The Decaying Dream of America: I Assemble Corpses and Confront Madness

The burning sensation from the whiskey in the pub had long since dissipated, leaving only a cold, clear-headed feeling.

Lin Zheng's rented room was filled with the mixed smells of cheap coffee, damp clothes, and takeout pizza boxes.

This is a forgotten corner of Emerald Dream City, where a brick wall covered in dark moss blocks out most of the sunlight.

Smith sank into the only relatively soft secondhand sofa, his legs crossed and propped up on the scratched coffee table.

Sam sat in a hardwood chair at the dining table, his broad back ramrod straight, like a silent mountain.

The conversation about pastures and lambs continued from the noisy pub into this cramped room, and the air grew heavy.

Lin Zheng sat in front of his computer, the dense numbers and text on the screen the source of his current anxiety.

My inbox is overflowing with notifications.

One of the letters was a tuition payment reminder from the school's finance office; the red deadline stung his eyes.

Another message came from the biological laboratory's consumables supplier, reminding him that a batch of ordered specialty reagents needed to be paid for, and that the amount exceeded the reimbursement limit of his supervisor's project funding.

Several other emails were warnings about the impending expiration of subscriptions to the "BioRender" professional graphics software and the "GeneScript" gene sequence database.

Every email is a bill.

Every bill is another brick weighing down his visa application.

Before him lay a draft of his thesis, the complex map of cell signaling pathways twisted into a meaningless jumble of threads in his eyes.

He couldn't write a single word.

"What's wrong, Lin?" Smith's voice broke the silence. "You look like you just saw the end of the world on your financial statements."

Lin Zheng turned his chair around and said in a tone that was a mixture of exhaustion and helplessness, "Pretty much. I'm just calculating how much money I need to burn to finish my studies."

"Really?" Smith shrugged. "Money is usually not a problem, as long as you're not dead."

"That's because you never have to worry about money," Sam's deep voice rang out. He stared at his rough hands, his palms and knuckles covered with thick calluses and new wounds.

Those are the marks left by years of handling containers at the dock.

Lin Zheng knew that Sam spent almost all his time working at the docks, except when he was in class.

The pay there is high, paid hourly, but the intensity of the work is enough to destroy an average person's body.

"I'm just worried about my tuition," Sam said, looking up at Lin Zheng's screen. "But my worries are probably not on the same level as yours."

Lin Zheng nodded. He knew that his family was relatively well-off in China, enough to cover his tuition and basic living expenses.

His stress stemmed more from the extra, unpredictable academic expenses and the fear of not being able to face his family if he failed his studies.

"Student loan?" Lin Zheng asked.

"Student loans," Sam's answer was brief and heavy.

Smith sat up a little from the sofa, seemingly intrigued by the topic.

"Ah, America's unique 'educational entry ticket,' or you could call it a 'modern slave contract,' whatever you want to call it," he said.

"A slave contract?" Lin Zheng was puzzled by the term. "Isn't it normal to take out a loan to go to school and then pay it back after graduation?"

A wry smile appeared on Sam's face.

"Normal? Lin, you know nothing about this country's financial system."

He held up one finger.

"First, there's the interest rate."

Federal student loan interest rates are roughly between six and eight percent, which is considered "kind."

If you're like me and your federal loan limit isn't enough, you'll need to apply for a private loan, and the interest rate can easily exceed 10%.

Do you know what this means?

This means that every penny you borrow is multiplying at an extremely high rate.

He broke off his second finger.

Then comes compound interest.

Interest will roll over into the principal, and then generate new interest.

This is a debt-generating machine that can't be stopped.

You might have borrowed $100,000 to finish college, but by the time you graduate, find a job, and start paying it back, your total debt could have ballooned to $120,000 or more.

In your first year of work, or even the first few years, most of the money you painstakingly repay each month is just interest payments; your principal hardly decreases at all.

Smith added, "And the best part is that in the United States, almost all debts can be forgiven by filing for personal bankruptcy, except for student loans."

This is written into the law.

Even if you have nothing and end up on the streets, this debt will haunt you like a ghost for the rest of your life.

The IRS will forcibly deduct from any tiny amount of your income until you die.

This is even more stable than the protection money from the Mafia.

"Why?" Lin Zheng couldn't understand. "Why are student loans so special?"

"Because education is a big business, my friend," Smith said, spreading his hands. "A trillion-dollar industry."

Banks and financial institutions make huge profits by issuing student loans, and the government guarantees these loans, thus shifting the risk to taxpayers.

Universities can comfortably keep raising tuition fees because they know students can always borrow money to pay for it.

This is a perfect closed loop, a legal, state-backed Ponzi scheme.

The only victims are the students.

Sam continued, "There's something even worse."

Some private loan contracts even include a "prepayment penalty" clause.

If you earn some extra money in a month and want to repay more of the principal to reduce interest, sorry, you have to pay a penalty first.

Their entire system was designed to ensure that you would provide them with interest for as long as possible and as consistently as possible.

They don't want you to pay back too quickly.

Lin Zheng felt a chill.

This is no longer business logic; it's pure, meticulously planned plunder.

"This is just tuition," Sam said, shaking his head as he looked at the software subscription notification on Lin Zheng's computer screen. "We haven't even talked about textbooks yet."

"Textbooks?" Lin Zheng thought of the professional books on his bookshelf that cost one or two hundred dollars each.

“Yes, textbooks,” Sam said. “For example, the textbook for my ‘Macroeconomics’ course this semester is the latest 12th edition, which costs $350 at the bookstore.”

A brand new book.

You might think, "Why don't I just buy a cheap secondhand book?"

no."

"Why not?"

"Because publishers and professors have become smarter."

Each new book comes with a one-time login code for the online platform.

All assignments, quizzes, and even part of the final exam for this course must be completed on that online platform.

If you buy a second-hand book without the serial number, you won't be able to submit your assignment and won't get your participation grade.

You basically wasted your time taking this course.

So you have no choice but to spend $350 to buy a new book that may only have a few different charts and examples compared to the previous edition.

Smith laughed: "I remember when I was in private high school, my history teacher bragged to us that he updated his textbook every two years and could buy a vacation home in Hawaii with the royalties."

He calls this "the iteration of knowledge".

What an elegant word to use to describe robbery.

Lin Zheng fell completely silent.

He finally understood why the illiteracy rate in the United States was disproportionately high for a developed country.

This country is not encouraging education at all; it is setting up layers of barriers to education, using financial and commercial means to filter out all those who are not wealthy enough.

"My brother, he's not planning to go to college," Sam said, his voice tinged with weariness. "After graduating high school, he wants to go to the docks or learn a trade like welding."

He said he didn't want to end up like me, spending the best twenty years of his life paying off debts.

He wanted to make quick money, buy a used Mustang, go to parties on weekends, and live like in the movies.

"A typical 'short-lived species' mentality," Smith pointed out incisively.

This word was screamed by the gunman Kevin Baker at the scene of the shooting a few days ago.

At the time, Lin Zheng thought it was nonsense, but now, the word accurately dissected everything before him.

"Yes, short-lived species," Sam didn't refute. "He thinks people like us only have a life expectancy of thirty or forty years."

They either die in gang fights, die from drug abuse, or are crushed by heavy workloads and debts.

Since the destination is so close, why plan for the distant future?

"Seize the day and experience as much sensory stimulation as possible in your short life; that is the only rational choice."

"And what about you?" Smith looked at Sam. "You obviously don't think so."

You work yourself to the bone, shoulder huge debts, and endure all of this, all to squeeze into the gates of university.

You want to transform from a 'short-lived species' into a 'long-lived species'.

"I want to be a doctor, or a lawyer," Sam said softly, but with unusual firmness. "I want to be someone who can make rules, not just someone who can passively follow them."

I don't want my future children to live the life I did.

Lin Zheng looked at Sam.

He remembered Sam texting him late at night several times asking him calculus questions.

This big guy, who could carry hundreds of pounds of weight on the dock, had an astonishingly poor foundation in mathematics.

But every question he asked revealed a stubbornness that refused to give up.

This is a struggle, a tragic struggle against the current.

"And what about you, Smith?" Lin Zheng suddenly turned to the blond man lying on the sofa. "You were born an 'immortal.'"

You come from a wealthy family, attended the best private schools from a young age, and had private tutors, so you don't need to worry about tuition fees at all.

But you live the life of the 'shortest-lived species'.

Alcohol, parties, women.

You spend all your time indulging in immediate pleasures.

Smith's smile vanished.

He sat up straight, revealing for the first time an expression that wasn't cynical.

"Because I am the youngest son in the family, Lin."

I have no right of inheritance.

The family business will be left to my older brother, and all expectations and resources will be focused on him.

In my father's eyes, I was just an unwanted burden who needed to pay bills regularly.

My existence is like a long, unnoticed vacation.

Since the future is already predetermined, why should I bother planning it?

Living a life of debauchery is at least better than watching yourself being soberly forgotten by the world.

Lin Zheng's heart sank.

He saw the deepest divisions in the country.

A child from a poor family strives with all his might to climb up the social ladder and fight for a better future.

A child from a wealthy family, driven by a sense of uncertainty about the future, chooses to fall into depravity and indulge in immediate pleasures.

One wanted to live longer, while the other squandered his life.

He himself, an international student from China, was taught from a young age to study hard, get into a good university, find a good job, get married and have children, be filial to his parents, and plan for a peaceful old age.

His entire cultural background and way of thinking are based on the concept of "immortality" from beginning to end.

He came here and examined his surroundings with this philosophy, and everything he saw was distorted and contradictory.

"So, this is the 'American Dream,'" Lin Zheng said softly, "an illusion built on debt, lies, and class barriers."

It tells you that as long as you work hard, everyone has a chance to succeed.

But it never tells you that the ticket to success costs the equivalent of several lifetimes' worth of income.

Even if you're a genius and pass the entrance exams for Harvard or Yale, if you can't afford the nearly $100,000 in tuition and living expenses each year, that acceptance letter is just a piece of paper to you.

A death notice announcing the shattering of your dreams.

"Welcome to the real world, Lin," Smith said, lying back down and resuming his usual mocking tone. "Here, education isn't a ladder, it's a wall."

It's a tall, sturdy wall, covered in financial grids, that separates the rich from the poor.

Silence fell in the room once again.

The sky outside the window darkened without us even noticing.

On overcast days when the sun is not visible, the boundary between day and night becomes blurred.

"I have to go," Sam said, standing up and stretching his stiff shoulders. "There's another shipment to unload at the dock tonight."

Smith stretched and stood up.

"I have to go too, I've made an appointment with a girl."

I need to find something fun tonight, otherwise these heavy topics will burn out my brain.

As they reached the door, Sam turned back to Lin Zheng and said, "Lin, don't overthink it."

Your problem isn't too bad compared to mine.

At least you still have a way out.

Lin Zheng nodded without saying a word.

He saw the two off and closed the door.

He was left alone in the room, with only the bills still lit up on the computer screen.

A way out?

Does he really have it?

He remembered the expectant looks in his parents' eyes and the envious words of his relatives.

If he were to slink back like this, how would he face them?

"Am I really going to be eliminated by this country?" he asked himself in the empty room.

There is no answer.

He sat back down at his computer, intending to close his email and force himself to think about the paper.

Just then, a soft click was heard, and a new email popped up.

The sender's name made his heart skip a beat.

Alistair Finch.

His mentor.

The email subject was short, yet it carried an undeniable sense of pressure.

"An urgent meeting regarding your thesis progress."

The night rain outside the window had not stopped. Lin Zheng stared at the title of the email, feeling as if a cold, wet stone was pressing down on his heart.

He had a premonition that what was to come would be an even more despairing test than the current predicament.

He no longer had the strength to answer.