Sick Boy[s] Paddle Club↓

Sardines

Yanzhongding 眼中钉

Translated by: Eva Yang

When the metro doors barely managed to close, with my face almost pressed against the glass, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

How funny. We are nothing but a can of sardines in transit.

Every morning, when the metro of cans pulls up in front of me, I have to surge forward with the school. Fast, ruthless, precisely, forcing myself into whatever tiny gap remains. But what would happen if I really missed it? I'd just drift forward with the others and wait for the next can.

From my stop, there are about three stations run entirely through pitch-dark tunnels. This journey feels so long that I often wonder if the train will just keep going like this forever.

Strangely enough, the metro always stops when this thought crosses my mind.

The doors slide open slowly. Those inside struggle to reach the surface, but the migrating tide of bodies quickly sweeps over them again.

More and more CO2 is exhaled into the hot, sealed space. Smells drift in from all directions amid the drowsy swaying: oily scalps, tobacco clinging to coats and something like the sour smells of clothes that were dried indoors… I wouldn't be surprised if someone here has already fainted but merely appears to be asleep on their feet, simply because we're packed in so tightly.

9:48 AM. Step into the office building on time and scroll aimlessly on my phone by the back stairwell.

9:53 AM. Lock my screen, head upstairs, nod briefly to colleagues I barely know, press my fingerprint to check in, and go to work.

10:00 AM. In the meeting room. A new day of training begins.

Today’s session is a dialogue simulation. The team leader walks us through the “ideal” script first, then pairs us up to practice.

My partner used to work in tourism, and so she shouldn’t be this bad. Despite knowing it's just a common simulation, she keeps stumbling over the first line of her introduction. She manages to state her purpose sometimes, but as soon as I respond, she freezes again.

Even her silence is too noisy to me.

When the team leader and I look at her simultaneously, she grows even more flustered, her face flushing red. One hand grips her prepared script tightly while the other repeatedly adjusts her glasses. Her eyes dart across the text, yet still can't find what she's looking for.

I think I understand her. I was once that helpless student at the blackboard in front of the whole class.

Back then, my classmates were solving questions like it was nothing on either side, while I just wanted to run away. Because I knew deep down, I could never solve it. But I couldn’t bring myself to admit it openly. I just held the chalk and, after writing the words 'Solution:', froze in the same position. Perhaps I made a few small movements to appear as though I were thinking, but truthfully, I wasn’t thinking about anything at all. At least certainly not anything about the problem that I was supposed to solve.

I could clearly feel the gaze of the classmates sitting below piercing into me, and even had the sense that I could hear the teacher sighing inwardly.

But what else could I do? Nobody wants to admit their own incompetence. Not at any age.

“Um… let’s switch roles for now. You can reorganise your script and try again later.”

A few bubbles rose in stagnant water. I let out a breath as well.

I don’t have any experience in telemarketing either, but it's just a simulation, so I can pretend I'm good at it. I can pretend.

Opening lines are always: “We’ve noticed recently that you…,” “May I briefly introduce…”—

This is simply too easy, no different from reading lines off a script. Even with some variations, they all boil down to the same thing. The same candy wrapped in different colours.

I even feel a little giddy, as though I were the student sitting below and someone else was the one being stared at on the podium.

The training ends, and the team leader decides it’s time to try real practice.

But after returning to my desk and logging into the system, my sense of confidence collapses in an instant.

I had naively thought that the call list would be full of potential customers, and that I would only need to follow the training steps. In reality, however, every customer had already been contacted at least twice. Scrolling down to the bottom of the website, there are extremely detailed records of those calls.

— Hung up in three seconds; no answer on callback.

— Said they didn’t need it and never requested it.

— Clearly refused and not to call again; threatened to curse us if we did.

— Called me a psycho; asked where I got their number.

I don’t know what’s the purpose of assigning a list like this again under my account.

My headset has long been on. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve adjusted it or pushed up my glasses. I scroll up and down with the mouse wheel. From the first page of the list to the tenth, from yesterday back to two months ago. But all of this is meaningless. I’m just avoiding really pressing the “Call” button.

Every time the cursor hovers over it, my hair stands on end and my heart races. Even before I hear the other person's voice, I’m already terrified just from reading those records and imagining the tones and disgust behind them.

No one is coming to check on me before the end of the day, but time slips by second by second. I feel that the daily target of either 100 calls or 120 minutes of talk time is just impossible.

I keep telling myself that all I need to do is make some calls. It's fine.

Look at the people around you, isn’t this what everyone does? Look at the person across from you, didn’t she just swallow a bite of snack before dialing? And once the other party picked up, didn't she slip smoothly into her opening? See? She’s already introducing language levels and course content – this one has great potential! And look at that boy over there. He looks freshly graduated, still carrying a youthful, student-like vibe. He keeps dialing nonstop. When he's rejected, he simply says, 'Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day,' and if there's a chance to talk, he explains softly at his own pace. Even when he's hung up on, he just takes a deep breath and calls the next number. That's all this job requires.

I find myself unconsciously observing everyone around me, trying to figure out how they’ve adapted. I hope to steal some of their insignificant courage so that I can stop thinking and just press the dial and do what I’m supposed to do.

But I just keep staring at a fixed point on the screen, my eyes growing sore and dry.

There’s an empty seat between me and my partner. I turn to look at her. She’s wearing a headset too, and she adjusts it from time to time. Perhaps noticing my gaze, she suddenly turns to face me. Our eyes meet before I can react. She gives me a strained but earnest smile.

I only feel embarrassed.

I rehearse repeatedly in my head, deliberately choosing numbers marked as “no answer.” The phone rings, and I begin to pray fervently in my brain. Please don’t pick up, please don’t pick up. I could complete my task with the time spent on these busy signals, which still counts toward my call duration. The owner of the number isn’t disturbed, and I have something to report. Win-win situation. All such numbers are dialed, and then follows emptiness. I don’t know what I’m doing.

Before finishing work, we have to analyse call recordings at the regular meeting. So much can be inferred from customers' responses. It's a shame they didn't become detectives.

The team leader’s words turn into strings of bubbles that float past my ears. I suddenly recall a news story I saw recently about fish committing mass suicide in coastal areas. Some say it's due to strong light sources confusing the fish's sense of direction, others claim it's caused by water pollution or fight-or-flight reaction from the predators’ attack. Either way, the fish are killing themselves in large numbers.

I drift off. The blue night sky outside seeping into the meeting room, making the it feels like it’s in the bottom of the ocean.

Translator’s Note 译者按:

What is a sardine’s life like? It blends into the shoal, drifting slowly through the boundless ocean, indifferent to whether the surrounding scenery ever changes, and indifferent to the direction its companions are facing. At some moment, it is swallowed whole by a larger fish along with the others—perhaps death, too, comes without pain.

Then what is a modern human life like?

Sardines are not the protagonists of the ocean, nor is the narrator the protagonist of modern society. Unsolvable math problems. Calls that cannot be made. Being transported back and forth in steel cans beneath the city.

Isn’t making a phone call simple? Just press the dial button, follow the script for the opening line, and hang up at the right moment.

When did the gaze and words of one’s own kind become so frightening? Do sardines attack each other? Why would a life that can go on simply by entering the can on time choose to end itself?

沙丁鱼的一生是什么样的呢？混迹在同伴当中，缓慢地游荡在无边无际的大海里，不在意周遭的景色到底有没有变化，也不在意同伴注视的方向。某时某刻一起被大鱼吞下，死亡大概也是没有痛苦的。

那么，现代人的一生是什么样的呢？

沙丁鱼不是海洋的主角，主人公也不是现代社会的主角。解不出的数学题，打不出的电话。在城市地下被钢铁罐头来回运输。打电话不是很简单吗？只要按下拨号键，按脚本说出开场白，最后适时挂断就好了。

同类的目光和言语从何时开始变得可怖呢，鱼和鱼之间会相互攻讦吗？按时走进罐头就能继续下去的生命，为什么会选择自尽呢？

Yanzhongding (lit. “A Thorn in the Eye”)

Born in 1998, currently living in Shanghai.
Don’t force it when not feel like writing, only sincere expression can spark something between people.