Please Make My Name Smaller

In the draft display, Zhou's name was larger than the building number.

The photograph showed him crouching beside a chair, holding a wrench. The heading read “Care That Brings Warmth.” He enlarged the image to inspect the thinning patch on his head, then felt ashamed of the thought.

The volunteer coordinator said the district wanted uplifting stories. Repairing a chair was difficult to write about. Before-and-after photographs would help, along with something about the resident's hardship.

“The difficulties make the value clearer.”

The chair belonged to Mrs. Luo on the second floor. She had asked the residents' group where to find a particular screw. Zhou had worked with wood and took some over. The leg joint was loose too, so he dealt with that while there.

Her home contained none of the distress he had imagined. Tools stood neatly by the window. She could repair things herself; she simply lacked that size. She made tea, and they debated which washer would fit best.

“Does she live alone?” the coordinator asked.

“I didn't ask.”

“Ask her. She needs to approve the photograph anyway.”

Zhou sent the draft. Much later came a reply: You can photograph the chair. I don't want to be in this.

He typed: What if we only use your surname?

He did not send it.

The coordinator had chased twice; the printer was waiting. He sent her Mrs. Luo's response and suggested another story.

“Do you still want your name included? We need something to build it around.”

Looking at the large letters, Zhou found he did want it. Over two months he had replaced drawer runners and assembled shelves. His family would enjoy the photograph. He had already imagined sending it to his father with an offhand “Keeping busy.”

That evening Mrs. Luo called.

“I don't want to make trouble. I just don't want to go outside and have everyone see me as someone waiting to be helped.”

He said he understood. After the call, he realized he had not understood before. He had thought a surname meant anonymity, forgetting that the whole building knew the chair by her window.

The next day he replaced the story with instructions for borrowing tools: where to register, how to return them, and when professional help was needed. A photograph of neatly arranged tools replaced the picture of her home.

“It's less moving,” the coordinator said.

“It might be useful.”

She studied it, then retained a small row of participants' names at the bottom. His appeared at the same size as the others. He did not ask for it to be removed.

Two weeks after the display went up, a packet of washers appeared in the tool cupboard. The label said: All the sizes this time.

No signature.

Zhou put it beside the screws. That evening a young man borrowed a wrench and hesitated over the form.

“What if I can't fix it?”

“Don't force it. Write down what's happening, and we'll see whom to ask.”

The young man filled in the form without recognizing him as the Zhou on the display. Zhou waited beside him, then passed him the pen cap.