His house, I think, bears the landmarks of a man living alone, and liking it that way. There is simply no space left for somebody else. Not even a cat. And most definitely, not even me.
Let me tell you what his house looks like. It looks like him. Quiet and seemingly empty, but full of unspoken ideas. The living room is barren except for a single-seated sofa, but lying on the floor are his knick-knacks: an old Pentium II laptop, his desktop computer hovering over a keyboard which is its lifelong partner, the remains of a PDA we took apart one night because I wanted to see what it looked like inside out. I know what is inside his computers too, and that is why I know the seemingly empty room was full of unspoken ideas.
Like the owner who possesses very fair, porcelain skin, the house boasts immaculate white walls.
Like the owner who is quiet, distant and unreachable, the house is cold and private. I know not many people will be allowed here. And I know he’ll scrub off any signs of anybody ever entering his door, because he is a private man and he doesn’t like his territory crossed. Not even by a shadow of someone he loves.
“Did you pee all over the place?” I asked, observing that the house screamed the owner’s name wherever I looked. He laughed, and said he almost did, for the sake of marking his one and only private territory in the whole wide world.
Other landmarks of a man living alone and forever wanting to be left unbothered include the minimum number of towels available, no cups, only 2 glasses (“One to be used when I am too lazy to wash the other”), no high-carbohydrate food in sight, and no coffee. Because he doesn’t drink coffee. And he has forgotten that I do.
His bedroom is nice: this is where he reads, and sleeps, and watches movies. I looked through his books when he was not looking. He owns many computer books I never touched in a lifetime, because I am an electrical engineer who knows nada about digital signal processing and a civil engineer might know more about it than me, and he is an accountant who knows the details of taxation and auditing and Berkeley API and WinSock and Java programming and reads MIT OpenCourseware site to amuse himself during his spare time. So his computer books didn’t surprise me. The ones that put a big lump in my throat was his new collection of books on a certain religion, the name of which is written somewhere across my ID card.
When I went there for the second time, he already bought a cup, with the word LEO and a picture of a lion imprinted on it. “For you,” he said, “for a person who is a lion by western horoscope, and a tiger by chinese horoscope, but always looks like a virgo to me.” And he already bought a tiny container of instant coffee. Because I think he doesn’t expect me to stay around long enough to finish a bigger bottle of instant coffee. Because I could finish his supply of coffee in five or six visits, and he doesn’t want me to visit him anymore after five or six occasions.
Then I told him not all virgos are virgins and not all virgins are virgos and not all virgos look like virgins and not all virgins look like virgos. Then he told me to hush up and lie closer to him and don’t say things which are confusing, or better yet, don’t say anything. Then he told me he would throw away the cup if I were no longer around because he wouldn’t allow anything belonging to me to be lying anywhere in his house.
The night was spent reading for a while then I could no longer read and I kept looking at him, figuring why things went wrong. Then I know everything had been wrong since day one, since the day I admitted that I didn’t understand why one plus one didn’t equal two.
Some of the night was spent in his arms talking for a while about how IBM took PwC shares some time ago and all business life and believe-you-me, he could really make corporate dispute stories really interesting even in bed in a quiet night in his arms.
Then the rest of the night was spent in deep kisses, asking each other why exactly things went wrong and why nothing could be done about it and why one plus one equalled four, most probably even more. And how he would really like one plus one to equal two and how much I too believed one plus one must equal two but in our case it just didn’t. Then we consoled each other and said it was okay, I am okay, are you okay?
I promised him I would leave without a trace, I would disappear from his life like a dream and he nodded and hugged me and kissed me and said I should take the damn cup with me. He promised not to make things difficult for me.
But I broke my promise. Because when he was fast asleep, I used my green-inked pen to write down my initials on the inside part of the door of his wardrobe. Tiny initials in the corner of the wooden panel. Hah. Leaving without a trace is so not me. I want him to remember me, with pain, or with joy, whichever he chooses. I’ll leave my trace allright. So I am childish, so what, sue me.
And he broke his promise too. Because he texted me this morning, only hours after he made the promise, saying “I have bought a bigger bottle of instant coffee I miss you please come around we can take the laptop apart this time.”
So maybe I’ll visit him again. In that house which bears the landmarks of a man living alone, and liking it that way. Where there is no space left for anybody else, not for a cat, not for a LEO cup. And most definitely, not even for a lion who is also a tiger but looks like a virgo.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
THEY’RE FINE. WE’RE FINE.
During an internet chat two days ago, Friend A asked: “How are your parents?” (or maybe it was “Are your parents okay?”) Anyway it was a simple question, but I deliberately chose to give it a slip.
Because simple as it was, I couldn’t readily answer that. Just like I couldn’t answer Friend B’s question a long time ago, which was “Are your parents divorced? Or separated? Why do they blah-blah-censored?”
Maybe Friend A didn’t really mean to go that far. Maybe he was simply asking whether my parents are well, in terms of their health. Still I couldn’t answer that, because just a few hours before that internet chat, my mom called long-distance, telling me about the surgery she’d have to go through at the end of this month.
“The biopsy went well. They removed a small tissue and examined it. Turned out that it was ‘suspicious’. Pre-cancer. So I’ll be having a surgery soon,” she said chirpily. She sounded as if she was telling me she would be having her usual hair-colour treatment or manicure.
“I’m doing fine. I’m very okay,” she assured me.
She was back in Jakarta yesterday, and this morning she ran out the house upon hearing my starting up Cathy. She wanted to say good-morning and have-a-nice-day. (She once told me she was so sorry that she couldn’t see me off to school everyday when I was in high school, because she always woke up an hour after I left).
This morning she smiled at me, asking whether I would like to bring some cakes to work. I looked at her, she was so beautiful, her mahogany hair was shining. Her light brown eyes were sparkling. I might be subjective, but to me she is an eye-candy.
Looking at her beaming, I couldn’t help thinking: is she being optimistic, or is she really okay? Is she pretending everything is fine, the way she pretends that her marriage is fine all these years?
And what should I do?
My dad acts like nothing bothers him either. Is he sure that mom will be okay? Is he worried about the surgery and all the implications it will bring to our lives? Or maybe he is just pretending, the way he did when he said “I didn’t hit my girl” after he hit me with his bare hands and a broom and saw me bleeding. The way he did when he said “What did you do? Did you fall off a chair?” upon seeing my bruises the next day. The way he did when he said “What do you mean? I never hit you,” when I said “no-I-didn’t-fall-off-a-chair-these-bruises-are-there-because-you-had-beaten-me-yes-you-really-beat-me-good.”
As for what I should do, I guess I’ll follow my mom’s lead. I’ll stay optimistic, or I’ll pretend that I’ll stay optimistic. I’ll tell Friend A that my parents are okay.
I’ll really be able to pull it off. Why shouldn’t I?
After all, I was raised by two great-pretenders.
Because simple as it was, I couldn’t readily answer that. Just like I couldn’t answer Friend B’s question a long time ago, which was “Are your parents divorced? Or separated? Why do they blah-blah-censored?”
Maybe Friend A didn’t really mean to go that far. Maybe he was simply asking whether my parents are well, in terms of their health. Still I couldn’t answer that, because just a few hours before that internet chat, my mom called long-distance, telling me about the surgery she’d have to go through at the end of this month.
“The biopsy went well. They removed a small tissue and examined it. Turned out that it was ‘suspicious’. Pre-cancer. So I’ll be having a surgery soon,” she said chirpily. She sounded as if she was telling me she would be having her usual hair-colour treatment or manicure.
“I’m doing fine. I’m very okay,” she assured me.
She was back in Jakarta yesterday, and this morning she ran out the house upon hearing my starting up Cathy. She wanted to say good-morning and have-a-nice-day. (She once told me she was so sorry that she couldn’t see me off to school everyday when I was in high school, because she always woke up an hour after I left).
This morning she smiled at me, asking whether I would like to bring some cakes to work. I looked at her, she was so beautiful, her mahogany hair was shining. Her light brown eyes were sparkling. I might be subjective, but to me she is an eye-candy.
Looking at her beaming, I couldn’t help thinking: is she being optimistic, or is she really okay? Is she pretending everything is fine, the way she pretends that her marriage is fine all these years?
And what should I do?
My dad acts like nothing bothers him either. Is he sure that mom will be okay? Is he worried about the surgery and all the implications it will bring to our lives? Or maybe he is just pretending, the way he did when he said “I didn’t hit my girl” after he hit me with his bare hands and a broom and saw me bleeding. The way he did when he said “What did you do? Did you fall off a chair?” upon seeing my bruises the next day. The way he did when he said “What do you mean? I never hit you,” when I said “no-I-didn’t-fall-off-a-chair-these-bruises-are-there-because-you-had-beaten-me-yes-you-really-beat-me-good.”
As for what I should do, I guess I’ll follow my mom’s lead. I’ll stay optimistic, or I’ll pretend that I’ll stay optimistic. I’ll tell Friend A that my parents are okay.
I’ll really be able to pull it off. Why shouldn’t I?
After all, I was raised by two great-pretenders.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
DRIVING LESSON
Driving with a friend of the opposite sex can be a challenge. If you are male, chances are your male friend won’t say a word when you force forward a zigzag path along a crowded road, but rest assured a female friend would scream a violent protest. The opposite also applies. Being a female of the species, I’m constantly under the scrutiny of male friends when it comes to driving.
None of my female friends says anything about my careful and methodically correct (read: super-slow) way of driving. They also have no objection on the way I always keep my hands precisely at the 12:45 clock position on the steering wheel. I have one more habit that my male friends find so disturbing: I only overtake other cars after very careful calculation, and most of the time I keep to my lane. No zig-zagging necessary, for I always take the right lane and I am patient enough not to change lane every time my lane got jammed.
I am so used to protests coming from male friends, most of which I don’t even pay attention to. But one of such protests still sticks in my mind more than 7 years since the first time I heard it. It was said by a male friend (well of course) upon noticing the way I tried to change lane (which was, and still is: 1. put my blinker on 2.look carefully where to go 3.come to a full, or near-full stop 4.wait patiently until the other car gives way).
This method is safe; yet doing it in Jakarta takes time and a patience level more than the normal human beings have.
After clicking his tongue impatiently, observing that none of the others drivers were willing to let me pass, he said in a nice tone: “Why don’t you roll your window all the way down, and show the world that you are a woman?”
Whydontchajustdropdead.
That was what I think. What on earth does being a female have to do with trying to change lane in a crowded Jakarta road? I never had the slightest thought to exploit my sex to get my way ahead of others. In all aspects of life. Yikes.
But something in me begged to try his advice. So I rolled down my window, and voila. One driver stopped and let me pass. Oh oh.
Now if only that dreadful selection committee will look at my papers and say: “Let’s take her in. She’s female.”
Fat chance.
None of my female friends says anything about my careful and methodically correct (read: super-slow) way of driving. They also have no objection on the way I always keep my hands precisely at the 12:45 clock position on the steering wheel. I have one more habit that my male friends find so disturbing: I only overtake other cars after very careful calculation, and most of the time I keep to my lane. No zig-zagging necessary, for I always take the right lane and I am patient enough not to change lane every time my lane got jammed.
I am so used to protests coming from male friends, most of which I don’t even pay attention to. But one of such protests still sticks in my mind more than 7 years since the first time I heard it. It was said by a male friend (well of course) upon noticing the way I tried to change lane (which was, and still is: 1. put my blinker on 2.look carefully where to go 3.come to a full, or near-full stop 4.wait patiently until the other car gives way).
This method is safe; yet doing it in Jakarta takes time and a patience level more than the normal human beings have.
After clicking his tongue impatiently, observing that none of the others drivers were willing to let me pass, he said in a nice tone: “Why don’t you roll your window all the way down, and show the world that you are a woman?”
Whydontchajustdropdead.
That was what I think. What on earth does being a female have to do with trying to change lane in a crowded Jakarta road? I never had the slightest thought to exploit my sex to get my way ahead of others. In all aspects of life. Yikes.
But something in me begged to try his advice. So I rolled down my window, and voila. One driver stopped and let me pass. Oh oh.
Now if only that dreadful selection committee will look at my papers and say: “Let’s take her in. She’s female.”
Fat chance.
Friday, September 03, 2004
CATH-LESS DAYS
The saying “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” doesn’t apply to me when it concerns my Cath. I never take her for granted. She is an old whiny girl, always craves for my attention, but I’m grateful to have her for these last ten (!!) years. Living in a middle of nowhere in Jakarta, I’ve become so reliant on her.
Last Friday, she was sent to a garage and the repair was estimated to take 1 week. Hence started my days without her. It means leaving the house at 5:30 AM like usual, but instead of driving, I walk my ass off for 20 minutes to the shuttle-bus stand.
The shuttle bus leaves the stand at 6:00 AM, which is of course a big joke. If you dare to drive out of the 7th Sector of Bintaro at 6:00 AM, then you’re asking for trouble. The traffic jam resembles Evil Hell (a.k.a Neraka Jahanam, nope I’ve never been there, thank you very much. But if God wants to torture us good, then the Evil Hell should feature Bintaro-type killer traffic jam.)
Actually the bus has a TV set, and the idea of watching the morning news before work kinda appeals to me, but I always end up not watching it. Most of the time I’d watch my own version of morning news inside my head.
The shuttle-bus takes the route of Bintaro – Pondok Indah – Sudirman – Senayan and back. I get off the bus at Ratu Plaza, and climb that weird-looking staircase to cross the road and get to the TransJakarta bus stand. The whole process of getting to the office takes about 1.5 hours, and I wonder how on earth am I to make the 7:00 AM classes without my Cathy. Impossible, really.
Going back home is an even bigger challenge. It takes about 2.5 hours, sometimes 3. The traffic resembles, again, the Evil Hell. While getting off the bus one night, I heard the bus driver sighed quietly, slowly: “Forgive me, forgive me God.”
Forgive us all indeed.
Oh and it just occurs to me that I don’t have a single picture of Cath.
PS: It’s confirmed: I can take Cath home this afternoon. I sure miss the old girl.
Last Friday, she was sent to a garage and the repair was estimated to take 1 week. Hence started my days without her. It means leaving the house at 5:30 AM like usual, but instead of driving, I walk my ass off for 20 minutes to the shuttle-bus stand.
The shuttle bus leaves the stand at 6:00 AM, which is of course a big joke. If you dare to drive out of the 7th Sector of Bintaro at 6:00 AM, then you’re asking for trouble. The traffic jam resembles Evil Hell (a.k.a Neraka Jahanam, nope I’ve never been there, thank you very much. But if God wants to torture us good, then the Evil Hell should feature Bintaro-type killer traffic jam.)
Actually the bus has a TV set, and the idea of watching the morning news before work kinda appeals to me, but I always end up not watching it. Most of the time I’d watch my own version of morning news inside my head.
The shuttle-bus takes the route of Bintaro – Pondok Indah – Sudirman – Senayan and back. I get off the bus at Ratu Plaza, and climb that weird-looking staircase to cross the road and get to the TransJakarta bus stand. The whole process of getting to the office takes about 1.5 hours, and I wonder how on earth am I to make the 7:00 AM classes without my Cathy. Impossible, really.
Going back home is an even bigger challenge. It takes about 2.5 hours, sometimes 3. The traffic resembles, again, the Evil Hell. While getting off the bus one night, I heard the bus driver sighed quietly, slowly: “Forgive me, forgive me God.”
Forgive us all indeed.
Oh and it just occurs to me that I don’t have a single picture of Cath.
PS: It’s confirmed: I can take Cath home this afternoon. I sure miss the old girl.
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