The Missing Governor

"Fifth time, still a busy signal," the governor's assistant murmured, his fingers gliding across the phone screen as if it were burning hot. "The president is probably busy," he added, his tone laced with a reassurance he himself didn't believe.

The governor of California, a man known for his efficiency and decisiveness, was now restless. Five calls, each lasting a full ten minutes, had yielded nothing but the jarring sound of a busy tone. He wanted to question, to explain, to request assistance. The fire in Los Angeles had already consumed half of the affluent district, and every second mattered to countless lives. Yet he felt like an unplugged appliance, completely disconnected from the center.

He began to recall how he had reached this point. From local prosecutor to state assembly member, then to governor, each step was taken with careful precision. He was adept at every process of politics, proficient in every technique of communication. He had once believed that with enough effort, no problem was unsolvable. But now, five phone calls, five unresponsive busy tones, felt like five heavy blows, shattering his deeply ingrained beliefs.

"Could it be a technical issue?" the secretary asked cautiously. "I've checked the lines, everything is normal," the technician quickly responded, the beads of sweat on his forehead more dazzling than the scorching sunlight outside.

The governor began to feel that something was amiss with the world. He remembered yesterday's news about an administrative approval service center that was empty by four o'clock in the afternoon. Although the official closing time was five, it seemed to have been fast-forwarded, entering a "hibernation" state an hour early. And the subway entrance that was said to resemble a coffin was actually dealt with because of poor "feng shui." Such things in the past would have been pure fantasy. He was beginning to feel that he wasn't managing a state but running a vast, absurd circus.

He turned on the television, and the screen displayed news of the second rehearsal for the CCTV Spring Festival Gala. He saw Song Yuqi smiling brightly at the camera. The smile was so radiant, a stark contrast to his current anxiety. He felt like an actor waiting backstage, only to be told that the script had been temporarily changed, and he could no longer find his role.

Suddenly, the phone rang, displaying a White House number. The governor's heart leaped, and he immediately answered, holding the phone to his ear. "Hello, this is the president's automated voice assistant. If you wish to leave a message, please start after the beep." The mechanical female voice was cold and devoid of emotion. The governor took a deep breath and hung up. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the sky outside, which was reddened by the wildfires, and suddenly laughed.

He finally understood. It wasn't that he couldn't reach the president; it was that he wasn't on the same channel at all. He was never the protagonist in this play. Or rather, he had been living in an illusion of his own script. Perhaps the real absurdity wasn't the dealt-with subway entrances or the civil servants who left work early, but that he had always thought he was driving the world forward, while the world, perhaps, didn't even need him. He saw his assistant anxiously approaching, preparing to try dialing the president's number again, and he slowly raised his hand, stopping him. At this moment, he chose to give up. He needed to find another way to resolve this crisis.