Digital Air

Old Man Zhang has been feeling a bit muddled lately. Not that his mind isn't sharp anymore, but he feels like something about the way life is going isn't quite right, though he can't put his finger on it. It's like the spring wind here in Beijing – blowing through the same familiar hutong entrance, but the smell carried on it is mixed with something else, something a bit pungent, and a bit... unreal.

He still moves his little folding stool out by his doorway every day, watching people come and go. But this coming and going is different from before. It used to be footsteps, hawkers' calls, the ringing of bicycle bells, neighbors shouting greetings to each other: "Have you eaten yet?" "Hey, nice weather today!" But now? Quiet. Not truly silent, but filled with a kind of buzzing, fragmented noise emerging from those glowing little boxes everyone holds. People walking with heads down, fingers swiping across the boxes; cyclists glancing at them now and then; even Little Li, who sells jianbing guozi at the hutong entrance, has a stand set up next to his stall, phone blasting some deafening "viral song," his head bobbing to the rhythm, like it wasn't a head but a gourd on a spring.

Old Zhang's grandson, Little Stone, just started middle school this year. When he gets home from school, he tosses his backpack onto the sofa and sinks into it, clutching that "little box," giggling foolishly or frowning deeply, muttering things like, "Charge!" "Ah, what a noob!" Old Zhang tries to chat with him about school, asking what he learned today, if the teacher was strict. Little Stone, eyes glued to the screen, gives noncommittal grunts, his mind already flown off to that colorful world.

"Stone," Old Zhang can't help saying, "take a break, watching too much hurts your eyes."

"Grandpa, you don't get it, this is called 'teaming up,' it's a crucial moment!" Little Stone doesn't even look up.

Old Zhang sighs. He doesn't get it, he truly doesn't. He doesn't understand why the world inside that little box is more attractive than the living people outside the window, the hot food on the table. What's in there? He's peered over a few times – colorful little figures fighting each other, or some good-looking youngsters singing and dancing for the camera, with strings of characters he doesn't recognize scrolling underneath. And some videos have scary titles, "Shocking!" "Urgent!" But click on them, and it's either trivial matters or cobbled-together nonsense. Yet everyone watches with relish, as if it were the truth, life-sustaining sustenance.

One day, his old neighbor, Auntie Wang, came over, whispering conspiratorially, "Old Zhang, did you know? That fellow, the one living at the west end of our hutong, his son got into trouble!"

Old Zhang's heart tightened: "What happened?"

"I just saw it on 'DouDou' [TikTok/Douyin]. Said he got into a fight outside, got locked up!" Auntie Wang pulled out her phone, swiped for a long time, and found a blurry short video. Figures moved indistinctly, accompanied by tense music and sensational captions.

Old Zhang frowned: "Is this... real?"

"How could it be fake? It's on 'DouDou'!" Auntie Wang sounded certain.

But the very next day, they saw the "locked up" son walking fine in the hutong. Turns out he had a small disagreement with a colleague, no punches thrown at all. Auntie Wang looked a bit embarrassed, muttering, "This online stuff, really... you can't be sure." But half a day later, she was back to clutching her phone, scrolling enthusiastically, and upon finding some "health secret," quickly shared it with Old Zhang, "This is good, you should try it!"

Old Zhang feels that this stuff is a bit like air. You can't see it, can't touch it, but nobody can live without it. The air before used to be the fragrance of the jujube tree flowers in the courtyard, the smoky warmth from the coal stove in winter, the breeze from waving fans while cooling off on summer evenings. And the air now? It's these "DouDou," "KuaiKuai" [Kuaishou], games, live streams... They penetrate everywhere, seeping into everyone's eyes, ears, even their minds. Everyone is breathing this "digital air," feeling suffocated, like they can't survive, if they step away for just a moment.

Sometimes, Old Zhang thinks about trying to fit in. He asked Little Stone to teach him how to use a smartphone, wanting to read the news, video chat with old army buddies. But the characters on the screen are tiny like ants, the icons are flashy and confusing, and one tap might lead anywhere. He finally learned how to send a WeChat message, chatted a bit with an old buddy, who replied with a "😂" emoji. Old Zhang puzzled over it for a long time – was it crying or laughing? He asked Little Stone, who impatiently said, "It just means laughing, oh Grandpa, you're so slow!"

Old Zhang fell silent. He felt like an old antique abandoned on an alien planet. The people around him communicate in a language he doesn't understand, living by rules he doesn't grasp. They seem very busy, very "fulfilled," but their eyes hold a certain indescribable hollowness and fatigue. Like Little Stone, who can be hyper for hours staring at his phone, but becomes listless and uninterested in anything once he puts it down.

The old scholar tree in the hutong still sprouts leaves in spring, still provides deep shade in summer. But fewer and fewer people sit beneath it to chat or play chess. Occasionally, a few gather, but they too are mostly looking down at their phones, fingers busy, like puppets controlled by invisible strings. Silence spreads among the people, more suffocating than an empty street.

Old Zhang again moves his stool, sitting by the door. The setting sun stretches his shadow long. He looks towards the end of the hutong, twilight gathering, lights coming on. Through the windows of house after house, the faint blue glow of screens emanates, accompanied by those electronic sounds, sometimes rousing, sometimes languid. He takes a deep breath, wanting to smell the aroma of dinner cooking, or the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. But what he seems to inhale is only that omnipresent, cold yet clamorous "digital air."

This air, is it sweet or bitter, real or fake, who can really say? It seems to give you the whole world, yet it also seems to leave you utterly alone. Old Zhang thinks about this and shivers. He suddenly feels it's not just confusion, but more like... a sickness. A sickness everyone has, yet no one admits to, even revels in. He wants to shout, like in the old days, yell down the hutong: "Neighbors, come out and chat for a while!" But the words die on his lips. He knows, probably no one would answer. Their ears and hearts are completely filled by that "digital air."

He stands up, pats the dust off his clothes, and slowly walks back inside. In the room, Little Stone is still battling on screen. The TV is on, unwatched, merely making some futile noise. Old Zhang doesn't turn on the light, sitting in the darkness for a long time. He feels like a lone diver, sunk at the silent bottom of the sea, watching the bizarre, noisy world teeming with strange lights above, unable to breathe, and with nowhere to escape.