Payslip

Old Ma felt quite content. A man in his fifties, finding a gig at a respectable place like 'Sam's Club', handing out small pieces of freshly grilled steak or tiny cups of new-squeezed orange juice to the 'members' coming and going, wearing just the right amount of warmth on his face—this job, compared to pedaling a tricycle at the alley entrance or hauling sandbags at a construction site, was worlds apart. He mulled it over himself: 'food sampler', what a novel title!

The store was always so bright, blindingly bright, as if to expose the dust in every corner, yet it was spotless. Shelves reached for the ceiling, piled high with colourful foreign goods, exuding an air of 'sophistication'. Old Ma, wearing the issued white coat and blue cap, felt he'd gained some prestige too—clean, respectable. Especially when he saw those 'members' pushing large carts, well-dressed, with their children, taste the small piece of pastry he offered, beam, and say 'Thank you', Old Ma felt soothed inside, like drinking a bowl of iced plum soup on a scorching summer day.

This month, he worked exceptionally hard. His wife wasn't well, needing medicine year-round, and his son, well past marrying age, hadn't settled down yet. Mentioning it always led to sighs about not having an apartment. Old Ma figured, every bit earned counts. When grilling steak, he mastered the heat just right—crispy outside, tender inside. When cutting fruit, the pieces were uniform, and he arranged them carefully, red and green, like a painting. He felt his skills were worthy of his wages.

At the end of the month, payday came. Old Ma clutched the thin slip of paper, his heart pounding. The amount wasn't extremely high, but it was a little better than he'd expected, and thanks to his diligence this month—no lateness or early departures—there was a small bonus. He carefully folded the payslip and tucked it inside his clothes, close to his chest, like a treasure.

Back in his ten-square-meter rented room that evening, under the dim yellow lightbulb, Old Ma took out the payslip again and gazed at it for a long time. His wife coughed in bed; he went over and tucked her quilt tighter. His son wasn't back yet, most likely hanging out with his buddies at an internet cafe again. Old Ma sighed, and suddenly, an idea struck him. He took out the old smartphone—a hand-me-down from his son. He wasn't very good with gadgets, but the youngsters had taught him how to post on WeChat Moments. He thought, Let relatives and friends see, Old Ma might not be capable of much, but working at a place like 'Sam's', the pay isn't too embarrassing. Maybe it'll even make my son a bit proud? He spread the payslip on the table and, with trembling fingers, aimed at the string of numbers and took a photo. He thought for a moment and added a caption: 'This month's hard work paid off! Keep it up, Old Ma!' Then he tapped 'Send'.

He felt a flicker of pride, mixed with apprehension. Like stealing dates from the neighbor's tree as a child—sweet, but frightening.

The next day, Old Ma went to work as usual. Just as he'd changed into his white coat and was about to collect the cod chunks for the day's sampling, the supervisor stopped him. The supervisor was a tall, thin man who usually spoke in a flat tone, showing little expression.

"Old Ma, come with me for a moment."

Old Ma's heart skipped a beat. He followed him deeper into the store, through twists and turns, into a small office. Inside sat a man in a suit and tie; his name tag indicated he was from Human Resources.

"Master Ma," the suited man began, his face impassive, his voice flat, "we received a report, which we have verified, that you posted your salary information on your personal social media yesterday. Is that correct?"

Old Ma froze, his mind reeling. "I... I just... thought..." He wanted to explain but didn't know where to start. That flicker of pride and vanity now felt like a mouse caught in the light, desperate to shrink back into the shadows.

"According to company policy," the suited man pushed a document towards him, pointing to a specific clause, "employee compensation is considered confidential company information. Any form of external disclosure constitutes a serious breach of work discipline. The company has decided to terminate your employment contract, effective immediately."

"Terminate... the contract?" Old Ma felt a buzzing in his ears, like countless bees rampaging inside. "But why? I... I didn't do anything wrong! I just posted... it's my own salary..."

"Rules are rules, Master Ma." The suited man's voice remained flat, yet it pierced Old Ma's heart like a cold awl. "Sign here, then go to the finance department to settle this month's wages."

Old Ma opened his mouth, wanting to protest, but his throat felt choked, unable to utter a single word. He stared at the paper covered in dense fine print, at the words 'Termination of Employment Contract,' and felt the world spin. He couldn't comprehend how the money he'd earned through sheer hard work had become an unspeakable 'company secret.' What great 'confidential matter' could his meager salary possibly reveal? All he'd wanted was to hold his head a little higher in front of relatives and friends; how had it ended with him being thrown out?

He didn't sign, nor did he go to the finance department. Like a puppet, he was 'invited' out of the office by the supervisor, then 'escorted' to the employee exit by security. Taking off the white coat and blue cap, he felt chilled to the bone.

Outside, the sky was overcast, threatening rain. People hurried along the street, none giving him a second glance. He stood beneath the massive Sam's Club sign, still gleaming, radiating an air of standoffish 'sophistication'. He felt like a crushed ant—tiny, insignificant, unable even to make a sound.

He thought of the characters in Mr. Lu Xun's stories—those numb onlookers, those ensnared in invisible nets, struggling in vain. Suddenly, he felt he was one of them. This invisible net, called 'rules,' called 'the system,' is cold and hard. You don't even know its exact shape, but it's there. Brush against it even lightly, and it can tighten around you, choking the air from your lungs.

A chilly wind blew. Old Ma pulled his worn jacket tighter, staring blankly at the ceaseless flow of traffic. The payslip—he could almost still feel its faint warmth where it had been tucked close to his chest, but now it felt like a red-hot branding iron, searing his heart.

He didn't know what to do next, how to explain this to his wife, how to face the potentially disappointed look in his son's eyes.

He began to walk slowly, merging into the stream of people. Behind him, the large characters for 'Sam's' seemed particularly glaring against the dim sky. Inside, the lights burned as brightly as ever. Perhaps a new person was already at the sampling station, wearing the same enthusiastic smile, handing out tiny morsels and sips of 'sophisticated' taste. Only now, none of it had anything to do with Old Ma anymore.

He suddenly remembered the WeChat Moments post he'd sent: 'Keep it up, Old Ma!' A smile more painful than tears twisted his lips. Yes, keep it up—but keep going where? It felt like pressing the accelerator to the floor only to hit an invisible wall. This world, sometimes, seemed like a vast, dark joke. And he was the clown in that joke, unable even to shed a tear.