A Worthless Life

The air conditioner started dripping again.

Not that steady drip-drip-drip—he could’ve lived with that. It was the kind that made you think it had stopped, just as you were about to fall asleep, then thwack—a fat one slammed onto the tin roof, like someone had chucked a rock at the house.

Chen Guohao rolled over. The pillow was damp. He reached out and touched it—whether it was drool or a leak, he couldn’t be bothered to figure out.

“Fuck.”

He opened his eyes. The ceiling of the tin-roofed room was maybe two meters from his face. One of the fluorescent tubes was flickering, zzzzzz, like a tinnitus fly circling. His phone screen glowed: 7:13 a.m.

He’d gone to bed at three last night. Not because of insomnia—because he’d been calculating: if he bought one less convenience-store coffee each month, how much would he save in a year? When he worked out that the savings wouldn’t even buy a square meter of toilet space in Taipei, he gave up, scrolled through short videos for two hours, watched a girl teach people how to decorate a rental with IKEA furniture—the comments were all “so cozy”—he swiped away, then saw a guy bragging about buying a Tesla at twenty-five, muttered “Motherfucker,” and fell asleep.

He crawled out of bed and stepped on an empty instant-noodle bowl that still had soup in it. The soup splashed. His toes got wet. He looked down—Uni-President Braised Pork Noodles, last night’s dinner. He sniffed his toes. Sour.

“What a piece of shit life. Even my toes look down on me.”

He said it quietly, like he was checking in with himself.

He pulled on a gray short-sleeved shirt, the collar so stretched you could see his nipples. His pants were the kind you could get three pairs for five hundred at the wet market—the pocket had a hole, but he couldn’t be bothered to change. He walked over to the corner that was supposedly a “kitchen.” The induction cooktop still held yesterday’s pot. The water had boiled dry, leaving a white ring of scale on the bottom.

He opened the fridge—inside: a sprouted onion, half a carton of milk about to expire, three cans of beer. He pulled out a beer, looked at it, put it back. Drinking beer in the morning—too low. Instead, he drank from the water dispenser next to the fridge. One sip. Rust taste.

“Even the water’s out to get me.”

When he stepped out of the apartment, he ran into Lin Shufen on the stairs.

Landlady Lin Shufen was standing at the landing on the second floor, on her phone. When she saw Chen Guohao coming down, her eyes swept over him like she was appraising a secondhand item with a price tag that hadn’t sold yet.

“Mr. Chen,” she said, hanging up, tapping her watch with her index finger. “I had a guy look at that drip from your air conditioner. He says the drain pipe needs replacing—three thousand. You’re paying.”

“Three thousand? Didn’t you say five hundred before?”

“Before was before. Now is now.” Lin Shufen smiled—not friendly, the kind of smile that said What are you gonna do about it? “You don’t have to replace it. But when the water leaks down to the downstairs neighbor and they complain, you’ll have to move out.”

Chen Guohao opened his mouth, tried to say something, but all that came out was, “…Fine.”

Lin Shufen turned and walked away. Her high heels hit the stairs clack-clack-clack, like she was hammering on his skull.

He walked out of the apartment building. The sun was already blazing. Taipei summer—7:30 in the morning felt like noon, the air so humid it was like sticking your face in a bowl of soup. He reached the MRT station exit. A few familiar faces were already handing out flyers—all from the same cram school, the flyer reading Summer Boost Camp: Get Ahead from the Start.

He stood on the right side of the exit, on the tile he’d “claimed.” No lines drawn, no registration—just an unspoken rule: if you stand there long enough, people automatically give you space. He pulled out a stack of flyers and started handing them out.

“Hi, take a look.”

“No, thanks.”

“Hi, cram school—take a look.”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“Hi—”

“I said no, you deaf or what?”

A guy in a suit glared at him, even jerked his arm away like he was afraid the flyer would dirty his clothes. Chen Guohao watched the guy walk into the MRT station and thought: What the fuck are you so cocky about with your thirty-five thousand salary? Then he added an inner monologue: Did he used to be a cram-school student? Is that why he hates cram-school flyers so much?

He kept handing them out.

After about forty minutes, the station staff came. A young guy in a vest, fresh out of college, wearing an expression that said I am the embodiment of justice.

“Sir, you can’t hand out flyers here. You’ve been warned many times.”

“I know, I know. I’m almost done.”

“Last time you said you were almost done.”

“This time I mean it.”

“If you keep this up, I’m calling the cops.”

Chen Guohao gathered his flyers and turned away. He didn’t look back, but he knew the station staff was watching him—like a stray dog you can’t chase away.

He walked one block, stopped outside a convenience store. He went in, bought a large iced American, using stored credits—he still had fifteen cups left in the app. The cashier was a girl in glasses who looked exhausted; her hand was shaking as she scanned the barcode.

“Total—zero. One stored credit deducted.”

“Thanks.”

He walked out, leaned on the railing by the entrance, and drank his coffee. The ice melted fast. The coffee was weak, but he was used to it. He watched the people on the street—office workers, students, moms pushing strollers, old guys walking dogs. Everyone had a direction. Only he stood there, not knowing where to go.

He looked down at his phone, scrolled to a news headline: “Powerball Jackpot Rolls Over Again! Now Up to 1.2 Billion!”

He stared at those numbers—1.2 billion.

He’d done the math. If he saved five thousand a month, it would take him twenty thousand years. If he picked up a hundred bucks off the street every day, it would take thirty-three thousand years. If he was reborn as a rich kid, he’d probably have it from birth. 1.2 billion—fuck, even if I handed out flyers my whole life, I’d never make that.

He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash, and walked into the lottery shop.

The lottery shop was two doors down from the convenience store. A red poster on the door read Jackpot up to 1.2 Billion! Try Your Luck! He walked in. The owner was a chubby middle-aged man, looking at his phone, glanced up.

“Powerball?”

“Yeah.”

“Quick pick?”

“Yeah.”

The owner pressed a few buttons. A ticket spat out of the machine. Chen Guohao pulled out his wallet—inside was one hundred, two fifties, and some coins. He took out a hundred and put it on the counter.

“Change—nope, exactly a hundred.”

He picked up the ticket, glanced at it. A string of numbers. He couldn’t be bothered to remember them. It wouldn’t win anyway.

He folded the ticket in half, stuffed it into his pants pocket, and walked out of the shop.

On his way home, he ran into a dog at the alley entrance.

A mangy mutt—dull yellow, fur missing in patches, red rashes on its skin, tail tucked, like it had just escaped from somewhere. It was squatting next to a pillar under the arcade, watching him with eyes that were old, tired.

Chen Guohao stopped and looked at the dog.

“You a piece of shit too?”

The dog ignored him.

“I get it,” he said. “Nobody loves you, nobody takes care of you. You’re just alive to be a nuisance.”

He crouched down and reached out. The dog backed up a step but didn’t run. He fished a tissue pack from his pocket; inside was a half-eaten piece of bread—he’d shoved it in there that morning, planning to have it for lunch.

He tore the bread into small pieces and put them on the ground. The dog looked at him, looked at the bread, hesitated, then walked over and started eating.

“Slow down, nobody’s gonna steal it.”

He watched the dog eat and suddenly felt like he wasn’t so bad off. At least he had a place to live, even if it was a rooftop extension. At least he had a job, even if it was handing out flyers. At least he could still buy a coffee, even if it was from stored credits.

He stood up, dusted the dirt off his knees, and walked back to the apartment.

That night, he lay in the tin-roofed room. The fan hummed, blowing hot air. He turned on the TV. The news was covering the Powerball rollover.

“—the jackpot has now accumulated to 1.2 billion. The next drawing is Thursday at 8 p.m. Don’t miss your chance—”

He turned to look at the lottery ticket—he’d pulled it out of his pocket when he got home and shoved it under the instant-noodle bowl. It was still there.

He walked over, picked up the ticket, looked at it again. Still couldn’t remember the numbers. He thought for a second, then put it back, weighting it down with the noodle bowl.

He lay back down on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The image of the dog surfaced. Those eyes. That look that said I know I’m worthless, but I’m still alive.

“If I win,” he said to the air, “I’m going to make everyone regret it.”

Nobody answered.

Only the air conditioner drip. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

He closed his eyes and rolled over.

The lottery ticket lay quietly under the instant-noodle bowl. The TV was still on; the news had switched to another story—some legislator suspected of bribery, footage of reporters chasing a black sedan.

Chen Guohao fell asleep.

In his dream, he stood in a huge house. Everyone was smiling at him.

But he didn’t know any of them.

He looked down at his own hands—he was holding a stack of bills, thick as a brick. He tried to put them down, but his fingers seemed stuck. No matter how he shook, they wouldn’t come off.

He looked up. The dog was standing at the doorway, watching him.

Then the dog turned and walked away.

He tried to chase after it, but his feet wouldn’t move.

He looked down—the floor was transparent. Underneath was black, black water. Something was churning inside.

He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Then he woke up.

The air conditioner was still dripping.

His phone screen glowed: 3:47 a.m.

He rolled over. Suddenly he remembered the lottery ticket under the noodle bowl. He didn’t know what he was afraid of, but he got up, lifted the bowl.

He pulled out the ticket, put it beside his pillow, and closed his eyes.

This time, he didn’t dream anything.