The Last Stop

Aris woke before dawn, took a towel from the hook behind the door, and dragged himself to the bathroom. The water turned freezing cold during the rainy season, but he was used to it. The rush of water swept a cockroach onto the rusted drain cover. The insect paddled for a moment before slipping through the gap beneath the bathroom door. Lucky thing. He would’ve crushed it if he’d seen it.

He went to the mosque for dawn prayer. His shirt was never ironed. He simply hung it up after it dried to keep it from wrinkling. He had been wearing the same trousers for two days. He changed his socks once a week and never had a regular routine for cleaning his shoes. It was raining heavily when he left home at 6:05.

Fifteen minutes later, he reached the station and forced his way into a packed train, squeezing toward the middle of the carriage. With one hand wrapped around the overhead rail, he kept his balance against the steady pressure of passengers pressing in from every side. He stayed that way for the entire journey, watching the rain and thinking about the same things he had thought about yesterday and every day before that.

He arrived at the office at 7:22 with his clothes half soaked. He left his umbrella on the terrace beside the pantry, slid his bag beneath his desk, and changed into flip-flops. He had hoped to read for a few minutes before work, but several urgent notes were already waiting on his desk.

He worked in the file section, handling requests, organizing records, logging them, and returning every file to its proper place. The work sounded simple enough, but it demanded patience, precision, and physical endurance. He handled twelve requests that morning alone. By 8:30, when the morning rush began, more than a dozen staff members were already waiting to borrow files.

He never gave priority to people who arrived late, even when they dropped the names of managers or directors, and people respected him because of it. If a file couldn’t be found—usually because it hadn’t been returned or had ended up on someone else’s desk—he simply told them to retrieve it themselves.

The requests came almost without pause. If he wanted to eat lunch, he had to lock the file room. He often ate inside the cramped room, and sometimes locked himself in just to rest for a while, leaving people to wait outside or slip their request forms onto his desk.

During his first year and a half, he worked alongside a senior employee who had already spent four years there. Two years later, the man was transferred to another department on the third floor, and Aris had worked alone ever since. By now, he had spent almost as much time in the department as his senior had when they first met, but with twice the workload.

Time passed quickly inside that room. When no one needed him, it was quiet. There was only him, the work, and Sheila on 7. He stepped out only to use the bathroom and pray Asr before disappearing back into the files—logging them, organizing them, and putting them away.

The office closed at five, but he kept his own hours. After preparing the files needed for the next day’s requests, he spent the remaining time reading before heading home. He had loved books since college. All kinds of books. For the past week, he had been trying to finish his first novel in English.

At 5:28, the cleaner came by to sweep around his desk, collect the trash, and switch off the lights in the empty room next door.

He left at 7:30, reading on the bus and again while waiting for the train. Although the carriage was no longer crowded and he managed to find a seat, his tired eyes wouldn’t let him read for long. He spent the rest of the journey thinking about the same things he had thought about that morning, yesterday, and every day before that.

He had a law degree. He should have been working in legal, or somewhere close to it, instead of spending his days in a narrow room. But he wasn’t the kind of person who put himself first. His father would retire the following month. One younger sibling was still in college, while another was in the second year of junior high school. Supporting the family on his current salary would be nearly impossible unless he found a better job. Or started a business. Those thoughts stayed with him on the way to work and on the way home.

He arrived at Bekasi Station at 9:11 and joined the stream of weary faces heading for the exit, where motorcycle taxi drivers called out their offers. He waved them away with a raised hand.

“My house is close.”

He crossed a busy road, turned off the main street, and followed the dark road behind the riverside buildings. Trees lined the way, their leaves rustling in the wind. He passed a parking area for scavengers’ carts and a row of food stalls. At the fifth intersection, he turned back toward the main road, climbed the pedestrian bridge, crossed the quiet highway, and stopped at the corner of a shophouse for a plate of siomay.

Three bicycle vendors sold siomay there, all supplied by the same kitchen. He stopped there at least twice a week after work. Three times if he was really craving it.

Though he came often enough, he never got to know any of the vendors or feel the urge to talk to them. For ten thousand rupiah, he got a plate of siomay every bit as good as the one he had eaten at Cikini Station a year earlier.

As he ate, nothing else occupied his mind. There was only the siomay, the potatoes, the cabbage, the tofu, and the quiet of that place. (AR)