A once-caged songbird revels in soaring the skies if set free by its master, even if it would struggle to survive in the wild without the care of its former captor.
The mighty eagle lives and lavishes like the king of kings once bound by chain, even if it knows that it will never set eyes on the vast deep blue ever again.
Cut off their wings, though, and they’d die all the same.
The difference is that one at least has the luxury of meeting a quick death as they fall.
And the other? They could do naught but bleed out and rot away.
Thus here I am. Bleeding. Withering.
KHALIL ALI, MEMOIRS-
----------------------------------------
Chapter 01 – Raka I, “Quotidian”
—
Perfection, noun: the condition, state, or quality of being as free as possible from all flaws or defects.
Satisfaction, noun: the fulfillment of one’s wishes, expectations, or needs, or the pleasure derived from said fulfillment.
It is not that hard to conclude the relations between those two things. The perfect always satisfies. It’s as simple as that, most people would think. People strive to seek the best in all, and they tend to only accept the best that they can receive. Reasonable, yes, but not the complete truth.
What satisfies mustn’t be perfect all the time. That, too, is an acceptable way of thought. People are willing to accept the thing good enough to fulfill their needs and wishes, and not seek a better one which may not even exist. Save for those exceptionally haughty, most would be willing to manage with what they can get as long as they deem it satisfying. Also a sound way of thinking, yet this does not reflect reality either.
What if the perfect no longer satisfies? What happens when a thing is objectively perfect yet is still considered flawed by those who could not—or would not—understand? Is it right to strive for perfection, when what one really seeks after is something that satisfies? Is it truly better to strive for something flawless, when people only wish for that thing to be done right?
Then again… what defines something to be right?
Some would argue that such quandaries only present themselves to the unfortunate—those pricked by the needle in the haystack only to lose it again as their finger bleeds. A fruitless charade, with only pain as its reward.
Well, tough luck.
Even if we had been pricked, that still doesn't mean that we deserved what'd happened.
Even if blood does trickle from my fingertips, that still doesn’t mean that I deserve to have the problem left unanswered.
But I’ve decided for my own sake that I’m not going to look back that way.
I no longer want that question answered.
Best to move on, anyway.
Yeah, that should be good enough for me.
I returned to the world, and vapor dampened my eyes as they came to open. The showerhead kept trickling its contents out unto my bare back, rinsing out naught but water. Shampoo, soap, and whatever product I’d used had been washed away for a long time. The tips of my fingers had started to wrinkle, and the once-warm water had started to feel gradually more tepid the longer I lingered.
The sounds began to fade the moment my hand went and closed the tap. Water that had just poured came to drizzle, then trickled, then dripped. Then stillness came, so quiet that I could almost hear the rhythm of my own heart. I tried to savor the silence, toweling myself dry as I slowly inched my way toward the door of mahogany wood. And yet, the moment I open the door and set my foot out…
Nothing greeted me but the whirr of air conditioning and the occasional muffled sound of those walking down the carpet-covered hall outside. The sun had barely dawned, so the lack of noise is still understandable regardless of the day.
The usual stuff, and nothing out of the ordinary—just the way it’s always been.
I didn’t know what I was expecting, to be honest. Some exciting thing to happen that’d ruin my daily routine, perhaps?
Wouldn’t that be something?
Right, routine. Relying on muscle memory, I turned and made my way across the blurry room and onto the equally blurred bedside. I stared—squinted—at the now-open dresser. White shirt, blue jacket, steel gray chinos. Tie? In this heat, I’d rather not choke and die, so no.
A step back, pivot right, two steps forward, and-
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The clock counted to exactly 05:00 AM, and the alarm blared at its heed.
“Urgh.” I quietly let out a sigh.
I lightly tapped the alarm’s glossy glass top, putting an end to its maddened, sudden rage. I win this time, Mr. Clock, but rejoice, for the time will come when l find a reason to sleep in and be woken by you. One day. Eventually.
This close to the window, the faint sound of passing engines came to greet. Although muffled, their hummed roars are inconsistent enough to stand apart from actual background noise.
I donned my glasses by its rims, and my vision was given the clarity of the cityscape that lay beyond the boundaries of my humble apartment. A picture of my own face faintly reflected on the glass, still the same as yesterday. My dark brown hair looked much darker than it actually is, though, but that might just be the lighting at play.
As I grabbed my beloved Prospex Alpinist[1] from the nightstand and headed to prepare the rest of my stuff, my eyes caught the sight of a certain misplaced flash drive on top of the kitchen counter. The black pendant on which it’s strung contrasted the pale white cabinets it sloppily drapes over, which was why I was able to spot it in the first place. It’s been a long time since it was ever used, and God knows why I decided to take it out from its hiding spot last night. My legs carried me to it, and it was within my grasp again not before long.
It’s been four years since I’d graduated from university and moved out of my old dorm room in Jagakarsa[2], and even by that time, a couple of years had gone by without anyone—myself included—ever opening the drive. I’d decided to freelance for a while after; taking odd jobs here and there just to pay the bills. All that time between then and now, I’ve still yet to obtain the resolve I need to open the drive. I still pull it out time and time again, especially in times when I’m stuck in a rut, but I wonder why I’d taken it out last–
Oh.
I need only to look up and there it is laid, neatly wedged on the countertop beside the fridge. The stack of papers looked messy and wrinkled, probably with a hundred and more scribbles and revision-marking strokes inside. To the unacquainted, the tower is nothing more than scrap ready to be crumpled. It’s a state not exactly uncommon for pre-published works, though I’m sure our readers would definitely prefer to buy the released version of the product, hardcover and all, to this cluttered mess. I reached out and grabbed it with my two hands, bringing it towards myself as I went for a closer look.
The page covering its front is plain, written in simple black font. Everything is printed in the common alphabet, including the identity of the manuscript’s writer—usually written in hanzi instead when the print is ready for the shelves.
“Hiraeth: A Saga of Loss and Longing” by Liem Kwie Fong—Justin’s nom de plume.
I recall that he asked me to review his first draft specifically as a favor, so it’s not like I’m obligated to read through and completely edit it for him. Though I do owe Justin much, too, so it’s the least I can do to pay him back a bit. I’d also rather do this for him, lest I suffer all his theatrical sulking, sobbing, and crying—all the more reason to just suck it up and read the rhymed rambles he calls his poetries.
Opening my bag with a flick of its clasp, I jammed the script, sticky notes, clips, and everything else I held in my hands into it. When it seemed that everything was tight and secure within, only then did I decide to head out towards the door. Shoes? Loafers. Door? Locked. Stove? Didn’t even turn it– and I forgot to make myself a cup of coffee. Damn it, I knew something was off. Guess I’ll just buy some later. It’s still barely five, no need to rush.
On the way down, I briefly considered taking the Commuterline to work for the day. It’ll cut down on some time and well-needed cash, and it’s not like my office is that far off from the line’s station of origin. The notion, though, soon came to die as I pictured myself being packed into the herd that usually fills the morning trains. Yeah… car it is, then.
The trip down and to the parking lot was uneventful, and so was the short drive out and into the streets. Janitors, neighbors, the newbie security guard—same old views, same old faces. Slightly different feel and vibe to it each time, yes, but it’s not like the whole city had transformed itself within a single day.
The drive east and cross-city took longer than expected, though it could have been done in a fourth of that time had it been in another place. Still, one could argue that the slow crawl of traffic is a core part of Jakarta’s unique allure—if you can consider slugging through traffic as a charming affair, that is. Alas, the glass-laden building now only lies a block away. The Surya offices stood low yet proud among the high-rise around it. A stout pale blue in a tall forest of glass and gray. Eleven floors would be tall enough by the standards of any lesser city, but not for the beating heart and former capital of the country.
From the moment I got out of my car, there were still around fifty minutes before I could be considered late. The walk across the parking lot and into the lobby only takes a while, so clocking in on time will be a non-issue. Early, no matter who you ask, which means I can relax for some time before work starts.
“Ah, Senior! You’re already here.” A deep, silky voice calmly called out from behind me.
The sound of a door being shut prompted me to turn my head and see the source of the familiar voice. The tan-skinned man came to approach with an orderly cadence in his steps, gray jacket in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He’s easily half a foot taller than me, and I, for one, am usually counted as above average. I always wondered how such a well-built man could fit inside a regular car, let alone inside that tiny Wagon R he drives around.
“G’morning, Matias.” I nodded, flashing him a smile.
“Early as always, huh, Senior?” He extended his right arm. “Coffee?”
“Mm, you’ve got talent as a psychic, it seems. Thanks.”
My hand grasped the cup of coffee, guiding it to my lips so I could enjoy the contents inside. I made sure to savor the taste before handing the cup back to its owner. Ah, Robusta, how I’ve longed for your bittersweet reprieve.
The man now walking beside me is Matias Leimena. Two years my junior, Alumni of the University of Indonesia’s Faculty of Law, and now working as one of the few illustrators Surya’s daringly offered a long-term contract. He’s practically a permanent employee, at this point.
Why did we hire a law student as an illustrator, you may ask? Well, it’s simply because he enjoys drawing more than he enjoys arguing nonsense in courtrooms. That, and the fact that he also draws better than 90% of the ISI[3] graduates who now free-float in the market.
Plus I’m pretty sure the boss intends to save a few million in the unlikely case we ever get sued since he’s well aware that Matias—in spite of his passions and profession—is still a bona fide, fully-certified advocate.
“Strange,” he muttered, “I thought Justin would’ve come with you.”
I looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “And why is that? I hadn't seen him since he went out with you yesterday.”
“We drank, we sang, we ate.” Matias nodded along as he recounted last night’s events. “Then he called a cab back; said he’d sleep at your place.”
“Well, he certainly didn’t sleep at my place— Oh."
“Damned playboy,” said he, at once.
“Damned gigolo,” said I, at once.
We both let our laughs loose as we entered through the rear of the building, though mine was more of a chortle when compared to Matias' haughty, unbound laughter. Marble floors and faux chandeliers of frosted glass greeted our eyes the moment we stepped foot on the sparsely-populated main lobby.
Matias walked towards the elevator, heading for the creative spaces above. I, on the other hand, began walking up the stairs, toward the main offices on the second floor.
“Lunch at twelve like always, Senior?” Matias asked.
“Only if the gigolo comes to work, else I’m going to be stuck doing his job!” I said with a sardonic tone, which Matias chuckled at, yet we both knew that the possibility of said scenario was very real. Too real, in fact. So much so that I’m certain that he’d probably call a day off to spend time with… whoever was with him last night.
I continued up the stairs and down the office area, past the array of cubicles and desks sprawled across. Interns nodded politely as I passed, while the full-fledged employees either greeted me with a smile or stared at me with contempt. And the Director… seems he’s not here yet, no signs of life within his partitioned space of the office.
It was only a few steps away from the office floor, yet I had finally arrived. The main editors’ office—used by Team A—is stowed neatly on the floor’s corner, with the entrance directly across the outermost windows. I heard from the old-timers that it used to be a conference room, but the higher-ups eventually figured out a company of our nature needs working spaces more than it needs eight separate meeting rooms.
Alas, I breathed out as I pushed the door open.
And so the day begins.
“Oi! Aren’t you listening to me?! It’s the fourth time you’ve done this!” A feminine voice screamed out, contrasting her usually calm demeanor.
“And it’ll be the fourth time I’ll pay you back, Rin. Just shut up and let me work, will you? I’ll grab another one later, same flavor and all.“ said he, still staring at his monitor with a cup of yogurt (not his, obviously) in hand. Well, at least this one’s acting like usual.
Tired of her co-worker’s antics, she slammed her slender hands on her end of the desk. “Lunch will be over by the time you’re back, so no!”
Yep, the day’s definitely begun. So much for “relaxing for some time.” Thanks for the jinx, me.
“Good morning, you two,” I promptly spoke, which made them turn their heads to me.
“Mornin’, Raka,” answered the man sitting down.
“Raka!” Rin hurriedly paced, approaching. “The temp’s done it again!”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Uncaring of her accusation, the “temp” in question just shrugged it off.
I lightly sighed, “Arya’s been a full hire for months by now, Rin, so stop calling him a temp.”
“See? Even he’s with me.”
Right. Ever since he’s been hired full-time, that cocky, laissez-faire character of his has been at full display. It’s not that I necessarily dislike his attitude since it hasn’t really affected our group’s performance, but I wonder if there’s any way to mess with–
All of a sudden, the idea came to mind, like a whispering wind passing through my ears—and frankly, I agree with the wind.
“Who said I was ever with you?” asked I, inching ever closer to him. “If I remember correctly, the corner store nearby serves a decent cup of coffee. Grab me one on your way to get her yogurt, and be quick with it, alright?”
“Wha–“
I stopped only a few hairs away from him, practically whispering in his ear. “Remain longer, and I’ll make sure that the boss hears about these… uncouth antics of yours, then you’ll find yourself working with an even worse crowd than the temps. Of course, you know who I’m talking about. Right, Arya?”
“No, sir...”
“The interns.” At the mention of the word, I can hear him hold back a gulp. “Hot, black, and none of that canned Nescafé stuff—I want it brewed straight from the barista, you hear?.”
“Go.”
Arya quickly rose from his chair, his shoulder unknowingly grinding against my cheek. That’s how close I had stood next to him—if anyone wondered.
Stiffly, he answered “Yessir,” before he walked away.
“Good.” I winked at Rin, and she answered in kind. “Justin might come late today, so you’ll report to me until he arrives.”
As I walked to my desk, though, I could practically feel Rin hesitating whether to ask me her question or to just leave the matter be. In the end, her curiosity got the better of her.
“Raka, about Mr. Justin… Is it true that he–“
“Yeah, it seems.” Sorry, Justin, but it seems your reputation already precedes you.
The moment I sat down, I had hoped that nothing else was going to go wrong today.
One more day without you, huh? So much for staying by my side whatever it takes.
-◃⬥▹-
It only took around two hours from the start of the workday for the "untimely" commotion to happen, so around half-past nine. The cup of coffee on my desk was already half-drunk, and it’d become as cool as the air-conditioned room it’d sat in. There’s still no sign of my immediate supervisor, so I thought it was safe to assume that he’s probably too hungover to work for the day. Either that, or he’s still tucked in beside whoever had kept him company last night.
Three-quarters of my share of work was already done, and nothing interesting had come to my mind the whole time—as usual. And thus, I decided to take a walk down the portico. The front parking area is already full, yet it pales when compared to the shifting maze of the underground lots. Several of my colleagues—most of whom are from the creative department—now mingle with the two or three security guards posted at the front, sharing their own grumbles and gossip over their shared liking for cigarettes. I would’ve joined them, but theirs is an affection that I no longer share.
The warm air kept me comfortable as I made my way back, snugly so. Some say the heat here is unbearable, but I prefer this to the numbing cold inside. Might as well turn the office into a walk-in freezer, if they insist on keeping the thermostat at that temperature. I would like to step away from the shade if I wanted to warm myself, but the sun out there truly is scalding.
“Midas.” A familiar voice called from behind, followed by the sound of a cane striking concrete immediately after.
“Director.” I turned, only to find him already prepared to catch my eye. “Smoke break, sir?”
The stout man nodded, and his forehead wrinkled as he raised his eyebrows. “Already finished. Where were you when I needed your company?”
I responded with a chuckle, and the old man took it in good spirits.
Director Sanca’s name is known to bring awe and envy should it be mentioned to those who dabble in the literary scene. The media likes to portray him as a humble man who casts a giant’s shadow, leading a hundred stars under the banner of the sun that is Surya. He used to write himself—satirical fiction, if I remember right—but he later discovered that he’s got more of a knack for making people do certain things for him instead. People who didn’t share his vision doubted that he could compete with the big leagues when he first started, yet those same people now could only stare upon the media empire Sanca Suryabuana has built over the past two decades.
A bit stingy when it comes to giving bonuses and benefits, but hey, no boss is perfect.
“Fine, you can walk with me to make up for it.” He gestured towards the front entrance.
He stood tall despite the cane and his short stature, and it made me straighten my posture just out of instinct. The Director led the way to the entrance, speaking no word until he stepped aside to let me do the honors of opening the door for him. Then, only after he entered, did he begin to speak about a thing other than courtesy.
“This day’s a good day, Midas. We’ve got stars shooting at us today.” The Director said, amused.
“Stars?” I asked, quickly remembering the grand event that’s on today’s company calendar. “The Sayembara[4] is being held today, sir?”
“Today ‘til tomorrow—the date’s advanced by a week, yes. Auditioned talent, scouted talent, and anyone who we couldn’t hire on long-term for one reason or another.” A smile formed on his face, ear to ear, and I immediately knew what’s on this geezer's mind.
“You should join us for this year, we still have a vacancy on the board of judges. It’s always a lot of fun when one of the lads happens to find interestingly good or amusingly bad submissions. Your insights on the matter should be valuable too, no doubt.”
“I’ve got enough on my plate for the day, sir. If you wish to know why, though, you can blame Justin for not coming in to work today.” I shook my head as we both headed up the stairs. I believe I’ve made my intentions clear.
Most of the submissions are bound to be from want-to-be novelists who wish to do no different than their idols, anyway. To be precise, the semiannual Sayembara’s group of contestants is made up of those who are, truth be told, unqualified for this cut of work, so in the end, it just becomes a PR stunt to make Surya seems like an open and approachable company instead of the creative battlefield it is. Hell, in the five years since it’s been held, only two authors from the open auditions have ever completed their works to the point of publication.
Besides, made-up stories like that are not my forte—no longer.
“Kwie Fong? Ah, here’s the important thing about him.”
I didn’t realize those outside the lobby had turned their heads to see the driveway leading up to the office’s porte-cochere. Their sights were already locked in awe, but it was only after the distinct, roaring sound of a car’s revving engine did I—and the rest of the lobby—turned to see what was going on.
The white supercar had already slowed down as it approached the front of the building, yet it’s somehow still loud enough to be heard from the lobby itself. The car’s windows were tinted dark black, and the bull sigil on its hood reflected the light that came from the noon sun.
“Whoa, that Gallardo’s one hell of a looker,” commented one of the interns behind me.
“That ain’t a Gallardo, smartass. That’s a Murcielago, LP670 to be precise.” The man beside him was quick to correct. Couldn’t see his face, but I’m willing to bet a full hundred thousand[5] that it’s Cakra from Accounting: our resident car nerd.
“Yeah, yeah. But more importantly, though, what’s that doing here?”
The man’s question was soon answered as the car’s doors came to open, revealing the pair of driver-passenger inside. One of them was a beautiful forty-something woman still in her pajamas, and the twenty-four-year-old who came out of the passenger seat was a familiar face to the office’s denizens.
His mess of wavy black hair covered the upper parts of his face, yet his handsome visage remained visible even from afar. He turned back to the car, grabbing the steel gray blazer that he’d worn yesterday. The white turtleneck he’s wearing though, that’s new (either she bought it just for him or it belongs to the lady’s husband/ex-husband, pick one). He said his farewells to the woman, and she went in for a kiss before being promptly rejected by her one-night paramour. At least he’s still abiding by our office’s “no-PDA” rule, regardless of whether he’s doing it intentionally or not.
“I was lying about the smoke break, Midas. In truth, I had gone outside and called Justin to remind him what day today is, and that I'd denied his request for the day off.” Director Sanca smiled as he whispered, enjoying the scene being played out in front. “Kwie Fong’s never missed the Sayembara since the day I hired him, and I’m not letting that streak of his be broken today just because some wench with a troubled marriage wanted a toyboy to warm her bed.”
I chuckled, enjoying the same scene that the Director had masterfully crafted. Knowing Justin, though, I think he doesn’t care about the crowd that’s watching his grand arrival nor the pay cut that he would’ve received. Frankly, I don’t even think he’d care about anything else other than not missing out on the Sayembara.
The crowd parted at Justin’s path, like a womanizer Moses splitting the Red Sea of astounded employees. His eyes were fully open, his breath erratic; the tips of his fingers trembling to the point that it practically vibrated.
“That’s one way to make an entrance, Mr. Managing Editor.” Director Sanca jovially clapped, silencing the crowd. “The rest of you, clear up and go back to work.”
The gathering on both floors of the lobby dispersed at the Director’s word, leaving Justin to calmly approach the two of us. Staring at him this closely, it’s obvious that he’d barely been awake for an hour or so. Definitely not the ideal condition one would go to work in.
“Urgh… Fu-” Justin continued to pant, cursing under his breath. “Screw… you, boss.”
Unamused, Director Sanca raised an eyebrow. “Oh-ho, is that how you talk to the man whose hand feeds you?”
He turned around, guiding his cane one step above him and onto the stairs. “Use the showers on the third floor and clean yourself up—half an hour tops. I’m expecting you to be punctual this time around.”
Nodding once, he stopped briefly to dismiss us before continuing up. “Midas. Kwie Fong.”
Seriously, old man, what’s with you and candidly calling people by their pen names?
The lobby returned to the usual quiet, save for the erratic mess that now stands beside me. After he managed to calm himself down, Justin straightened his posture as he stretched his arms upwards. I had only guessed that he’d just woken up, but now I know for sure that he did just wake up a few moments ago.
“So, Raka…” His eyes started to wander onto me. “The only works I’ve got left aside from Anne’s projects are minor revisions and a single editorial for this week’s issue.”
I answered his stare with a dull one of my own. “I don’t believe I quite understand what you mean, Mr. Managing Editor.”
“Do them for me, please?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Is that how you talk to the man whose hands feed you?” Justin let out a short chortle.
“I’ll do half, sure, but on the condition that you pay for today’s lunch.”
“No biggie.” Justin groaned as he set his arms down. “Just for the two of us, right?”
“Well, Matias had already asked me to join him, and I’m sure the rest of the fourth-floor artisans would like to have their lunch paid for as well.”
“Wh- Fuck, fine.”
“Heh, you’re welcome.”
-◃⬥▹-
Cirrus streaked proud and high across the sea of red, and the clear sky allowed the light to brush the open park with an ocher hue. The workday is done and all have gone home, for dusk is now upon us.
The puzzle of cars on the streets below shifted, and new pieces came to fill the gaps between traffic. Black, silverish gray, some colored, yet most kept their paint of white. White. What is it with car owners choosing white? It’s inoffensive, sure, but some would argue that it’s just another word for boring. In regards to practicality, I’m sure white does nothing but attract bird shi–
“Sh-shit!”
I flinched forward as I felt something wet brushing against my exposed neck. It was cold—chillingly so, followed by a ticklish sensation that wormed its way down the collar and onto my back.
As I turned, Justin’s pleased visage as he cackled on was the object of my immediate attention. It seems that he’s not the only one having fun at my displeasure, as some of those populating the food court around us have also joined in making my reaction a part of their evening entertainment. Ha ha.
“Has your mother never told you not to cuss?” Said the man in front of me, handing over the cup of boba tea that had become the source of my embarrassment.
“Yeah, yeah. Thanks.”
As I began shaking the cup in my hands ever so slightly, I took note of my surroundings. The food court was pretty much packed, with only a few chairs lacking in occupancy and no tables that remained empty. Hence, Justin and I are forced to stand near the windows. The noise isn’t all that bad, all things considered, though I would still prefer sitting down at a nice cafe or the like as opposed to slogging through the line we just went just to get two cups of overhyped milk tea.
“So, anything interesting today?" I asked.
“Nothing much, really, just the usual,” replied Justin after he gulped down the mixture of tea, milk, and tapioca down his gullet. “Although, there was this one ghost submission which was pretty good. Don’t know why, but I swear I saw the colors drain from Anne’s face when she read that piece.”
“Ghost submission? Interesting for sure, but a little bit… odd, if I may say.”
“Eh, pretty sure it’s just some established writer trying to pull a smart one on us. Kinda boosts their ego a bit when a written review of their one-shot gets posted in our social media in a positive light.”
“Nothing that should worry you, though,” Justin continued as he basked in the passing breeze. “None of them are good enough for Sanca’s standards, and that’s one hell of a guarantee if I’ve ever seen one.”
“For the day, yes…”
I could practically feel the man beside me rolling his eyes and holding back a groan. “Always the pessimist, aren’t you?”
“Works so far for me. Can’t see a reason why I should see the world in a lens of sunshine and rainbows when I’m always prepared for whatever storm, riots, annoying bosses, and wildfires that come my way.”
"Besides, I have my ever-reliable junior watching my back in case said annoying boss decides on having me work on fics, right?”
“Ah, always with the tongue of silver.” Justin let out a chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “With words like yours, you could run for election and not worry about the Sayembara at all. Hell, earn yourself a nice seat in the lower house and some grease money for a change—use ‘em to fund Sanca’s early retirement for all I care. The world can use one less hyper-overachiever of a superior.”
“Tempting, but then who’d cover for you when you arrive in the office chauffeured by another auntie? Would be a hell of a different day in the office when the Managing Editor finally gets what’s due for his… adulterous behavior.” I flashed a smirk at the thought, entertaining his imaginative proposal with a response in kind.
Justin briefly grinned at my response, though it wasn’t long before his countenance shifted to a flurried expression of discomfort that I can’t really describe. He stayed silent for a few moments, before finally deciding on how to cohere his worries.
“Well…” He paused momentarily—if only to take a moment to straighten his back from slouch. “A different day will come regardless, and it could be sooner than we may think.”
I raised an eyebrow, piqued by this side of his that he rarely displays—no jokes, no snark, just… him being straight. Whatever Justin’s thinking about must’ve worried him for a while. Moreover, if he decides to tell me about it.
“Anything I should know?”
“Company’s in hot waters, mas[6], something to do with the investors being disappointed in the lack of innovation that we’re bringing. ‘Profits be damned’, they say. Well, I guess that’s a negative of the Director’s decision to only take investors who completely share his desire for change in the industry.”
I let out a sigh, having a guess at where this all might go. ”And Sanca’s thinking that another reshuffle of the creative department might do the trick, right?”
“Worse,” he uttered. “He’s thinking of replacing some of those that he sees as burnt-outs. Throw the nine-to-fives out, take new talents and their fresh ideas in—that kind of stuff. That’d obviously slog our current projects, but Sanca and the investors don’t give two fucks about it nor the people they’d put out of jobs if it means Surya returns to being the avant-garde that it used to be.”
“Doesn’t make any sense, at the very least. Foolish, even,” I said.
“You’re reading my part of the script here, dumbass. Though regardless of how we share our thoughts on the matter, it still doesn’t change anything. The Devil may care about what made Sanca seriously consider such a thing in the first place, but—no offense—you’re honestly this close to being Sanca’s bullseye this time around, Raka.”
Justin turned towards the nearest trash can, throwing the emptied plastic cup right inside from some three meters away.
“And don’t get any ideas on him underestimating you or the way you work, mind you. Fuck, I can’t even count how many times he’s praised your potential as a writer.” Justin continued. “But that’s exactly the part Sanca hates about you. He knows that you’re purposefully limiting yourself, and that makes you worse than a regular old Joe in his eyes.”
“A liability,” I added.
“Exactly.”
“With how things are going, it’s a catch-22.” I slurped the boba tea down to the last drop, letting the straw noisily suck out the remaining air inside the cup. “C’est la fucking vie.”
“I’ll still try to back you up, even if that means sharing the bullseye with you.” Justin paused to take a breath, letting it out as a sigh. “But if he doesn’t budge, just know that compromise is the only alternative to your express highway to unemployment. I can’t risk my job, after all. Got mouths to feed beside my own.”
As silence took over our conversation, my eyes set sight on the setting sun. Glistening, glimmering—beautiful to most.
Still, its brazen ocher means nothing to one who no longer attributes meaning to it.
“Thanks, Justin.”
“You’re very much welcome. Though, honestly, I’d just tell you to suck it up and just let your imagination conjure something up for once in a while.”
“God, what am I saying?” Justin went to correct himself, seemingly out of the blue to those who didn’t know better. “I didn’t mean that, Raka. Sorry, I’m just… tired, that’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah. No biggies.”
Suck it up, huh? That’s the easy part, if I may say. Writing a thousand words worth of my own thoughts a day sounds like an easy enough task, and it’s not like I haven’t tried doing so in my lifetime. But the question is…
How did I do it?
How did he do it?
How do I do it?
-◃⬥▹-
[1] - Seiko SBDC091, commonly referred to as the Prospex Alpinist. It’s a limited-edition field watch sought after mostly by outdoorsmen, which is quite the odd choice for a guy whose job mostly involves him sitting around all day.
[2] - A district of South Jakarta that borders the city of Depok; home to the University of Indonesia’s infamously-haunted dormitories.
[3] - Acronym of the Indonesian Institute of the Arts (Institut Seni Indonesia; ISI).
[4] - Indonesianized form of “Svayamvara”; reference to the Indian marriage ceremony where a groom is chosen from a group of suitors.
[5] - 100,000 Indonesian Rupiah (IDR), or about 6 freedom bucks. Yes, the Indonesian currency is that inflated.
[6] - Javanese for “older brother”, a Javanese masculine honorific used to generally refer to people who are slightly older or people who are one’s senior in a social setting. Kind of similar to the “-san” honorific used in Japanese.