The Maze of Data

Old Chen's mobile phone was an old-fashioned button phone handed down from his son. Apart from making and receiving calls, the flickering icons on the screen were like ancient hieroglyphs to him, both familiar and strange. Every month, he would go to the business hall at the corner of the street to pay his phone bill, no more, no less, always fifty yuan. The clerk mechanically tapped on the keyboard and handed him a thin piece of paper printed with numbers and symbols he couldn't understand.

"Okay, come back next month." The clerk's voice was sweet and hollow, like a pre-set program.

Old Chen nodded, carefully folded the piece of paper, and stuffed it into his inner pocket. He didn't know that this piece of paper hid a secret, a secret about "data."

For seven years, a full seven years, a 50-yuan data plan was automatically generated on Old Chen's phone every month. And he, he knew nothing about the existence of this plan. He didn't even know what "data" was. For him, the phone was only used to answer his son's calls and occasionally send a text message to his wife to let her know he was safe.

Until one day, his son, on a whim, wanted to see his father's phone bill. The string of "50 yuan data plan" stung his eyes like sharp knives. He immediately took his father to the business hall to inquire.

In the business hall, Old Chen stood blankly in front of the counter, like an old man who had strayed into a modern maze. He couldn't understand the technical terms, nor could he understand the scrolling data on the screen. He only knew that he seemed to be trapped in an invisible cage, silently being deprived of a part of his pension every month.

"What...what's going on?" Old Chen's voice trembled, like a flickering candle in the wind.

The clerk still maintained a professional smile, but there was a hint of impatience in her tone: "This is the plan you subscribed to yourself. There is a text message notification every month."

"Text message? I...I'm illiterate..." Old Chen's voice became even lower, as if he was talking to himself.

His son questioned angrily: "My father doesn't even know how to use a smartphone, how could he have subscribed himself? And for seven years, you haven't proactively informed him once?"

The clerk shrugged, with an expression of "it's none of my business" on her face: "This is automatically processed by the system, there's nothing we can do. If you're not satisfied, you can cancel it."

Cancel? Seven years of time, more than four thousand yuan in fees, just lightly "canceled" like that? Old Chen felt a wave of dizziness, as if the whole world was spinning.

He suddenly remembered the infinitely extending library in Borges's work, where each book contained all possible combinations of letters, but no one could find the truly meaningful one. And he, like being trapped in this maze of data, had been blindly paying for seven years, but never found the exit.

It's not just about money, it's also a loss of dignity. Old Chen felt like a part abandoned by the times, swallowed up by cold numbers and algorithms. He suddenly understood that this maze was not just the business hall, but the whole society.

His son was still arguing with the clerk, his voice getting louder and louder, attracting many onlookers. Old Chen quietly retreated to the side, feeling extremely tired and lonely. He looked up at the window, the gray sky like a huge net, trapping him tightly.

He remembered a book he had read when he was young, and there was a sentence in it: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains." He didn't understand the meaning of this sentence at that time, but now, he finally understood.

These chains are data, numbers, algorithms, and, even more so, the ubiquitous, indifferent contract of this era.