Sanbengzi Labyrinth

When Wang Ming first heard the news about the "Sanbengzi shortage," he paid it no mind. It was just a simply constructed, even somewhat clumsy three-wheeled motorcycle, seemingly out of place in the vast, efficient, future-bound city he inhabited. However, within days, the news spread like a silent plague. First, it was neighbors whispering in the hallway, then colleagues exchanging anxious glances in the office pantry, and finally, even the old man selling savory crepes on the street corner added worriedly while making change, "Heard they're going crazy for them over in America, probably means we'll run out here too."

The panic didn't stem from the Sanbengzi's practical value – in fact, no one could clearly articulate why, all of a sudden, everyone felt they had to own one. It was as if an unwritten rule, or a collective subconscious awakening, decreed that possessing it conferred some kind of unspoken status or freedom. Newspapers began publishing vague analytical articles, hinting that the Sanbengzi was linked to a certain "spirit of the age" or a trend of "returning to simplicity." Experts on television used complex charts to demonstrate the fragility of the global Sanbengzi supply chain and the profound geopolitical motives behind the "shortage." All this intensified Wang Ming's anxiety, even though he didn't even have a driver's license and couldn't picture himself weaving through traffic on a Sanbengzi. But he felt he couldn't not have one. If everyone else had one (or was about to), he would be invisibly excluded from the "core circle" of the era.

So, Wang Ming decided to apply to purchase a Sanbengzi.

He first went to the "Center for Urban Transport Management and Allocation" – a gray, massive, intimidating building, rumored to have an internal structure as complex as an ant colony. Upon entering the main hall, he was stunned by the scene. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people were packed into winding queues, the air thick with the smell of sweat, musty paper, and an unidentifiable collective despair. No one spoke, only the shuffling of feet and the indistinct calling of numbers from a distant counter could be heard.

It took Wang Ming three hours just to reach an information desk. The staff member behind the counter was expressionless, like a precisely functioning machine. "Applying for a Sanbengzi?" she asked without looking up, handing him a thick stack of forms. "Fill these out, then get in line at that counter over there to submit."

The content of the forms was baffling. Besides the usual name, address, and occupation, applicants were required to fill in their "understanding of the spirit of the Sanbengzi," "elaborate on the philosophical necessity of owning a Sanbengzi," "describe the frequency and form of Sanbengzis appearing in your dreams," and even draw "a map of your ideal Sanbengzi route," complete with detailed symbolic explanations. Wang Ming felt dizzy. He saw someone nearby sprawled on the floor, meticulously drawing complex route maps with their own ruler and compass, as if designing a city blueprint.

He spent two full days racking his brains to complete the forms. Every answer felt like groping in the dark, trying to grasp something non-existent. He described his understanding of the "Sanbengzi spirit" as "an individual's gasp for breath under the weight of modernity," attributed the "philosophical necessity" to "a reflective return countering speed and efficiency," and for the dreams, he fabricated stories about driving a Sanbengzi through misty forests. When drawing the route map, he simply mimicked the style of a subway map, connecting points like home, work, and the supermarket with crooked lines, adding labels like "Road to Inner Peace" and "Symbolizing the Breakout from Daily Routine."

When he returned to the Allocation Center to submit the forms, he found the original submission counter closed. A new notice was taped to the wall, the ink blurry and bleeding, stating vaguely: According to the latest directive, the Sanbengzi application process has been transferred to the "Regional Resource Coordination Office," specific address detailed on the attached map.

The attached map, however, looked like a child's doodle, with chaotic lines and unclear landmarks. Clutching the map, Wang Ming wandered the city for three days, asking countless passersby, finally locating the so-called "Office" in the corner of a remote, abandoned industrial zone – a dilapidated prefab hut with a rusty metal sign hanging on the door.

Inside, there was only a dozing old man. Wang Ming stated his purpose. The old man rubbed his eyes and said slowly, "Oh, Sanbengzi... Forms? Let me see." He took Wang Ming's stack of papers, now damp with sweat and frayed at the edges, flipped through them casually, then pointed to a mountain of documents piled in the corner: "Put 'em over there. Wait for notification."

"How long will it likely take?" Wang Ming asked cautiously.

"Dunno," the old man yawned. "Could be days, could be years. Depends on luck. Or maybe... you'll never hear back. After all, Sanbengzis are very tight right now."

Wang Ming walked out of the hut into the blinding sunlight. He felt a profound exhaustion and sense of the absurd. Why did he even want a Sanbengzi? The question surfaced again, hazier than before. It seemed he had forgotten the original reason; the process itself – the forms, the queues, the search for the office – had replaced the goal.

Days turned into weeks. Wang Ming, like thousands of other applicants in the city, fell into a long wait. Occasionally, he'd hear scattered rumors about Sanbengzis: someone claimed to have seen a mysterious Sanbengzi speeding by late at night, leaving behind a trail of bell-like laughter; someone else said the Allocation Center's basement was actually a giant labyrinth hiding countless new Sanbengzis, accessible only to those who passed specific tests; yet another theory suggested the so-called shortage was a complete fabrication, a massive social experiment to observe human behavior under conditions of opaque information and collective anxiety.

Wang Ming stopped seeking news, no longer caring if he would ever get the Sanbengzi. He just went to work, ate, and slept on schedule. But deep inside, the Sanbengzi application process continued to run like an unending program. He sometimes dreamed he was running down an infinitely long corridor, flanked by rooms overflowing with application forms, each bearing a different Sanbengzi route map, forming an endless, dizzying maze.

One day after work, Wang Ming passed a scrapyard. Amidst the heaps of scrap metal, he glimpsed a familiar silhouette – the wreck of a rusty Sanbengzi, missing its front wheel, lying silently like the fossil of some forgotten prehistoric creature.

Wang Ming stopped and stared at it. He felt no loss, no surprise, only a strange sense of calm. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps the Allocation Center, the forms, the dozing old man, even the rumors about Americans snapping up Sanbengzis, were all just parts of this enormous labyrinth. And he, along with everyone else pursuing a Sanbengzi, was merely a prisoner circling within it. The real "Sanbengzi" might not be the drivable machine, but this very process of searching, waiting, and getting lost.

He turned and walked away, merging into the evening stream of people heading home. The city lights flickered on, the streets resembling an unfolded map, larger and more real. He didn't know where he was going, nor if this labyrinth had an exit. But he was no longer anxious. Perhaps accepting the existence of the labyrinth was the only way out. He even had a faint feeling that in some unknown parallel space, another Wang Ming was driving an imaginary Sanbengzi, navigating the eternal library-labyrinth constructed from countless application forms.