Jack took a hearty swig of his drink. “It seems inevitable that every FBL agent will eventually wonder how it all began: how and why did foreign languages become illegal? Well, allow me to give you a brief history lesson, my dear.” Gulp gulp.
Impatient, Julie’s blue eyes became enlarged, and her hand, palm up, jut forward toward Jack, her head bowing.
Jack turned his head to the right, organizing his thoughts. “So, you want to know how this all started, why it was made illegal to speak or write languages other than English. Well, I would say it all started early this century during a thing called 911. It was a horrific terrorist attack that took place on September 11th, 2002.”
Julie interjected. “Why was it called 911, because the country was having an emergency?”
“No, well not originally anyway. But there is a lot of truth to that. I mean, right after the attack, the level of patriotism exploded, and everywhere you went you were bombarded with flags and salutes, many eager to fight. A few years into the war, though, people began to question its radical shift in goals along with its illogical justifications. People were beginning to lose faith in their country.
“I see. So then why was it called 911?”
“Because September is the ninth month and it occurred on the eleventh.”
“Oh yeah.” she said, embarrassed for not realizing herself. Well what exactly happened on the 11th of September?”
“Our nation experienced the worst terrorist attack in its history. Four fully-fueled commercial airplanes were highjacked and used as missiles. The terrorists flew two of them into what was called the World Trade Center. It consisted of two towers, hence the Twin Towers.”
Julie rolled her eyes at Jack’s use of the word hence. “They were among the tallest buildings in the world. The devastation began early in the morning, thousands of the people working in the offices. One plane hit the first tower and soon after another plane hit the adjacent tower, the gas tanks exploding on impact and the jet fuel eating away at the structure. Before they eventually collapsed, a series of atrocious miscommunications would cost several hundred lives. In the confusion, the people heading the various departments were unsure who was in charge, and at one point, the employees and visitors were told to remain in the building. Shortly thereafter, the entire building collapsed on top of itself.
“Why would they tell them to stay in the building if it was just struck by an airplane?
“Miscommunication! People never being told or being told in vague, unclear terms. Or just not listening. And that was only the beginning. Throw in the media or the government, or both who knows, with their portrait of the terrorists, all of whom were of Middle Eastern decent.
A few generations later – the exact date escapes me right now – there was another terrorist attack. This time, like 911, it was also blamed on a communications failure; however, the failure would lie in an inaccurate translation of foreign information.”
“We were given information from overseas. Invaluable it was thought. Somewhere in the translations of language, the exact opposite was conveyed and the devastation that may have been thwarted was carried out. Anyway, there was an elaborate explanation, but all it amounted to was the death of thousands. Reminiscent of 911, and capitalizing on the emotional wounds that were reopened as well as the new ones that were created, the time had come for drastic measures.”
“I would imagine that tensions ran high.”
“To say the least. Hate would be a better way of describing it. The ignorant, or maybe those emotionally traumatized to the point of ignorant delusion, cried out for radical change. Couple that with a growing number of minorities and you have the attention of prominent politicians.”
Julie rolled over in her bed, faced Jack, her hand on her chin. “Not to mention the hate and intolerance it bred.”
“That’s just the point.”
“It’s a funny thing how the mind works. It just seems a little too ironic that we claim the foreign classics have been accurately translated when we couldn’t even translate information to save our own people’s lives?”
“You’re thinking too much.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Who was responsible for this change?”
“Everyone who voted. There was a public outcry. Thinking of the lives that were lost, the families that were shattered – politicians dared not suggest it was a bad idea. Oh, there were some, but it was political suicide! I mean, imagine you just lost your entire family and this guy claims it all could have been prevented if only the person had spoken English.”
Julie contributed to the discussion: “It is an emotionally-loaded argument, but it sounds more like a case for becoming multi-lingual to me. Or training better translators.”
“Have you ever played that game, telephone?”
“You mean the children’s game where you whisper something in someone’s ear and then that person whispers into the next person’s ear until finally the message reaches the last person and it isn’t even close to what was intended?”
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“So you’re saying that this major change in society can be summed up by a child’s game.”
“Yes, but only partially. It’s one factor among dozens. We’re an efficiency-driven society; time is money. Why waste countless hours, days, and years learning a new language when we could all speak one language. Imagine going to Canada and not being able to speak with the people there because they only know French. Or going to Spain, Mexico, or Puerto Rico and not knowing or understanding them because they only speak Spanish. In a sense, it’s really joined the world together. Nowadays, we can go anywhere in the world and speak to anyone else. Now that’s something”
“But why would you want to? Everyone’s the same. In the rare, but certain case that someone’s beliefs or opinions differ from the majority or norm, they become outcasts, shunned and cast aside. I agree, it did have some benefits, but what was lost along the way?”
“Nothing! A word or two here and there, but I assure you the greater good has been attained.”
“Isn’t there something to be said about differences, tradition, culture, history?”
“Insignificant!” he shouted, poking his finger on her chest. “All they do is divide. Can’t you see that now we’re all equal? If the Bureau hadn’t come to be, there would be thousands, millions of people you would be unable to communicate with. Not to mention that they could conspire against you, and would be more likely to conspire against you because they wouldn’t understand you. Our world has become smaller with the advent of technology. We can send a message to China, Indonesia, and the Middle East. But what would be the point if nobody understood you?”
“Can’t they create some sort of technological translator?”
“They could, but there’s the potential for gross abuses.”
“There is always that chance.”
They were silent for a moment, their minds reflecting. At the doors of perception, they couldn’t walk through. Prying open the door, “Do you really think we’re freer like they say? I don’t feel very free at all. I’m chained down in student loans, am constantly worried about what might happen (The news is uncertain, but we’re advised to expect the worst.), and my life seems meaningless. There’s no more tradition, nobody to confide in. I feel like you don’t listen to me,” she said, pouring herself a glass of wine.
Jack’s eyes squinted. “Where’s all this coming from?”
Julie ignored the question, “Nowadays there’s no privacy. We have cameras and audio detectors on every corner, in every home or building.”
“Not this one,” he retorted. “What do you need privacy for unless you have something to hide?”
“Why don’t we have any cameras then?” she laughed uneasily.
“There’s an exception to every rule.”
“I know, I’m only kidding. But you have to admit the system’s far from perfect. Accidentally misspell a few words on your computer and the FBL is knocking at your door. It’s ridiculous. Your entire hard drive is automatically sent to their online database. It’s happened to me when I was writing. Frantically and inaccurately. I must have spelled something that was flagged. And then there were agents crashing open the door. They read all my poems, my journals and stories. I felt raped.”
“Don’t be over dramatic. No, it’s not perfect. But overall, it’s much better. And besides, the odds of that happening are very slim. You would have had to spell at least five separate words.”
“I guess I’m just lucky.”
“Cursed.” Hiccup, hiccup. “Why don’t we take a nap?” Hiccup.
“You have been drinking quite too much lately. Even for you.”
Jack ignored this and took another gulp from the bottle.
Julie lied down on the satin sheets, took a moment to set the radio. Jack took one more swig, set the bottle on the stereo, and joined Julie in bed.
Stretching her body, Julie rolled over, faced the wall. Expecting at any moment to feel Jack, as usual, pressing up against her, she was surprised to realize he was facing the opposite way, starring at the miniature light show on the stereo.
“Sex.”
Jack’s anger subsided for the moment. “What? Okay.” He grabbed her buttocks, made firm from the many miles she ran.
Julie raised her closed knees to her chest, protecting, comforting, and wrapping her hands around her body. “No, I mean it’s all around us. It’s in the advertising, the clothing, the news. Yet it’s rarely talked about – not its causes or the society we’ve become. Values are lost; innocence is lost. I think there’s some relation between that and everything else we’ve been talking about? I mean, there was a time not only when there were hundreds of different languages, but I understand that the view of sexual maturity was a bit more modest as well. There were actually laws against post-pubescent men and women having sex. I wonder what that would have been like, waiting until you’re hardly even a teen anymore. Look at the clothing the kids are wearing these days. It’s so overly sexual. Yummy, tease, juicy, ready, and delicious are printed on girls’ tight, low-cut shirts and shorts. Or should I say thongs because that’s what they are. And the way they sit down. So unladylike. I’m beginning to sound like an old lady now, but it’s true. It really bothers me. It’s like the Native Americans being spoiled with all those material goods. They never asked for them, didn’t want them, and thought they were evil. But once tempted, they no longer resisted. And in fact it was welcomed.”
Julie noticed a poking sensation from behind her. “Really hun, I just wanna have sex with you. Where is this all coming from?”
“I don’t know, I guess the wine has gotten me thinking. But I’m really not in the mood tonight honey. My head hurts. I think it might be a headache.”
He slapped her on the buttocks again, took one final drink for the night and lied down in bed next to her. Julie rolled over and their minds separated in opposite directions. His was overwhelmed by the seemingly endless medium for transporting the obscenities, the languages. In contrast, the computerized sounds transported Julie’s mind into a fantasy world – a place far from the realities of revolutions and the loneliness of language laws.
Jose, or JJ as he was often called, was the eldest. Although he had returned nearly two hours ago from work – a recording studio where he read and recorded books, poetry, and newspaper and magazine articles – he was still wearing his suit and tie.
Kiki Luhon ran up from the first floor of the basement, diving up the stairs, sliding into the kitchen and hiding behind the dinner table for safety; her twin sister Katelynn was directly behind her, screaming the high-pitched shriek of an enraged twelve-year-old. “Give me back my lipstick!” she demanded, stomping her pin-like high heels, piercing both the linoleum floor and her fathers’ nerve.
Jose Sr. gazed into the kitchen, his eyes recently glazed from the beers he had been drinking. Following the trail of dents on the floor, he spotted Katelynn. “Get out of there with your high-heels. How many times do I have to tell you? The last thing I wanna do is replace another floor.” He was reclining on an adjacent sofa, catching up on current events as he always did after work. He pressed a few keys on his computer watch, took it off his wrist and set it on the coffee table.
On white walls, his wrist unit projected a telecast of world events. His hand, scarred from years of carpentry, held a stein of ale. Taking a sip, he read the captions of the telecast, tuning out the commotion in the kitchen.
Jose worked as a carpenter. Scattered throughout the city, he worked on his boss’s five apartment complexes, providing the Luhon Family’s primary source of income as well as affordable housing. Jose and his boss had made an arrangement where Jose would have control of one complex in return for the maintenance of the other six. He was constantly making repairs and, with the six unit style of his buildings, the work seemed endless. At ground level, the two-story house was the largest of the six structures. The five basement apartments, one below the other, each penetrated ten feet deeper into the earth’s crust. Fifty feet in all.
“Give me back my lipstick,” Katelynn repeated.
Kiki looked at the sliding glass door, a mirror to the setting sun and dimness outside. “Just a sec,” she said, taking out the lipstick and looking at her reflection.
But there was no time; Katelynn was chasing her again. Around the table they went, the smell of roasting turkey wafting around the room and the sound of their mother scolding them, her back turned and preparing the feast. “Girls! Girls, calm down. Your father’s had a long day at work.”
Kiki slid a chair in front of her sister, paused for an instant in front of the makeshift mirror – just enough time to smudge some lipstick on her lips. Katelynn jumped onto the chair, leapt onto Kiki and grabbed her by the throat. Kiki kicked wildly.
The sound of glass shattering, the sight of an overturned chair, and Katelynn bellowing in pain as she lie on her back, blood dripping from her leg.
“God damn it! I just had that door put in,” said Jose.
“She’s hurt. She’s bleeding. Call 911,” cried Esmarelda.
“Son of a… Where’s the phone?” he said, pacing back and forth. He pressed the intercom button, shouted into the microphone, “Ricardo!”
At fifteen, Ricardo was the youngest son. His voice had recently begun to change and he spent much time on the phone speaking with girls. He jogged up the stairs, tossed his father the phone with a smile, a wink, and a raised thumb. His mood soon changed when he saw his sister lying on the floor and bleeding. “What happened?” he asked, looking at Kiki.
“It was an accident. She was chasing me. She’ll be all right.”
Jose pressed the emergency button on the phone, added the emergency description code, 420, and the computer told the dispatchers there was a level two bleeding incident at 451 Oak Drive, which involved broken glass. He tossed the phone back to Ricardo and cleaned meticulously the glass fragments imbedded in Katelynn’s leg. When all visible pieces were removed, Jose looked up, raced to the door and into the street. Although the dispatcher’s phones instantly sent maps and descriptions to the ambulance computers, he was not taking any chances; he waited for the ambulance, searching through the unseasonable blizzard-like conditions.
Inside, dinner had finished cooking and the electronic gong of the timer reverberated throughout the five-floor basement, summoning the remaining Luhon family members.
The other three each paraded up from their basement apartments, taking the stairs because the elevator had been broken for years. Jose Junior, or JJ as he was often called, was the eldest, and was the first up the stairs. Although he had returned nearly two hours ago from work – a recording studio where he read and recorded books, poetry, and newspaper and magazine articles – he was still wearing his suit and tie. One stairwell behind were Amelia and Manuel.
Amelia had lost her hearing almost ten years ago, at the age of nine. She had compensated for this loss by heightening her other senses. Noticing the dimming of the lights caused by the one-thousand watt dinner bell, feeling the vibrations of the bass within the thin wooden walls, and seeing the elated look on her brother Manuel’s face, knew it was time for dinner. They ceased signing to each other and walked up the stairs. Amelia followed behind and to his side. Ever aware, she noticed the text on his watch screen. Manuel had been studying a book on his computer-watch. Amelia also noticed the familiar shape of his back pocket. It was a deck of cards for the traditional poker game. He was hoping he could get in a few games after they ate.
There was a rap at the door and four paramedics moved swiftly into the house. The fierce breeze and bitter weather whipped into their home, rousing the siblings’ sense of smell. With visions of a feast in their heads, they filed into the kitchen. Jaws dropped, panting mildly, the clouds of coldness formed at their salivating mouths. Seeing emergency personnel rather than turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and chicken, they were uncertain.
“Okay, don’t you worry now,” Esmarelda said, greeting her children as they approached, and looking at each of them, “Everything’s gonna be alright. She’ll just need a few stitches. Jose, you’re the eldest, you’re in charge.”
Manuel looked up from his computer-watch and rolled his eyes. In the openness of the kitchen he now stepped, turned off the oven and swept up the glass. Working efficiently and with speed, he picked up the big pieces and dumped them into the garbage. Then he got the shopvac to suck up the remaining fragments. Ezmarelda and Jose watched in the other room as two paramedics disinfected and bandaged Kiki’s leg. She cried out as the red-brown liquid was applied. The men rolled her onto a stretcher and carried her out. The vacuum, clogged and gasping for breath, drowned out Ezmarelda’s cries of empathy, muted her goodbye. She and Jose Sr. followed the ambulance to the hospital and Manuel put the vacuum away in the closet.
The remainder of the Luhon family huddled around the dinner table and waited to be served. Manuel turned on the news and all attention, save Amelia’s, was drawn to the telecast. Amelia sat in her usual spot, head of the elliptical table, opposite her father’s seat. With the absence of their father, JJ had assumed this seat. Here, in the catchers’ positions as Amelia called it, she could rely on sight rather than sound. She watched JJ, who was engrossed in the telecast. He looked at Kiki with a disapproving eye and Amelia knew the topic of the broadcast: English Only
number of view: 48“English Only” Novel (work-in-progress) by John Halasz, Freelance, Novel Ghostwriter for hire $20 per. 250-word page.
This novel is copyrighted and may not be reprinted without prior written consent.
“English Only” Chapter 3: by John Halasz
____________________________________________________________________________
Chapter 3
Beyond a reasonable doubt.
The building, the color of night, blackness so foul so detestable as ever she had seen. Without windows, only artificial light did gleam, only compressed air did circulate into the never-ending stories. And in ten-foot, shiny black letters which rose several feet from the main entrance: F.B.L.
It soared as high as it sunk, the first and only building to join the hundred/hundred club – to be one hundred stories high and one hundred stories deep. Science had long ago perfected stabilization by isolating deep pockets of the earth. Even California, with its regular earthquakes, had several structures that stood more than 50/50, its greatest Janis structure running away at 78 feet in either direction.
Julie flashed her identification to the two guards – one slumped over on the wooden chair typing on a computer, the other stretching his leg muscles – and was admitted to the search room. Jack had informed security that Julie would be arriving today, had shown them a picture of her and what she would be wearing — what she would be taking off.
Julie was not exempt from the routine strip-search. According to official regulations, everyone had to be strip-searched. But this was not always the case. Several high-ranking officials, including Jack, walked right to their desks without ever even being patted down. There was only time for a brief pause as they acknowledged the security guards’ nods of respect. Julie had not yet achieved this status.
Guidelines regarding strip-searches were long out of date. Over a decade ago, in the year 2057, x-ray technologies had taken away the need for a manual strip-search, and they were conducted considerably less often; however, during one’s first arrival to the headquarters, the x-ray machines seemed always to malfunction. There still remained the psychological degradation unique to the old method.
The guard who had been stretching his legs greeted Julie and the man at the computer looked up. “Julie Featherton,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, entering the information into the computer.
“Yes,” she said.
Julie was escorted into a ten-foot room, the man guiding her with his hand on the small of her back. “Take off all your clothes.”
Her face turned crimson and beads of sweat rolled down her face. “Is this really necessary?” she asked.
“Afraid so. It’s standard procedure.”
“What about the x-ray machine?”
“It’s not working properly.”
Julie clenched her fists and jaw. “Well are there at least female security guards?” she asked.
“No. But I assure you we are professionals. We’ll be inside in one minute.” He walked back to the opening and his colleague waved his knees open and closed again, bit his lip, put on latex gloves, and passed his partner a pair. They grimaced at each other and entered the room.
The room was empty except for gloves, a dispensary of lubrication, a garbage can, and a table for the newcomers to lie on. Julie’s back was turned as the men approached, their fingers closed inside their palms.
“Spread your legs apart,” said one.
“Bend forward,” said the other.
She hesitated.
“We have gloves,” they both said and she complied.
They spread out their hands and revealed their naked fingers; the gloves had been cut like those of weight lifters. They conducted the search, their naked fingers lingering a bit too long in each of her orifices.
Nervous, Julie began to perspire even more.
“You’re all set.”
Julie got dressed, walked away, and pressed her thumbprint on the sensor, which opened the door-code prompt. She entered the ten-digit number and the door opened and locked behind her. Now she was at a different set of doors where she entered another ten-digit code. The door opened, closed behind her and finally she was in the building.
She looked at the signs on the walls, tried to locate room 101. With no luck she reached into her purse for the map Jack had drawn up. It located the correct elevator, and Julie stepped inside, pressed the up button, her clammy fingerprint seeming to melt on the ivory elevator buttons. The elevator stopped, the door opened, and Julie stepped out, looked at the long and thin hallways on either side of her. The actual distance was deceiving, for as far as she could see the walls joining together, merged into one. Not an insurmountable distance, but a hundred yards easily.
Once again Julie sought the map. It was drawn up well and after a few lefts and a couple rights she was at the door. She walked in, at once overwhelmed by the size of the room, the amount of workers, the design.
Gazing around the room, Julie’s senses became fascinated, her mind memorized by the intricate network of screens projected on the enormous walls. She had read about the headquarters and Jack had told her about it, but nothing could have prepared her for what now stood before her. Hundreds of thousands of live pictures were cast on the Federal Bureau of Language’s smooth white walls. She saw rows and isles of people, stacked atop one another. So numerous, they looked like a fifty-foot sheet of graph paper. She saw the ladder leading to their terminals, the handrails highlighted with a continuous row of neon-green lights.
In the dimly lit room she could not make out the facial features of particular observers, the computer screens casting a queer illumination on their faces, which flickered and made her all the more trancelike. She thought of their jobs, of the lives they lead. “The ideal candidate should possess the following skills: close attention to detail; high degree of body-language literacy; the ability to counterattack potentially harmful individuals or groups.”
They could not possibly cover every inch of the world, or even every mile. They chose instead to focus more exclusively on high-risk areas. All the statistics were accounted for. They may not have been reported to the masses with any accuracy, but it was science with which the people were dissected.
Each observer was assigned one hundred screens. But it was, for the most part, automatic, the facial scan and track functions locating and following a pre-programmed pattern of people as they made their way around the city, the country, and even the world. The agents saved volumes of information, storing it into permanent, private records, and using them to predict future behavior. Often with surprising accuracy. There was a correlation between movement patterns and language offenses. The cameras were programmed to focus on these areas.
It was fairly consistent from year to year. The steadiest influx of language transport came from overseas where stranded family members often sent immigrants letters in their native language. Each letter or character was scanned, but still they would not deter. All e-mails were processed through databases that scanned the texts. Like the primitive resume scanners used by employees, the Bureau’s scanners looked for key words or phrases, for a questioning mind and a potentially rebellious person.
Unlike most of the FBL’s employees, Julie, because of her relationship with Jack, knew all about the FBL’s intentions and technologies. Yet she could not pull herself away from the screens, and when she looked up she noticed that there were even pictures on the fifty-foot ceilings. Heads up and arms out, she whirled around like a child playing at a playground. The images blended together and she became dizzy. She stopped for a moment, fearing she might fall.
Startled by the opened hand gently touching her shoulder, she jumped, emitted a scream that seemed to focus the 126 eyes of the employees on her alone. The few who actually looked soon realized the source of the sound and returned to work, toiling at their desks in a vain attempt to focus on detail. Over stimulation had destroyed their attention spans, and the automated functions would have to suffice.
“Did I startle you?” Jack asked, “Let me show you to your office hun. It’s right next to mine, in the same room really, but there is a divider.
They walked into the room and Jack shut the door behind them, sealing them within the soundproof walls of their offices. It was a long and narrow room, separated by a crude ten-foot wall, which could be compacted by folding along the hinges at each foot.
“So, what happened?”
“Old hot hands shot a man in the back”
“Did he have a weapon?
“They thought he did, but it was only a book. A gray book, and from the angle its spine looked like a gun. Each of the three agents shot him in the back. He lunged forward and the book went sailing through the air, turning around, showing it dimensions ands making clear their error.”
“Did you recover the book?”
“They recovered five other books he had in his coat, but none matching that description have been recovered.”
“Have you tried analyzing the trajectory and speed to determine where the book would have landed and at what precise moment in time? It was on another camera. We just need to find out which one and slow down time.”
Jack adjusted the video to the instant the man was shot. “Go to work.”
At the time he was shot, the man was on a crack in the sidewalk where two slabs met. Knowing the distance of the concrete slabs, Julie programmed the computer to time how long it took the book to move three parts of the sidewalk. From here, it went off the camera and was difficult to track. She then measured the angle of its trajectory, drew a curve that looked like a mountain, and typed in a specific camera number. Zooming in, she saw the book land and then seem to disappear.
“Did you see that?” she asked
“Slow it down.”
Julie plucked a few key strokes and the incident replayed itself twenty times slower. Once again, the book seemed to simply disappear.
Shaking his head, Jack told Julie to try a different angle. She looked typed in the camera number that was adjacent to the one they were watching, slowed down the speed, and watched in awe.
“I know you saw that. That guy just swooped up the book and put it in his pants. Find out who he is and if he’s affiliated with our guy.”
“I don’t see how he could have known, but I’ll check it out. We have to get that book back anyways.”
Jack went back to manning the cameras and audio, watching people and listening to their conversations. He checked back with Julie about an hour later.
“What did you find out about this Manuel Luhon character?
“He works alone at the megamarket, but it’s loaded with security cameras so they can keep an eye on the employees. His accent is thick, but we already knew that. Oh, and get this, he actually plans to join the FBL. He even seemed to take a liking to me, which I find rather repulsive. Let’s see. We already know there is an access code and thumbprint scan, not to mention two security codes. This isn’t going to be easy Jack.”
“No, it isn’t going to be easy, but we can do it. You said he took a liking to you, right? Well, there’s your chance to get some more information. And he wants to join the FBL so let him think he has a good chance at getting accepted. He may actually have a good chance for all we know. With affirmative action and all.”
Jack paced back and forth. “This is your office,” he said, opening the door. She followed and sat at her oak desk. Jack opened up a locker across from the desk, took out a map, unfolded it on her desk.
“This is the blueprint of the megamarket,” he said.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“The internet, of course.”
“Excellent – I think we’ve found our fall guy.”
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