1995-… (2)

When the crowds murmured the frontman’s false note in the live podium, he acutely began to disinterest his surroundings. The false note was minor, but the shouting and booing tones are in major. Although he barely knows the frontman, he shared the same hate that the crowds give. He sets his foot and intention toward the exit door to enter a free air of carbonized oxygen that awaits him outside. A few hurried handshakes and goodbyes accompanied him before his foot slowly walks amid the crowd that does not acknowledge his presence, to the red door that guarding the crowd inside from the beggars and buskers in the outside world.

As the door opened, the rain showers the street and mixed its drops with the night wind that occasionally flew during this season, and in the time being, falls onto the olive nylon jacket he wore. The temperature in the dimmed light venue he was heading from was much colder and fresher than the windy and raining street outside. He had a thought that all of the streets should carry themselves with the air conditioner to make people stop complaining about how uneasy the air they were breathe.

The main street filled with the unrolled sleeves young workingmen, who killed their time in the desks or meeting room, from the sunup until sundown and sometimes until moon rise, unhappy and tired as the brown dirt on the back of their collar hinted. They walk in a rush as if they were fugitives. Many of them cried in the streets. One day, he once overheard their quarrels on the phone call, from the landlord or their loved ones. Yes, it seems odd that the loved ones would make their loved one cried. The odor of the fatigued sweats and droplets of saliva from their shouting leader-dressed micromanagers smelled when they lifted and opened the umbrella, in contrast to the suited and dressed-up youngsters behind that red door, featured with the alcohol-bearing smile and burden-free shoulders.

When he crossed the street, the traffic has gradually flowed with the neon green uniform jackets worn by the riders. The jackets often stitched with military-style insignia that resembles where they’re from and formed. The traffic is green although the traffic light still signing red. He soon remembered a story whom he heard from the riders that their jobs were delivering the food they never eat and hear, to the people they never know and see, and accept nothing but the credit in their phones which the rider can barter with some provisions to make their families meet their ends. The riders also said that they actually could afford a brand new car with forty-eight-month installments by doing that job, and left nothing but the idea that the car is a good investment for the family for the next sixty or seventy-two months; in a conditions that their wives or husbands doing a side hustle while their children doing the homework.

The moment after the street was crossed successfully, he ran to the side platform where the last train soon would be departed. Mixing himself with the crowd that seldom smiles, he made his way in a hurried fashion to sit in the seat, while remembering how often he had failed to sit when he encountered the much older granny that resembles his teacher walked slowly and set her gaze and foot to the vacant seat. Yet he fail again. The vacant seat was seated, and now he standing up with the crowd, stacking horizontally as the frozen sardine in the can. The seat was occupied by a much healthy younger man with an indifference looks, and the majority of the standing party attendees were an old and elderly man. Most of them carrying brown cardboard that carrying their clothes, which also can be served as their sleeping mat when they kicked out from their flat as he once has seen in the streets.

After a few train stations, some zebra crosses, a few walks, and a few taps on his phone, he stood up at the gate and it was the time when the neon green jacketed rider answered his call. Soon he was seen sitting in the back of the rider that welcomed him with a huge smile since the passenger‘s destination is in the same vicinity as the rider’s. They talked about three or four sentences while strolling the city road they both had well known by the heart.

The destination has been reached. The rider then parked his motorcycle in front of the wooden house at the end of the alley. The teak wood that formed the house was unfinished, the alley was dimly lighted, the fences were rusting, and the carport filled with scraps from the old car and whatnot. Of all that description, the rider soon provoked a judgment in his heart that he was transporting a ghost or a poor man who couldn’t afford the fare. Half awake and half asleep, the rider realized that by his judgment he was condemned guilty. The passenger really paid him both with real cash and its changes, plus the compulsory and obligatory thanks to him. Both the rider and passenger soon exchanged a farewell, and the latter rushed in the dash toward the front door hoping the rainwater that comes in the sudden not accumulating in his jacket’s hood.

“Peace be upon you. I am home.” He half-whispered in front of the door while knocking its glass, nervous as if a trooper reports his failed mission to his commander.

“Upon you too. Where have you been? It’s late,” answered by some elderly man that soon opened the door, whom the whisperer called father. The son answered nothing.

“How?” the dad asked.

The son struck for a while before he answers.

“I failed again.”

Pause.

“You have to. But, no need to worry,” the dad reassured his son with a firm words and nurturing looks, “at least, you remember to come home.”