The Last Stop

Aris woke up before dawn, took a towel from the hook behind the door, and dragged his feet to the bathroom. The rainy season made the water as cold as ice, but he was used to it. The rush of water from his bath knocked a cockroach onto the rusty drain cover. The insect paddled briefly in the puddle before managing to scurry out through the gap beneath the bathroom door. What a lucky cockroach! The man would have crushed it to death if he had seen it.

He performed the dawn prayer at the mosque. His shirt was not ironed, only hung up after drying so it would not wrinkle. He had been wearing the same trousers for two days, his socks were only changed after a week, and he had no fixed schedule for washing his shoes. Heavy rain fell as he left his house at 6:05 a.m.

He arrived at the station fifteen minutes later, forcing his way into a crowded carriage and slipping toward the middle. One hand gripping the overhead rail was enough to brace his body against the constant pressure of passengers squeezing in. He stood like that for the entire journey, watching the rain, thinking about the same things as yesterday and the days before.

He arrived at the office at 7:22 a.m., his clothes half-wet. He left his umbrella on the side terrace near the pantry, put his bag under his desk, and changed his shoes for a pair of flip-flops. He hoped to read a book for a moment before work, but several urgent notes were already waiting on his desk.

He was assigned to the file section as a staff member responsible for handling loans, organizing, recording, and arranging files. Though it sounded simple, the job required patience, precision, and physical strength. He handled twelve file loan requests quickly. During busy hours, which usually began at 8:30 a.m., dozens of staff would already be lining up to borrow files.

He never gave priority to those who came later, even if they invoked the names of managers or directors—and he was respected for that firmness. As for files that were difficult to find, usually not yet returned or already moved to another desk, he told them to retrieve them themselves.

The near-constant flow of work meant he could not have lunch unless he locked the file room door. He often ate lunch inside that cramped room, or sometimes deliberately locked himself in just to rest for a moment, letting staff wait or leave request slips on his desk.

In his first year and a half, he was accompanied by a senior who had been there for over four years. Two years later, the senior was transferred to another department on the third floor, and since then he had worked alone. Now, his time in that section had almost matched his senior’s when he first arrived—with twice the workload.

Time passed quickly in that room, very quiet when no one disturbed him. There was only him, the work, and songs by Sheila on 7. He only stepped out to use the restroom and perform the afternoon prayer, then returned to immerse himself in his work: organizing, recording, and arranging files.

The office closed at 5:00 p.m., but he had his own time to leave. After preparing files for the next day’s loans, he waited for the right moment to go home by reading a book. He had loved reading since college. Any book. For the past week, he had been trying to finish his first novel in English.

At 5:28 p.m., a cleaner came to sweep and collect trash beside his desk, then turned off the lights in the empty room next door.

He went home at 7:30 p.m., continuing to read his book on the bus and while waiting for the train. Even though the carriage was not crowded and he got a seat, his desire to read was hindered by his tired eyes. He spent his time thinking about the same things as that morning, yesterday, and the days before.

He was a law graduate who should have been working in legal or something similar, not confined to a narrow room. But he was not the type to put himself first. His father would retire next month, while one of his younger siblings was still in college and another was still in the second year of junior high school. It would be very difficult to be the sole breadwinner of the family relying on his current job, unless he could find a better one. Or start a business. Those were the kinds of things he always thought about during his commute to and from work.

He arrived at Bekasi Station at 9:11 p.m., moving out with other tired faces, greeted by a group of motorcycle taxi drivers offering their services at the exit gate. He passed them by, raising his hand and saying, “My house is close,” then crossed the slightly congested road, turned off the main street, walked along a dim road behind buildings by the river, lined with leafy trees whose branches rustled in the wind, passed a parking area for scavengers’ carts and a row of food stalls, turned toward the main road at the fifth intersection, climbed the pedestrian bridge, crossed the quiet highway, and then stopped briefly at the corner of a shop-house to buy a plate of siomay.

There were three siomay vendors there on bicycles, selling from the same kitchen. At least twice a week he stopped by on his way home from work. Or three times if he really craved it. Though it wasn’t exactly rare, he never got to know the vendors or felt the desire to chat. For ten thousand rupiah per portion, he got a taste no less delicious than the siomay at Cikini Station he had eaten a year ago. There was nothing else on his mind except enjoying each piece of siomay, potatoes, cabbage, tofu, and the quiet of that place—his final stop before continuing the last few hundred meters of his journey home.✦