zhang sits next to me on the couch. SOME GOOD MUSIC LATER TONIGHT , he says. IN THE WAREHOUSE .
COOL , I type, distracted.
HAVE TO USE PASSWORD , BECAUSE THEY HAVE SOME LIVE STREAM . MAYBE VIDEO . ISN ’ T THAT RISKY ?
MAYBE A LITTLE . BUT I WANT MORE PEOPLE TO COME HERE . TO SHARE THINGS . THAT ’ S WHY I BUILD IT .
Time was we had a real place to be. An actual village. Withhouses made of brick. People made of flesh. We could sit down and eat real dumplings together and drink beer.
But that place got
chai’d
. Bulldozed under. Now there’s a cluster of high-rises called Harmony Village Gardens, where nobody lives. The units bought up by speculators or not bought at all. Subsidized by the government, maybe, by bad loans at state-owned banks. A ghost village.
WE HAVE A PROBLEM , I type.
TELL ME .
I keep it short. About me drinking tea with the DSD. About Harrison’s fear that they’ll charge us on economic crimes.
And about John, whom Lao Zhang knew by another name, before. Who I sure hope isn’t here in the Great Community, under a different name entirely.
After I finish, Lao Zhang is silent. Or rather his avatar sits still on the couch, occasionally blinking, which is a default feature for the avatars here.
THANKS FOR TELLING ME , he finally says.
THE MAIN THING IS , IF YOU NEED MONEY , WE CAN ’ T SELL YOUR WORK RIGHT NOW .
I DON ’ T NEED MONEY . I AM WORRIED ABOUT YOU .
I get this nice warm flush. Because, you know, some guy acts like he cares about me.
NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT . I DON ’ T THINK .
OKAY . And then silence.
Out in the virtual ocean, Chairman Mao surfs an animated wave, wearing baggy swim trunks patterned with marijuana leaves.
I NEED TO CONSIDER , Lao Zhang types.
CONSIDER ?
It’s too hard to pretend to be somebody else.
I make my way to my house.
I T ’ S A STONE HOUSE , surrounded by a wooden deck, against a backdrop of pines. As I approach it, a big three-legged dog lopes toward me, barks, then halts and wags its tail. An orange cat sleeps on the stoop. I cross the threshold, and it starts to purr.
Home.
I go inside, and the place lights up. I sit on the couch, across from the huge picture window that looks out onto the beach, watch the animated waves swell and crash and send up spouts of foam. Occasionally huge goldfish surface, puffing their cheeks, mouths pursed in perfect O’s. Dolphins surf in the waves.
If Lao Zhang is online, he’ll know that I’m here.
I wait. Order another cup of coffee—I mean, a real cup. The coffee place is decorated like it’s French or English or something—uneven wooden tables, puffy chintz cushions, old coffee grinders, prints of gardens and flowers on the walls. The coffee’s good, too. They do designs in the foam of theircappuccinos. The other customers, some hip young Chinese, maybe from Hong Kong or Shanghai, a family from France, sit and drink their coffees and chat and laugh, leaning back in their chairs, enjoying themselves. A couple of the kids play a board game, Pictionary, I think. On vacation. Like I should be.
Outside, the fog has thickened into drizzle. I can see the drops suspended in the halo of light from the streetlamps.
Halfway through my second cup of coffee, Lao Zhang knocks on the door.
Monastery Pig, I guess I should say. That’s the name he goes by here.
I used to be Little Mountain Tiger, but I changed it. That was a different game, one I want to leave behind.
Now I’m Alley Rat. I was born in the Year of the Rat, and rats are a good sign in China, they tell me: clever and quick and good at surviving. Rats and cockroaches, right?
Lao Zhang’s gone for simple in his avatar, too. He’s wearing a beanie, a black T-shirt, and cargo shorts. All his work goes into the pieces he creates for this place. Like my house.
A text box appears over his head. YILI , NI HAO .
NI HAO , I type.
My house is a private chat room. I still don’t know what the fuck to say after HI , HOW ’ S IT GOING ?
Lao Zhang sits next to me on the couch. SOME GOOD MUSIC LATER TONIGHT , he says. IN THE WAREHOUSE .
COOL , I type, distracted.
HAVE TO USE PASSWORD , BECAUSE THEY HAVE SOME LIVE STREAM . MAYBE VIDEO . ISN ’ T THAT RISKY ?
MAYBE A LITTLE . BUT I WANT MORE PEOPLE TO COME HERE . TO SHARE THINGS . THAT ’ S WHY I BUILD IT .
Time was we had a real place to be. An actual village. Withhouses made of brick. People made of flesh. We could sit down and eat real dumplings together and drink beer.
But that place got
chai’d
. Bulldozed under. Now there’s a cluster of high-rises called Harmony Village Gardens, where nobody lives. The units bought up by speculators or not bought at all. Subsidized by the government, maybe, by bad loans at state-owned banks. A ghost village.
WE HAVE A PROBLEM , I type.
TELL ME .
I keep it short. About me drinking tea with the DSD. About Harrison’s fear that they’ll charge us on economic crimes.
And about John, whom Lao Zhang knew by another name, before. Who I sure hope isn’t here in the Great Community, under a different name entirely.
After I finish, Lao Zhang is silent. Or rather his avatar sits still on the couch, occasionally blinking, which is a default feature for the avatars here.
THANKS FOR TELLING ME , he finally says.
THE MAIN THING IS , IF YOU NEED MONEY , WE CAN ’ T SELL YOUR WORK RIGHT NOW .
I DON ’ T NEED MONEY . I AM WORRIED ABOUT YOU .
I get this nice warm flush. Because, you know, some guy acts like he cares about me.
NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT . I DON ’ T THINK .
OKAY . And then silence.
Out in the virtual ocean, Chairman Mao surfs an animated wave, wearing baggy swim trunks patterned with marijuana leaves.
I NEED TO CONSIDER , Lao Zhang types.
CONSIDER ?
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