Day job
Bruce Emond
When Yon came through the door, there was only Lingga in the front room, curled up on the floor studiously watching a cartoon on the TV.
"What's up?" Yon said, putting his bags down and ruffling his nephew's hair.
The boy looked up, smiling shyly and glancing toward the kitchen, before turning back to the hazy, flickering image on the screen.
Yon strode to the back, past the table which had seen better days, bearing the chips and stains left by eight children, plus their children, now deposited here as their parents looked for work in Jakarta.
His mother was in the back, huddled down on the floor sifting through vegetables. He stood in the doorway for a moment watching her; with her lips pursed, her skin leathery and blotchy with age, she looked much older since his father died a year ago.
"Ma," he said slowly, so as not to startle her.
She turned and got up slowly, touching his arm and nuzzling him slightly.
"You're back, finally," she said. "You should have called Mrs. Sri next door to let me know, I would have made your favorites."
"I didn't have the time, I could only get off work now," he said quickly, leading her by the arm to the front room, where his bags lay.
They sat down and, like a magician pulling out an ever more startling array of surprises, Yon revealed the contents of the bags.
There were candies and toy cars for Lingga and Heri, another one of his nephews; a dress with a flowered pattern for Ratih, his oldest brother's daughter who stayed in the house; and some body lotion in a pretty bottle for Retno, his sister, the only one still at home.
Last of all, carefully wrapped in a black plastic bag, was a prayer shawl. It was a pure, creamy white, decorated with frilly embroidery around the edges.
His mother stroked the shawl, surveying the spoils of her son's return. Slowly, a frown formed on her face.
"It's so much, Yon. Where did you get it all?" she said slowly, her voice bearing a tone of concern and apprehension.
"I've been working, ma. I told you. And don't worry, it's all above board."
"But where? Why can't we call you at work? Your brother, Agus, let's us call him at the factory."
Yon gave a short sigh.
"I can't do that, ma, I told you why. In sales, you have to move around to new offices every day. I'll give you my number when I get one."
She was quiet for a moment.
"As long as you're doing OK and everything you're doing is halal, then I'm happy," she said, getting up.
Yon stayed silent, his eyes turning to Lingga setting up a car race on the floor, his mouth bulging with candy.
He glanced out the window, and there was his mother, proudly showing Mrs. Sri her new clothes.
* * *
When Yon alighted the bus in a driving downpour at the bus station all those months ago, he had Rp 150,000 to his name, a bag of clothing and the address of his father's younger brother.
All the rest of his siblings, except for Retno, were here amid the glittering skyscrapers, the city of wide streets where they had come to make their fortune.
Eventually, all of them had become satpam (security guards), for none was a high school graduate and it was about all they could do.
Yon's father had tried to get each of them into the army, like their cousins, beginning with Agus, then Budi, Iskak, Johny and Broto, selling off another parcel of land every year in order to pay the fee to secure them a place.
But each time they failed, each rejection letter crushing their father a bit more. And then there was no more land to sell.
Yon had been the good one out of the boys, staying in school and earning his diploma.
"You can do something with this," his father had declared as he held the document. "Uncle Tantowi will get you a place in the army, you see."
So he had come all this way, a small piece of paper with Uncle Tantowi's address clutched in his hand, the ink blurred and forming a jagged inscription in the palm of his hand.
When he had arrived at the modest but neat home in the military complex in South Jakarta, it was already late in the evening.
A woman cautiously opened the door.
"He's not here tonight," she said to his enquiry. "He's on assignment in the provinces. Let me get his wife."
She closed the door behind her, and it was a good 10 minutes before it reopened. This time, peering from behind the servant, was a fleshy older woman, her hair tied up in a turban.
She looked him up and down from the safety of the doorway, and then said, "Your uncle isn't here, he won't be back for another week".
Yon was confused; his father had told him he had sent a letter informing his brother that he would be coming.
"I just wanted to talk to him about getting entry to the army," Yon said, stammering slightly from discomfort.
The woman came forward, gesturing for him to take a seat in one of the two rattan chairs on the porch. Nobody in his family had ever met his uncle's wife (the second one, after his divorce), for they never returned to the village now, too busy to make the journey home.
He realized that she was scrutinizing him once again, a sneer forming on her face.
"We get so many people coming here asking for your uncle's help," she said, in a patronizing tone. "We have a full house right now, sorry to say. But you can stay in the garage, if you wish."
He could tell that she, really, did not wish it. Yon stood up, said thank you but no, he would rather stay with his brother than be an imposition on her.
And he took his bag and headed out into the night.
* * * *
He knew that he could not go to his brothers, for it would be too embarrassing to show up on their doorsteps, wet and bedraggled, having been turned away by their famous uncle.
He stood on the street for a while, wondering where to go next, until a taxi slowed down and stopped a few meters from him.
"Where do you wanna go?" the driver asked, peering out of the front passenger window.
Yon thought for a moment.
"Senayan," he answered, remembering the famous stadium.
"OK, let's go then."
Yon got in, sitting back comfortably as the driver talked a blue streak. He, too, was from Tegal, and as they talked Yon temporarily forgot his disappointment and the hunger gnawing at his stomach.
"Here it is," the driver said, turning back to him and pointing to the taxi meter, shining out the digits "Rp 82,500".
He could not believe it was so much.
"How come ...?"
"Hey, don't start making trouble with me," the driver said, his tone suddenly angry and insistent.
Yon could do nothing but pay, getting out of the vehicle as the driver shouted "country bumpkin" after him.
He wandered around the sprawling complex, ghostly quiet at night. Near the road there was a clump of trees, and he entered, finding a spot where he put down his bag and lay on the ground, falling asleep.
When he awakened, he realized that he was not alone. Sleeping in hammocks between the trees were men like him, with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
"What you doing here, son?" a man said, coming out from behind a tree.
Yon looked down at the ground, strewn with sachets of antimosquito ointment.
"You need work, like the rest of them, don't you?" the man said gently.
Yon nodded.
"Well, I can help you out there."
* * * *
Yon got ready for work. He ran a comb through his hair, put on his clean shirt from the branch above him and, as the darkness sprinted away, he gingerly made his way out of the clump of trees.
He walked the few hundred meters to the main road, taking up his position on the street.
A car pulled up, the driver leaning over and gesturing for Yon to get in.
He sat in the front seat, and the car sped away.
Yon glance in the side mirror at the bespectacled man in the back; the man caught his gaze, shifting uneasily in his seat and tugging his briefcase a bit closer to him.
"Here," the driver said, stopping the car and shoving a Rp 5,000 note into his hand.
Yon got out of the car, and stood on the street, waiting for his next ride to come by. Out of his pant pocket, he pulled out a gleaming gold watch. It was another day's work done.