Cycles in Cantonese

Long ago, America was duped into a controversial law enforcement program in which certain people in positions of power were allowed to keep tabs on children, sometimes as young as infants, and intentionally lead them down a path of crime so that they can be fast-tracked into a system where they are under the control of an invisible arm of the government for their entire lives without any trial or reasonable chance for appeal. 

The unconstitutional “Minotaur Program” is polarizing to say the least. 

As torrential needles spill tragically from a black sky, one of these overzealous government officials watches from a tall window while he tenderly graces his fingertips along his cat’s back fur, careful not to upset its delicate animal sensibilities. 

Warren, he’s called by some, hesitates out of disgust, then brings himself to peel his sights from the storm outside, turns to his impressive marble desk and lifts the phone off its cradle. An inhale, an exhale, and the call is placed. 

“... Yes. You’re his parents. It will be difficult for him. I want you to steal some of his food and see what he does. Try to get him to confront you. Do what you can to antagonize him. The word has been given. We need him angry and off balance.”

Warren hangs up the phone, futilely sighs once more. “What do I have to tell these people? What… what am I doing wrong?” 

Across the land, in the suburbs of Orange County, a man opens the fridge, takes some bread that he knows his son Parker had bought, takes out some of the chicken that he knows Parker had bought as well, and makes himself an odd little meal just in time for his son to come home and bear witness. 

The man has a smirk on his face because he knows he’s causing his son to deal with something painful, pointlessly. And yet. It still somehow brings this man pleasure. 

And Parker notices it. The smirk. The glee. The lack of a point. The lack of a lesson. And he cannot comprehend this. This kind of thinking, this pettiness is like an entirely different language to him. 

Parker rolls his eyes at the sight of his father being so childishly antagonistic, ignores the scene and simply walks upstairs. 

As he’s leaving, the father starts making childish ‘yummy’ noises. 

When Parker’s finally gone, the father stops eating, tosses his hands down and mutters to himself “I need him to engage in this program. What am I doing wrong?” 

The next day, Parker rode his bike along the river–on his way to where the Mighty Ducks play. 

Off in the distance, across the ravine and the meager level of water held in its concrete “V” of a cradle, a tall, broad hotel stood in the distance. A chilly memory returned to Parker…

The time he was on the freeway with his mom and she pointed out that that’s where she had first hooked up with his stepdad after things fell apart with his real father. He remembers thinking that it was an inappropriate thing for her to say–remembers that she always had an issue with being inappropriate. But why? And why did she say this now? 

Parker’s mind zooms back into the present.

Up in the air, above the roof of the high hotel, a hawk circles just beneath a thin layer of clouds.

As Parker keeps peddling down the trail, the hawk lowers, nearly swooping just before him and he could make out the regal details in the beak and fluttering feathers as it passes. 

The hawk rises into the air once more, loosely circles Parker, then soars off into the sky and out of sight. 

That was odd. 

Does it happen to have anything to do with this illegal “Minotaur Program” I’m in? My captors have demonstrated enough by now that they can control animals. Did that bird even know what it was doing? I wouldn’t doubt it if this was supposed to mean something, too. But what? 

In a sophisticated electromagnetic daze, the hawk thinks to himself why did I just do that? Then he resumes his search for meaty rodents in the grass. 

Parker continues down his path and to the hockey rink. 

Tonight there were no sports but music. 

Somehow, through means of technology and because of this illegal “Minotaur Program,” the lead singer of the band had been made aware of Parker’s attendance tonight. He was also aware that he had misinterpreted the meaning of one of their songs. 

As the stadium goes dim and all the shifting bodies in the colossal, round room makes the place look like some science fiction alien hive, the music starts and they play that song. The one Parker had misunderstood. 

When the music ceases, the crowd cheers. Out of ego, or perhaps a misguided desire to help, the singer takes part in the “Minotaur Program” and explains that the song is about a junkie, and not a mistreated relationship. Then the singer makes a snide remark about it. 

Annoyed, Parker goes home that night on his bike catching tease after tease, hint after hint, sign after hateful sign from his community out on the streets–parts of this illegal “Minotaur Program.” Cars, pedestrians, anyone and anything that can be communicated with by modern technology to be informed of Parker’s presence is turned into a psychological bomb of emotional pain. Colors don’t mean what they mean. 

And so his entire trip home has been transformed into an experience similar to that of going against sandpaper’s grain. 

The next morning, angry, Parker explains his side of the story in an online writing forum, much like this one, to try to make a difference in his life and in society. 

But it is misinterpreted as the unjustified belly-aching of a criminal with a mush brain who could never survive in real life on his own. 

So the good points are ignored.

And Parker thinks to himself I’m just a guy. I’m not public enemy number one. I’m doing the best I can but they’re doing the best they can to anger me. Throw me off. Hurt me. Even physically. They go too far. I keep telling the world but the world doesn’t listen. What am I doing wrong?

And the fact that so much pain had resulted, snowballed, all because Parker did the right thing and chose, in that moment, not to engage with his antagonistic father who too gleefully dives headfirst into the hate-filled and unAmerican tactics of this loveless and pointless program, went right over his head because no one bothered to connect the dots for him. And the dots Parker was supposed to connect by himself were just too stupid and immature for him to know to piece together in the first place. So no one ended up winning. 

The next day, right as three red cars were passing Parker as he rode his bike to the grocery store, a bug flew directly into his forehead. Conspicuously–and just as these three red cars were passing.

Using ‘red cars’ is a tactic that the “Minotaur Program” likes to lean on. So that was obviously them. 

And the cars passed right when a bug flew into my forehead. That seems to happen a lot… lately… 

When Parker gets to the grocery store, he finds a familiar sight. His friend Yang. They got to talking. Parker tells Yang about the concert but neglects to mention anything involving the “Minotaur Program.” Yang wouldn’t be allowed to discuss it anyway. 

As their conversation goes on, a little Chinese girl came frolicking down one of the aisles, stopping not too far from the two of them. She’s saying the same thing over and over again and in a happy little sing-song tone. Except Parker can't understand a single word. 

Yang notices. “Hey. She’s speaking Chinese.” 

Parker says. “You can, too, right?”

Yang says “yup.” 

“What’s she saying?”

“I don’t know. I speak Mandarin. She’s using Cantonese.” 

Parker rolls his eyes and they land back onto the happy little girl. 

Was this just another trick from the “Minotaur Program”? 

The little girl was wearing red clothes after all, and she had, conspicuously, like the rest of the people from this program, stopped right there for us to easily see. That’s exactly how this all works.

But what’s the message? 

Parker notices something in her hands. She’s hugging it like a stuffed animal but on a closer look, Parker notices that it’s a plastic and cardboard package. Inside is a toy gun that shoots bubbles–according to the colorful graphics. 

When her parents approach (he could only assume they were her parents) she holds the box up to them. The mother gives the father an annoyed look. The father relays the same expression to his daughter, then, after a moment, a very meager “nod” of affirmation.

The little girl gets louder, begins jumping up and down. 

For Parker, it doesn’t matter anymore if she’s part of some Orwellian hint. Her smile and little dance is the most genuine thing he’d seen in a while. 

With an aching heart, and mental effort being expended not allowing his facial muscles to contort, Parker turns to Yang. “You don’t happen to speak Tagalog, do you?”

“Not my language.”

“A friend of mine taught me a word. ‘Gigil.’ It’s when something is so cute and adorable that you want to hurt it–like pinch it or something. (Not like that.) It’s the saying ‘you’re so cute I could just eat you up.’ … That’s what I’m experiencing with this little girl right now.”

Yang looked down at the girl, back up to Parker. “That’s interesting. America doesn’t have a word like that.”

“Gigil is a very specific thing. Maybe this country isn’t capable of making such a distinction. I wonder what that says about us.” 

“I don’t know.”

“Me neither, man. I just don’t know.” Parker glances back at the little girl dancing alongside her apathetic parents. “But that little girl’s unconditional joy for something so small is speaking a language of its own. I wish I could speak it.” 

If there was something Parker was supposed to do at the grocery store, it had gone right over his head. However, he was forced to assume that he had ‘failed’ some test–

As he leaves the building, three more red cars stroll across his sights–the calling card for a presumed ‘failure’ in this program. 

But what did I fail? Parker thinks to himself a moment, then brushes it off knowing that he will simply never be able to live up to the unrealistic standards of the “Minotaur Program.” And so he goes home… just to start it all over again. 

Miles away from this scene, alone in a lightless office, Warren slumps in his chair.

Another failure… what am I doing wrong? What am I not saying? 

The phone rings. Warren answers. And on the other end. 

“Warren, it’s Donald. Listen, did you crank it up to eleven on that stupid little hippy kid?” 

“Mr. Trump… That’s really not how this goes. There needs to be something informing the–”

“Listen Warren, I really don’t need this kid learning any lessons. I just need him to be hurt. You know how the “Minotaur Program” works. You designed it. Everyone gets to hear what he has to say. And he spoke out against me. So he’s gotta pay.”

“But Mr. Trump, as an adult, instead of wasting your energy on pointless revenge, don’t you think it would be better for you to take note of where he was able to point out your weaknesses and try to work on those? It might take a little work, but who knows, in the end you could learn something and maybe even–”

“Nah that’s not really my thing, Warry. Just make sure you keep turning the heat up on this, kid, alright? Let me know if there’s any big changes.”

They hang up–Warren keeps shaking his head like he has a disorder. “That fucking man… I keep trying to tell him… what am I not saying?”

Back in Florida, Donald Trump replaces his phone back into the cradle and mutters “that jackass.” 

Then he reaches for the television remote, switches to the news–but not Fox news!–and starts taking in all the information. He keeps hearing his name… negatively. 

“But… But… I’m me. I’m ‘The Donald’... Why are they talking about me like this? What am I doing wrong?”

Moments later, the telephone screeches back to life. A cold sweat trickles down Trump’s temple, which could only mean–

He picks up the phone and simply knows to stay quiet and listen to what the Russian voice has to say. 

“You are no dictator. You can’t even manipulate your own people into winning two consecutive elections. Look how long I’ve been in power… You were useful when I needed ya but it looks like you’re losing too much these days. I’m sorry Donald. I can’t help you anymore. We’re going to have to cut ties.” 

Trump hangs up. There’s a bittersweet flame raging in his belly. On one hand, he doesn’t have to deal with that frightening “man” anymore. … at least not directly… 

On the other hand, he had called him a “loser.” Him. 

ME. Donald J. Trump. He thinks I’m a loser. ME. But why? What am I doing wrong?”

In Moscow, Vlad puts his phone down and continues his perpetual stare of blankness. Those dead eyes. And behind them… The thoughts “That orange man. It really would have been so much easier on me if he could just not be such a fuck up. I tried everything with him. What didn’t I say? What was I doing wrong? And the Chinese… they just keep waiting…” 

A decorated Russian officer steps into the room and informs Mr. Putin of a certain tactical advantage at a certain battlefront. The general relays the details. 

Mr. Putin considers for a moment, then gives an order in two or three sentences. The general nods, leaves the room quietly. 

Mr. Putin returns to his chair, swivels to face his large window and glares out across the land–certain that he understands it all. 

Miles away in Ukraine, a decorated officer steps briskly into Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s office and relays news in a language other than English: “Sir, the Russians have fallen for our ploy. I suggest you have our troops move into this region (he points at a map) as soon as possible. We may not get another chance like this for a while.” 

Zelenskyy considers silently for a moment. Then nods. The general leaves and executes his end of the order. The Ukrainian President walks over to his window, glances out optimistically. 

This time, he was sure–he was sure the world would see how much effort they were expending, how worthy they were to govern themselves. This latest maneuver should prove it once and for all. And, hopefully, more and more support will follow. 

Zelenskyy eventually places his head on a pillow that night and dreams. 

The next day, Zelenskyy’s orders are carried out. Successfully. Another victory for the Ukrainian forces. 

One more day after that, there’s a news report in America. Apparently, the Ukrainians suffered losses. No real information of the operation makes it into the report. All the tangible gains Ukraine had made from the previous day’s operation never reach the ears of the American people. 

And just like that, the kind of useful clout that only comes with success and demonstrating one’s worthiness, was all gone. All because of clumsy reporting. 

President Zelenskyy thinks to himself what am I doing wrong?

Weeks from these events, a folder of papers is presented to Warren’s office. Apparently there are some new initiatives being proposed to further antagonize Parker and others trapped inside of the “Minotaur Program.” These proposals are awaiting Warren’s approval–and he knows what would happen if he declined them. 

Warren shudders, then supplies his name in ink to the vile documents. 

He turns, presses a little red button on his desk, and across the land…

Parker turns in his sleep. 

Unconscious, his limbs flail about, tearing his sheets from their security, wrapped around the mattress. 

In his mind, Parker sees a face he doesn’t know petting a cat high up in a tower somewhere. Random faces. Ugly. Distorted. Troll-like. An elegant portrait of Frederick Trump floats before his mind’s eye. Next, he sees tanks moving along a dusty landscape encircling a small group of frightened… soldiers? One of the tanks opens up at the top–out pops the little Chinese girl with her plastic bubble gun. She points it at the soldiers, sprays them with playful bubbles and they disappear. Somehow, Parker is in her crosshairs now. And she doesn’t spare him. 

That’s when he wakes up.

As he gets ready for his day, the haunting pictures from last night’s tumultuous dreams shock Parker’s mind, popping up like animatronic ghosts and vampires on a low budget Halloween-themed amusement park ride. 

They meant something… 

What were they trying to say? 

END