ACOUSTIC METADATA

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• TIMESTAMP: Winter, 1982

• LOCATION: China Youth Daily, Beijing

• ACOUSTIC INTERFERENCE: Nib scratching, Rotary phone whir, Lead scraping on plastic

• SUBJECT: Chen Dashan (Veteran Editor / Ex-forge worker)

 

 

When I reported for duty at China Youth Daily, Lanhui hadn’t even been born. The compound was a miniature government organ: red brick buildings and a reinforced concrete main block. The courtyard was barren, sand grains skittering across the concrete.

 

Inside, every room was filled with the faint, wheezing sound of nibs scratching across paper. The relentless whir-whir-whir of rotary phone dials made my skin crawl. Some people used pencils to flick the dials; the sound of lead scraping against plastic was exceptionally sinister.

 

A pair of fleshy hands reached out—Chen Dashan. Thirty years old. A "veteran" who had been a forge worker at an iron plant. I, meanwhile, was the top liberal arts scholar from Renmin University. He performed humility, but I tried not to listen to the shattered frequency of jealousy being swallowed in his throat.

 

After lunch, he dumped a stack of crumpled paper before me—reader letters and articles on the "Qigong Fever.” (Qigong: A collective resonant frequency of human desire, disguised as a mystical energy field.)

 

"Xiao Bai," he said solemnly, his protruding belly threatening to burst his buttons. I couldn't help but laugh; I could hear a surging roar from his gut—an uncontrollable biochemical reaction.

 

"Teacher Chen, you had quite a lunch, didn't you?" "You kid, get to work... Urgh... urgh..." Pfft—pfft. 

 

A stench filled the air. I grabbed the papers and bolted.