The Burden of Thousand-Yuan Gold

Like a sudden high fever, news that the price of gold was about to break the one-thousand-yuan-per-gram barrier quickly swept through the northern industrial city where Wang Jianguo lived. Wang Jianguo, an old master craftsman retired from the state-owned machine tool factory, initially scoffed at it. In his view, gold, apart from adding a bit of "face" for his daughter-in-law at the wedding, had no real practical use. You couldn't eat it or wear it, and keeping it at home meant worrying about thieves.

However, the heat of this "gold rush" permeated his peaceful retirement life in an undeniable way. First, Old Zhang from the neighborhood chess room mysteriously showed off the "small gold bars" he had just withdrawn from the bank, claiming they were "hard currency" against inflation. Then, Old Li, who sold tofu at the wet market, also started muttering about converting his hard-earned savings into "gold beans" to "feel secure." Financial commentators on TV analyzed the global economic situation with modulated tones – the weakness of the US dollar, geopolitical tensions – seemingly endorsing this golden frenzy. Every fluctuating number, every emphasis on "risk aversion," hammered away at Wang Jianguo's originally solid values.

"A thousand yuan per gram, what does that even mean? How much is my monthly pension?" Wang Jianguo muttered to his wife, his voice tinged with an inexpressible irritation. This irritation stemmed partly from his bewilderment at this almost irrational pursuit, but perhaps more deeply, from an anxiety of being swept along by the torrent of the times, yet unable to grasp the direction. He had believed his whole life that labor creates value, believed in tangible things you could see and touch. But now, it seemed that vague expectations, a collective fear of the future, were redefining "value" itself.

His wife's attitude was more practical: "Old Wang, look at Little Liu next door. How much has the gold he bought last year appreciated? Our savings in the bank, the interest can't keep up with inflation. Isn't it just shrinking the longer we leave it there?" Her words hit a nerve – their son was getting married soon, and they were still short on the down payment for the marital home. He had planned to use his retirement savings to help out at the crucial moment. But now, the "weight" of that money seemed to be silently diminishing.

Finally, on an afternoon when the sun wasn't particularly bright, Wang Jianguo tucked the passbook recording his life's savings under his arm and walked into the largest gold shop downtown. The long queue at the entrance snaked like a greedy python. The air was thick with a mixture of perfume, sweat, and an indescribable scent of excitement and anxiety. Everyone wore similar expressions, a blend of desire for wealth appreciation and fear of missing this opportunity.

The wait felt like an eternity. Wang Jianguo watched the people ahead of him. Some were in suits, clearly "in the know"; others, like him, were plainly dressed, their eyes holding a trace of confusion and resolve. The sales assistants behind the counter wore professional smiles, rapidly quoting prices and processing transaction after transaction, like workers on an assembly line. The glittering gold ornaments and bars shone dazzlingly under the spotlights, appearing both alluring and somewhat unreal.

When it was Wang Jianguo's turn, his palms were slightly sweaty. His voice was dry when he stated the grams of gold bar he wanted to buy. The salesperson deftly used a calculator and quoted a figure that made his heart sink. He almost mechanically handed over the passbook, watched the clerk type on the computer, and then, a heavy, cold gold bar was placed on the red velvet tray. It was small, much smaller than he had imagined, yet so heavy he could barely hold it steady. Engraved on it were the bank's logo, purity, and its weight recorded in cold numbers. Was this the tangible form of his lifetime of sweat?

Stepping out of the gold shop, he noticed the sky had turned grey and overcast. Wang Jianguo clutched the gold bar tightly to his chest, as if holding a secret, or carrying a huge boulder. He didn't feel the anticipated sense of security, but rather a deeper emptiness and unease. Would this piece of gold continue to rise as expected, contributing to his son's future? Or would it burst like a beautiful bubble at some unpredictable moment, leaving him ruined?

He remembered the days and nights spent polishing parts in the workshop when he was young. Every precise dimension, every passed inspection, filled him with satisfaction and pride. That was tangible creation, a controllable grasp of the world. But now, the value of the gold in his hand seemed entirely dependent on the frenzied buying and selling of people he would never know in some exchange thousands of miles away, dependent on grand narratives he couldn't comprehend. He felt like a character penned by Kafka, drawn into a vast, absurd, yet incredibly real system, against his will.

Back home, he carefully hid the gold bar in the deepest corner under the bed, covering it with old clothes, as if only this could slightly insulate him from the intangible pressure it brought. When his wife asked how it went, he just mumbled an affirmation that he'd bought it. Then, he sat on the sofa in silence for a long time. Outside, the city's hustle and bustle continued. The news was still reporting the latest gold price movements, the arrow pointing towards "1000 yuan," firm and piercing.

Wang Jianguo suddenly felt that this piece of gold was less a symbol of wealth and more a metaphor for the era. Heavy and cold, it carried the hopes and fears of countless individuals for the future, reflecting the primal and most helpless pursuit of "security" in a rapidly changing world full of uncertainty. And he, Wang Jianguo, an ordinary retired worker, had passively staked the hopes of his later life on a piece of metal that could not speak. Was this a wise investment, or a collective delusion? He didn't know. Perhaps time would tell. Or perhaps time itself was just another cold variable in this grand narrative. He only knew that since possessing this gold bar, his nights seemed to have become longer. That golden paperweight was pressing down on his heart, heavy and burdensome.