Legionaries
Rama Lazuardi's
September 18th, 2018
At 04.27
FROM the Citizenship textbooks I studied in school, a legendary Greek philosopher, Aristotle, once referred to man as Zoon Politikon. The word zoon means 'animal', while polikon means 'society'. The combination of words is interpreted by many philosophers with the meaning that humanity is actually a social creature.
(Then, do you believe in that shit, Rama?)
Early in the morning like this, my mind was adventuring remembering the past. If people say, go through the passage of time. One time, I got a story from one of the seniors in the orphanage about my origins, I used to live in an orphanage. It is said that twenty years ago, I was found in the head of a stop, when I was a red baby, by the man who ran the orphanage. Yeah, that's how I heard it. So, if it wasn't for the orphanage's man, I wouldn't have known what my fate would be.
Were it not for the orphanage's male, I wouldn't have had the chance to get a formal education either. Unmitigated, up to the level of scholars as well. And, supposedly reportedly, were it not for the recommendation of the orphanage's managing man, I would not have easily broken through the recruitment selection of journalists in Metropolis, either, the newspaper office that— - even though it is not one of the most elite in the capital— - can at least be a springboard for young journalists like me.
The name of the orphanage's manager is Mr. Pri. Funny thing is, I have to be honest that in my entire life I have never seen her. There was a senior in the orphanage who said that Mr. Pri was a successful businessman who spread his wings to Europe. There is also a senior who told me that he was a drug lord who tried to study medicine to China—this story was clarified by the description of Pak Pri's face that resembled Chinese. I don't know, I can't confirm the truth myself. I don't want to swallow people's stories. As for who he is and where he is now, it no longer matters. For me, Mr. Pri remains the only social creature I have ever met in this world. Besides, it's the past. No one can change the past, but change the future, who knows?
(Oh, Rama. Don't you fucking know.)
This desire to change the future led me to the present situation. Four years ago, right after graduating from college, I decided to end my time in the orphanage. Although bitter, I had to take that risk in order to pave the way for success. Through the recommendation of an orphanage friend, I managed to get a room on the third floor of this stacking house building to just be a shelter. However, to be honest this room is just a transit place because my time is actually a lot spent looking for news material in the field.
While the watch was almost five o'clock in the morning, I realized I was rushing over. I mustn't forget one thing. As it had been routine for years every morning on the 18th before leaving, I grabbed a brown envelope containing some money lying on my desk. With a slight jump of the sole of the foot, the fat envelope sheet I tucked between the ventilation holes. Such a way is commonly applied by the residents of this flats house to make the payment of rent. At certain times, the ventilation hole above the door frame of the room can indeed change function into a kind of emergency post box.
Then, I immediately set out to head to the Metropolis office, the office where cheap newspapers are printed to be offered at coffee shops, barber stalls, or suburban workshops for a simple read-in-the-go.
As usual, my every step while crossing the third-floor corridor was light. Yes, it must be forced to feel light to keep the mood awake.
Unfortunately, not even a minute I stepped from the door of the room, suddenly I had felt heavy to continue. Not because of laziness or saturation, but because of a scene of grief that happened to stop by in front of my eyes and disturbed my conscience. Pity suddenly appeared when my eyes caught the appearance of a frail body figure sitting on a bamboo bale in front of one of the rooms in this stacking house. Of course, I recognized him because he was my neighbor on the third floor.
(Ignore, Rama. Leave him alone.)
Early in the morning, Mr. Sunan, a 40-year-old man with autism, has appeared in a form that invites empathy. The man looked engrossed in his own toenails with small scissors in his hands.
"Pak Sairan" I said as I ducked down and put the sandwich into his thin hand.
Unfortunately, the sandwich had not changed hands yet, I felt a push from behind. Instantly, I too was crushed. Unfortunately again, the bread I was holding was thrown away. Not over yet, there was a rush of feet and plok! End already! As if it did not matter, the owner stomped on the pieces of bread that fell.
"Hey, Mas!” I exclaimed in annoyance, trying to warn the person who was stepping in such a hurry. “Be careful dong if you walk!" However, instead of approaching and apologizing, the person simply ignored and continued to leave the third floor corridor.
While rising, I observed the reaction of Mr. Sunan who— like most autistic people— seems not to care at all. Just a glance, he then drowned again in the routine of cutting his nails.
On the other hand, I tried hard to hold back the wrath. In my heart, I cursed even though in the end I had to be understood. The indifferent attitude of people who just crossed it actually represents the temperament of most of the residents of this flats.
The little incident that just happened reminds me of the incident that a few months ago happened to Teja, a resident of a first-floor bunk house who suffered from paralysis. At that time he fell when he was about to go down the stairs and the event occurred right in front of a number of residents who happened to be crowded the first floor corridor. Teja who had trouble getting up yelled for help. Ironically, although Teja's screams had echoed all the way to my room on the third floor, not a single occupant was moved to help. I finally had to go down to the first floor. At that time, I saw for myself his hand trying hard to find a pedestal to get up, but only his dreadlocks were waving. How unfortunate.
(Know where are you about someone's misfortune? I told you not to be pretentious.)
If I'm honest, I'm actually uncomfortable synergizing with this kind of social environment. Many times it crossed the intention to move elsewhere, but my steps were always held back by financial considerations. The cost of rent in this apartment is very convenient for the contents of my pocket.
After all, what kind of social environment could be found in the capital? After some thought, the people of the capital were also no less indifferent. That's also why I decided to pin the title of the world's only social creature to Mr. Pri, the orphanage manager.
Feeling that there was nothing more I could do for Mr. Sunan, I decided to return to lighten step by step to enter the main staircase of the flats. When crossing this main staircase, I just remembered one of the considerations that always made me undo the intention to leave this flats. For some reason, I always feel amazed by the exotic classic nuances that radiate from the layout of the new apartment building I can enjoy when crossing the main stairs.
The part that often caught my attention was the design of his steps that coiled like a giant snake. The stairs connect the corridor of each floor from the ground floor to the top floor. The roof of the building in the area around the stairs deliberately left open so that residents who want to go up and down the stairs can enjoy direct sunlight exposure. While on the ground floor, a circular mini flower garden is lined up to be a sweetener layout. In short, every view presented while crossing the main staircase of this stacking house is really almost perfect, except ...
"AHEM!"
Suddenly silence split. I gasped at the sudden sound of death just as I was going down the stairs. Of course I recognize that voice. The reason, the mysterious voice always makes my eyeballs guerrilla, scanning all exotic corners of the main staircase. And, in the end, my scan always ended up in a corner that approached the roof of the building. Yes, the sound came from the top floor, the sixth floor.
Kudukku feather sontak bristling. Far up there, I saw that figure, the figure I avoided the most in this bunk house. He was the owner of those creepy eyes. A pair of men's eyeballs were like blades ready to hit the heart. And, those eyeballs are now highlighting my movements! What am I supposed to do?
