Wandering Heart Chapter 5

The first time I watched Madonna's Frozen music video was when I was at junior high school. The video terrified me, so did the way Madonna sang this song which left such eerie feeling within me. However, I think its lyric "you're frozen when you're heart not open" fits with the theme of this chapter. Well, what do you think?

Life's getting busier since quarter 1 report card is due in a week. Good Lord, too many things to do, so little time left. 

Chapter 5 : Frozen

(Madonna/Leonard, 1998; performed by Madonna)

Have you ever feel like trapped in a dead end?

I must admit that I rarely feel that way, especially in doing my job. While other reporters were crowding around government officials, celebrities or their lawyers who either voiced twisted confession or refused to comment, I was almost always able to gain trusted information worthy to be pursued. Nobody figured that most of my informants were servants, waitress, drivers and janitors. They were invisible being who had the utmost capability of wandering around and listening to every secretive conversation without being noticed or suspected. Of course, they would just purse their lips when asked straight question out of loyalty to their rich and famous employers. However, once you got them the idea that you were just someone who empathized with their struggles, their confession would flow like Bengawan Solo at the rainy season. Another problem with my informants was that at times they were not a valid source. Most of them were not educated well enough to understand the matter that they were observing. This made triangulation of data pertinent for gathering information. I have to find more than one source to confirm my findings and internalize their way of thinking to get a full view of the matter. At times, even the littlest or vague deduction that I gained from my sources gave me an upper hand when I actually had to “poke” on their bosses.

Like when Mr. Muchsin, a representative from the Nationalist Party, was accused of corrupting 3 freaking billion Rupiah from an Agriculture Department project, his maids and drivers in his Jakarta residence were my informants. They told me proudly that their mistress brought Dutch-era paintings from each of her visit to foreign countries, which were painted by a “devout Javanese noble”. My brain processed this and understood that they were talking about Raden Saleh’s works. Since the Muchsins foundation was not profitable so that they could afford to collect the invaluable paintings, it must be the agricultural department money who bought them. I checked my deduction with my contacts in galleries and auction houses in Singapore and Europe, and they confirmed my suspicions that the romantic era paintings were bought using the name of someone who I, assumed as the representative of Mr. Muchsin’s wife’s foundation. I congratulated myself again for being able to solve this puzzle while even the police department was performing a wild-goose chase.

That was last week. This week was another rare occasion when I was trapped in a dead end.

Days gone by and Mr Setiawan had once again proven his intuition was reliable. Every road that I had taken in tracing the money from the paintings back to Mr. Muchsin or any member of his family brought me to this cul-de-sac.

An example of this happened on Wednesday, when I went to his wife’s foundation to confirm my suspicion with someone that could be more appealing for public. The foundation claimed to raise funds to educate disabled children, especially children with mental retardation. However, it seemed that they employed one of their graduates as the receptionist. It took me two excruciating hours waiting idly on their uncomfortable bamboo seating, just to have a word with the public relation manager. She transferred me from one desk to another desk, before at last she told me that the manager was having a meeting with one of their biggest donator since two hours ago. After all of that, she still had no shame and asked me to donate my money for their cause. By that time, fury had ruled over me, I objected her offer with a reason that made me sound as fascist as possible.

For this, Mr. Setiawan scolded at me for another two hours. Not that I never had any experience of it, but this particular moment seemed to break his inhibition. He astonished me by showing how rich was his vocabulary with insulting words. I was too frustrated with the case so that I had to be kept busy with other projects. Apparently Indonesia never lacked of unsolved crimes. The most interesting of them were antiquities thefts that happened sequentially, starting from South Sumatra, Central Kalimantan, South Sulawesi, Bali and then West Java. The items stolen were from various era of Indonesia’s history. Most of them were old patrician families’ heirlooms that could even be traced back to the day of Hindu kingdoms. A proper adjective to describe them was “priceless”. It was not only because they were made of valuable metals or adored by jewels, but more of their historical values. Seeing this pattern, my instinct told me that this was a serial theft. Therefore, although the police department official that I interviewed dismissed my idea completely by saying that I watched Ocean’s Eleven one too many times, I was still nothing but a hard-headed journalist. When I articulated my thought in the article I wrote about the theft, all Mr. Setiawan insulted me about, after he proofread the article, were my grammatical mistakes. So, this truly meant that he consent my line of thought.

Again, days gone by and suddenly it was the dreadful Saturday, the day of the party. I opened my bedroom window and found the sky did not fall, the sun shamelessly shone amiably and somehow there were clueless birds chirping outside my window. Cheap apartment like ours did not have a green area on the backyard, so instead of feeling cheerful at peaceful stimulus that awaken my senses, I felt anxiety creeping inside and stirred last night leftover in my stomach. The pessimist in me taunted that tonight could be the night I would remember for the rest of my life as the day of my disgrace.

I had led a simple life, my father was a microbiology scientist turning unsuccessful writer, while my mother was a political science lecturer in a private university. Having two scholars as parents, my upbringing was filled with scholarly activities. Since childhood I was taught to seek truth by using straight-forward conversation, my plebeian parents never prepared me for high society gatherings, where people spoke implicitly and ambiguously. Although, the fact that Mr. Setiawan being the person who was actually invited, would most likely allowed me to silently observe the circumstances and gain any needed information.

The clock hand was still pointed at number 9 when I heard the bell rang. Melinda was cleaning up the dishes, so I went to get it. Aisha was on my door, smiling coolly while pulling small red leather suitcase that looked vintage. Even on the weekend, the chic librarian was dressing up impeccably stylish as usual, especially with a red cats-eye glasses that framed her almond eyes.

“Mr. Setiawan sent me to dress you up, beautiful.” She answered my confusion as she entered my tiny apartment, her khaki pumps thudded rhythmically against the ceramic floor. She was in front of the designated living room when she let out a scream. I was used to people’s surprise at seeing little Hogwarts that was my tiny apartment. “Wow, how imaginative are you, my home looked dull compared to this.” She sat on the loveseat in front of TV and I on one of the dining chairs. “Now darling, let’s get to business.”

She opened her suitcase and revealed the contents to my and Melinda’s utter shock. The small suitcase, like Doraemon’s magic pocket, contained several dresses in different shades of bronze, matching shoes, clutches, and other fashion accessories whose name I did not have in my mental dictionary.

“Oh my goodness.”

“My goodness indeed. He told me you need the best help you could get, sweetie. It’s my philosophy that if I want the best result, then I will be required to do it for myself. Moreover, these are courtesy of Samsara publishing. Believe me when I say the company would reimburse every expense had there was any accident happen like you broke the heels of these shoes. Well, terms and conditions apply.”

I eyed the opened suitcase. “So, what are these?”

“These, sweetie, are what we call women’s armor.” She dramatically shrugged her right shoulder before leaning comfortably at her seat.

Melinda came nearer in awe, “I thought women’s best armor is her smile.”

The entertainment editor raised her eyebrow at my room mate, eyeing her with piercing glare, “Smile could be regarded as armor only if you’re fighting dancing little Oompa-loompa with blunt bamboo chopstick as their weapon,” she scowled at the thought of that, “But my dears, these things should be your choice of armor when facing a bunch of capitalist with nuclear bomb ready to be fired at their command.”

She ceremoniously unpacked all three dresses she brought and paraded them in our little living room while Melinda and I muttered our Oohs and Aahs. She explained each item in a combination of a museum tour guide detail and sport commentator enthusiasm. Even though I could not decipher most of her fashion jargons, I did not open my mouth for the fear of loosing the air of camaraderie that oozed out of her the more she educated us. Melinda’s genuine interest was exposed as she inquired each and every item and at times gleefully screamed a name of designer. Aisha eyed her new student proudly when she recognized the designer of a strapped orange-brown shoe with red bottom and held it as if it was the Great Britain’s crown jewel.

Then, they ambushed me. Hair, make up, nails and toes, all cleaned before fashioned to their likings. They even asked me to change several times before at last deciding that I looked best wearing the first dress that I tried. They advised me to wear a bag so small it could be categorized as a pouch, but I refused as I needed bigger bag to contain my little notebook, pen and my press ID (this was a life-safer-free-pass card that could almost bring me anywhere and through everything). Aisha barely finished her last touch of make up when Mr. Setiawan called me to inform that he was already at the parking lot using his personal car and driver. She wished me luck at the entrance of my apartment building before she strolled to her car.

“I wondered how you could manipulate her into enhancing my appearance,” was my first sentence after entering the car. The Lexus hybrid ran smoothly on the toll road leading to Bandung.

“Mahmud? Oh no manipulation needed. It was her ambition to transform ugly ducklings. Though, using you as an example, she still needs to brush up her skill, for the said duckling gives the impression of a turkey, not a swan.”

I hit him with my bag.

“Careful Siregar, the tiniest scratch that was yielded by intentional action, would not be reimbursed. You would spend your whole year salary to pay for that bag.”

I suddenly feel the urge to squirm under the car seat. The rest of the journey was filled with companionable silence as usual. We briefed what need to be briefed at the last office hour yesterday. We agreed that our assumption about the paintings being a secret, for the sole purpose of safe-keeping evidence out in the open. I observed the road leading to Mr. Muchsin residence in Bandung, which his Jakarta maids described it to me as something akin to a palace. We exited the toll road and soon, the scenery changed from urban streets to suburban hillside with old trees railing the road. The Lexus hiked further and suddenly it stopped in front of a huge black iron gate that was quickly opened after our driver showed the security our invitation.

I could not help but being agape at the sight in front of me. Entering the gate, we were welcomed by a Water-lilly pond, where tens of small candles floated on the surface, each supported by a golden plate. Small lights like little fireflies, hung on the poplar trees standing in columns at each side of the passage, they flickered as our car sluggishly moving on the pavement. The car stopped in front of the main entrance and Mr. Setiawan decided to be a gentleman today by opening my door and offering me his right hand. For awhile, the ambiance of my surroundings made me forgot I was Audrey Siregar. I was Alice, who's lost in fairy-tale wonderland.

I put my feet down, the strap orange-brown Louboutin hit the pavement with a soft thump. Mr. Setiawan’s hand pulled me up, and sweet chilly Bandung wind blown on my body, the bronze oyster silk of my skirt flew, caressed my skin tenderly. The sheathe dress’ Sabrina neckline of was bare of accessories, since lace that covered entire bodice provided enough decoration. The lace was lined by satin-silk with a sweetheart opening that hugged my body tight, accentuating the curve that I did not know even exist, especially with tulip skirt that emphasized my hips, giving me a silhouette of a lady. Truthfully, I felt beautiful.

We entered the mansion from the main entrance and then walked down the stairs, heading to a vast hall that was magically transformed to resemble the Lord of the Rings elven city, Rivendell, at night. A grand piano sat on the center of the room, under the shade of a silver tree with flickering tiny teardrop lamps adorned it. The same idea went to private benches scattered at outer side of the hall. The Lord knew how I detested someone like Mr. Muchsin: rich, famous and powerful, who flaunted their fortune and increased the social gap in my beloved country. However tonight, I would comply with the notion that he (or his wife—whoever in charge of the decoration), had such an impeccable taste. The décor matched the occasion: artistic and romantic.

My eyes swept over the hall and quickly recognized one Raden Saleh’s painting depicting a deadly battle between a lion and a snake hung over the staircase. I nudged Mr. Setiawan and whispered the location at him. With his eye, he asked me to wait while he checked the painting.

“Ah, are you thirsty? Let me get you something to drink,” said he, leaving me sitting down on one of the private bench near the stairs. Sitting down with nothing to do, I could not help but to touch a teardrop lamp just above my head, feeling as if I just caught a firefly. They illuminated my bronze dress in a way that made me feel like I regressed into my dreamy teenager phase.

Somehow my eyes went back to the stairs, wondering whether anybody particular that could help my investigation would walk down on it.

Then I saw him, standing atop of the stairs. Sculptured face, broad and well-defined jaw facing the crowd below, soft curly cinnamon hair shone under the sparkling light. He scanned the hall with his usual all-business smile. I remembered how his right lip would be raised a half centimeter higher than the left side when he did so. Then, his head turned to a figure standing next to him before they descended the stairs, her steps followed the rhythm of Henry’s.

I was frozen on my seat.

 Now, tell me what you think about this chapter! :) Hit the comment link below and make my day, please..

Wandering Heart Chapter 4

I really enjoyed writing this chapter. I never had any "the-devil-wears-Prada" kind of person who talk sarcastically degrading his/her employees as my boss. So, creating John Setiawan's character was a really fun challenge. I used a character of a novel as his character's 'template'. But in the end, I could not make him entirely evil. He was still a mentor, in a rude and devilish way. Well, avid readers, can you spot who and from what novel did I use as the template?

Chapter 4 : King of Anything

(Bareilles, 2011; Performed by Sara Bareilles)

I stopped typing the article I was working, to save and send it to Mr. Setiawan, my editor. Somehow, my eyes wandered and stuck on a wooden frame with a picture of Henry and I with a birthday cake. It was my birthday in our first year together, one of our happy moments before he had the idea of me being a “Stepford wife”. Yes, he deserved a responsible and stable adult for a wife, someone who could sit down elegantly, smile demurely and nod sincerely at his speeches. I flipped down the wooden frame with brute force. The glass cracked. Oops. I quickly put the frame back up and examined the desk for any sliver of glass that might endanger my flesh.

“Shoot, Siregar. I know you’re blown away by the joy of your new engagement, but please refrain from blasting office properties.” The devil, Mr. Setiawan, startled me from behind. He was tall, slender and muscular, but somehow managed to walk like a kitten on a soft carpet. He wore a neat khaki long-sleeve shirt with a brown-blue stripes tie and black trousers, never one to wear any other color outside of earthen palette. Some employees assumed that as a sign of color-blindness, but I was opposed of that assumption. His walk was stealthy, his dialog was cryptic and his outfits were unmemorable, he could be a member of secret intelligence service in the World War II who was somehow blasted out of time. Well, he was a Syncretist who believed in reincarnation anyway, so he probably thought that it was exactly his former life’s experience.

I showed him my empty ring-finger. If only there was Oxford’s dictionary of body-language, I should entered that as a gesture of ‘showing you’re not engaged despite what gossip says’. “Really? No engagement last Friday? I can’t believe Augustus retreated from fighting off the Britons.” He replied skeptically.

 “Augustus, really? I always thought of himself as Marc Anthony.”

“Sure, Siregar. Of course you would love to think of yourself as Cleopatra. Okay, I second your opinion just to amuse you so that you would tell me what happened to Marc Anthony. Did he partied himself too hard before the actual war?”

“No, this Marc Anthony is not hedonistic. Quite the contrary, actually. Well, guess his character is actually closer to the more serious Augustus.” He showed me his patented smirk as I admitted my fault, I rolled my eyes. “It’s just that I’d rather keep my Egypt a savage country with freedom in its own right than to be tamed by the delusional peace of the Roman Empire.”

“Wow, it’s very well-worded, Siregar. You could have written that for anti-Mubarak campaign.”

“Fighting dictators of any kind is indeed my personal vendetta, Sir.” I told him lightly.

He was silent for awhile, as if wording his next dialogue as carefully as possible. Then he shrugged, as if he wished to be rid of his intention of continuing the topic. “Are we still on the DPR’s missing money story?”

“Yes we are. I e-mailed you my draft just now.”

“Did the money showed up anywhere?”

“I’m working on that, Sir. Mr. Muchsin, A representative from the Nationalist party’s wife’s foundation set up an overseas account three months ago, and my hunch told me that they laundered the money already. Several sources said different things, but I put my money on art. Because, he just made himself a new patron of Indonesia’s classical visual art.”

“Art? Never thought any member of the DPR had any brain or any taste to take that road. That’s wickedly classy. Nevertheless, I am curious, who are these said sources?”

“Sir, as my grandmamma said, a lady should have many resources but appear to travel light in the eyes of gentlemen. So, it would make my dear grandmamma rolled in her grave shall I ever reveal you those said source before your very gentlemanly eyes.”

“Here I thought I can charm your grandmamma’s knickers off.” Smirked Mr. Setiawan as he walked back to his office. Though he spoke with tone of sarcasm in every word, I knew he was truly impressed of my findings. My advancement can partly be credited to his mentorship, though he probably would rather eat live slug which covered in bacteria than to be called my mentor. As a journalist, he had the intuition and nerve of a winning gambler. He had the ability to read his opponent and often win by bluffing them into senselessly forsaking their four aces at the fear of his random cards. As manipulative as it seemed, it is a trait that set him apart from other journalists around here.  Well, of course, other than the fact that he was also one of the heirs of this publishing company. Nevertheless, nobody would ever dare to assume that he did not earn his title based on his ability and achievements.

To hide something like who my informants are from the supposed-omniscient Mr. Setiawan, was an achievement on my part. It was not because I was afraid that he would disapprove of that, because for him, the end would justify the means.

Suddenly, three faces that I recognized belong to two marketing staffs and the ground floor receptionist appeared above the wall of my cubicle. “Miss Siregar! Is it true?”

“Huh?”

“That you’re not engaged to Henry Hadiningrat!”

I showed that hand gesture again. Gosh, I would have been able to patent this and reap enormous amount of money, had Beyonce not used the same gesture in her music video while taunting men to put a ring on it.

“I can’t believe it!!” Wow, other skeptics. I should make tally of different ways people respond after learning about the faultiness of their previously believed gossip. So far, being skeptical was the winner. However, their tone was a lot cheerful than my mother’s, Melinda’s even Jordan’s. They looked happily giggling with each others now.

“Anyway, how do you know that Henry proposed?” I was curious. Jordan did have a hobby of prying on other people’s relationship while Mr. Setiawan was one omniscient being in this office, every office e-mail should be carbon-copied to him. Marketing department was at the third floor, two floors down, while receptionist, well there are receptionists in every floor. My hypothesis was that Leli, the 5^th floor receptionist was the one who passed the information. She probably inferred from the absence of ring in my finger. But, how did everyone know that Henry would propose?

“On Friday morning, Pak Setiawan gathered the freakish photographer and all the reporting staffs, except for you, at the meeting room at the 1^st floor.” I nodded, remembered that day I was out gathering information and so, was not included in the meeting. “Siska here,” she patted the girl with headband, “was assisting. Pak Setiawan announced the upcoming engagement to everybody there. When Siska told us the news, we were so devastated. However, Leli told us just now, that you have no ring on your finger. Did you break up with him too?”

I didn’t see any reason of why I should entertain these puny-minded girls, but having my hypothesis proven right and seeing their hopeful eyes, I nodded anyway. They screamed gleefully in return and chirped loudly as they went towards the exit, making it clear that I was officially back to the bottom of social pyramid without Marc Anthony on my arm. The real Cleopatra would have preferred suicide by snakes’ bite over being humiliated. A surge of rage coming toward me realizing who had been standing behind the curtain, watching the downfall with a smirk on his face. I hurried myself to the office next to my cubicle and knocked the door with fury.

“Siregar, come in. I said, refrain from blasting office properties. Any expense to repair both the physical and psychological damages your infamous rage caused will be cut straight ahead from your salary.”

“Sir, how could you know about Henry’s proposal? And how could you spread that gossip to everybody in this building?”

“I know it from the man himself. He made it my business to know his plans so that I excused you home earlier on last Friday. Sit down!” He barked at me but I refused to do his demand.  “Ck…You’re too hard-headed and hot-tempered for your own good, Siregar. Spreading gossip! What do you think I am? A low life without many things to do? I only thought we’re going to have a celebration at lunch time today, had you said yes. You should thank whatever god you believe in that you have such a considerate person as your boss. That’s all.”

I narrowed my eyes. Did I see twinkle in his indifferent eyes?

“And what the heck you’re doing here? Don’t you have work to do?”

“It’s done. I sent it to you, remember?”

“My memory never failed me, Siregar. But you just do. Typos and grammar mistakes besiege your article rather viciously, stabbing my eyes whenever I saw any of them. You’re like a trained German Shepherd catching drug-dealers when it comes to investigation, but for heaven’s sake, we paid you as a journalist. Fix that!” His voice was hoarse and loud, but my anger held me not to crumble down in tears at his words.

 “We’re not finished.” I told him before walking out of the door and closed it.

When I was out, I heard his faint chuckles. I wanted to confront him, but decided that I should not let my anger get the better of me. Thanks to him, those little birdies would declare that I was dumped by Henry to all female population of this building. How well, at least Mrs. Sri from the canteen would probably give me a free sympathy pudding at next lunch.

“Oi, Siregar!’ I heard his voice calling me just when I stepped back into my cubicle. It was decisive and sharp, not something about the gossips for sure.

“What? Your memory decided to fail you now?”

He threw me a fancy folded card about A5 size and I caught it in time before it slammed my chest. It was colored a shade darker than gold with the word Invitation swirled at the center of the card and Mr. Setiawan’s name at the bottom. I opened it and discovered that it was an invitation to an engagement party of a couple, whose names I did not recognize, on Saturday next week. The party would be held in a house at the hillside of Bandung.

“I was planning to wait until Monday next week, but guess I’ll just break the news now. You’re my plus one.”

“What? NO!” I quickly retorted. “For somebody who could read Homer’s Illiad in its original language, effortlessly quote Byron, shrewdly convince hard-headed politicians to reveal their dirty secrets, why can’t you properly persuade a woman for a real date?”

He looked at me with threatening eyes “Siregar, there are some things that you should know by now after 4 years of being my subordinate. First, I had never, nor intend to, regard you as a member of the opposite sex who has any worth to be pursued. Second, if I ever, by any chance, acting in a way that will refute the first statement, it must be in the context of undercover mission and my action was just a survival instinct kicking out to save both of us.”

“I know that already. If the context was not an undercover situation, then it’s possible that it is your impostor, trying to get me steal your files. If that happen, I’ll just jab the impostor then.”

“Ha! I appreciate the fact that you are not a dim-witted woman.” He twirled his point finger as a gesture for me to turn the invitation card around and read the inviters’ names. I caught the name of Mr. Muchsin, the Nationalist Party representative that I was investigating, as the father of the bride. A wave of delight washed over me and I beamed at Mr. Setiawan, readying my lips to thank him.

“No, no thank you now. Yes, this ‘plus one’ is entirely professional. I predict you will fail to get proper clue to investigate any further in this case. Mr. Muchsin covered his track very well. So, we will see what we can gain in this party. This invitation is a freaking brilliant coincidence. Okay, now get your eyes back to the inviters list, find the father of the groom’s name.”

I bowed my head down, eyes tracing the golden card, and find the name in haste. Guntur Hasjim was written there. It’s Henry’s boss’ name. Goodness gracious, it means that I would meet him in this party.

“Let me hear your gratitude now. Thank me that you have more time to do all that girly stuff, scrubbing your feet and everything. I gave you permission to borrow a proper outfit from our wardrobe and even borrow our make-up artist to put on some color to your pesky face. Just spare me the embarrassment for having you stand at my side in this party. No politician in the right mind would open their pursed lips to a repulsive looking woman.”

His grin was wide and crooked. He must have thought himself a fairy godfather by telling me this.

 Thank you for reading, please comment and review! Oh yeah, do you spot who's "template"? Hit the comment link below and tell me! :)

Wandering Heart Chapter 3

Author's note: A part of this chapter came to me through my teaching anxiety this year. I was "forced" to teach Psychology to senior students, and so have to bury myself in psychology textbooks and journals to make sure I know what I'm talking about in front of my students. Reminding myself how I love Psychology and observing people (and make fun of them based on that observation) over and over again, Audrey's character came to my mind. She is a journalist because of my unmet desire to become one. Well, if there's any journalist who thinks that there is one too many mistakes in my description of the work/workplace, you are welcome to educate me.

Chapter 3 : Paperback Writer

(Lenon/McCartney, 1966; Performed by The Beatles)

 

“Morning, Sunshine! I sense that somehow you are glowing more than you were the last time we met.” A fowl dressed man with burly features and basso profundo voice put his big burly hairy hand on my shoulder as he evened out his pace alongside mine as we strolled across the entrance hall of my office building.

The name of the publishing company and also our magazine, SAMSARA, along with its sister magazines, beautifully carved with a sans-serif font and tinted bronze on the light grey marble tiles that covered the wall behind receptionist desk, while the other walls was painted royal blue. A set of light grey leather sofa and bronze toned wooden coffee table with a glass top was placed diagonally against the inscription. On top of the coffee table were the last publications of the four magazines of this publishing company. The whole interior of the entrance wall gave a modern scholarly feeling, matching the image of Samsara. Most people dressed smartly in suits at the lobby, making this man and I, with our rather casual outfit, looked a bit out of place. Well, I could only say that I wore a rather casual one, while his, I would not dare to fathom in what category his outfit was.

“Whatever you have on your mind, you got it wrong, Barney.” I showed him my empty ring-finger as we entered the lift. Thank God it was only the two of us there. I’d rather to keep my relationship private, at least as private as I could, considering I was working with the press. He pressed the fifth floor, where our department was placed.

“No, you didn’t!” he took the hand I showed him and shook it, as if an invisible ring would appear at the right frequency of vibration. “But, I thought Henry proposed last Friday night!”

“Where did you get that gossip? Ouch. Stop, Barney.” I slapped his hands when he shook my hand harder he could succeed in pulling it off in a matter of minutes with his strength.

“Hey, what’s with ‘Barney’? As far as I can remember, my name is still Jordan McCormack.”

“Sorry, Jord. Can’t help it.” I tugged his shirt. He wore a bright purple-dark green ensemble today. If I might explain further, the said ensemble is tight; the shirt gave people a good view of the nice pack of muscle underneath the shirt, but not so much with the bottom part. A quick glance at his “trousers” might give nightmares to young girls yet to reach puberty. He was exposed like a male ballerina, with the spotlight on his genitalia. “You looked exactly like Barney the purple dinosaur if the show is not for children, but for gay adults with voyeurism tendencies.”

“Ooh, my witty girl is having PMS again. Poor you.” He patted my head fondly.

“Seriously, Jord. What were you thinking when you put your trousers on? I thought you’re still in the closet for being gay, or for being a prima-ballerina in this case.”

“I’m not gay, a ballerina I might be.” He took my right hand and twirled me around as we entered our floor, loudly humming Blue Danube Waltz.

Despite his bulky body, this man was the king of drama with a few screws loose in our small office, the only male with less than serious demeanor among the more solemn journalists. As a photographer, his jovial façade was helpful in making his models at ease and produced better shot as result. However, his habit of eccentric outfits—that some said were designed, cut and sewn by his own two burly hands—made the other journalists in this building embarrassed. The CEO might regard us as the brain and the motor function of the business, paid us better bonus, and gave his best regard to us in every company event. But to other department’s eyes, we were a group of freaks who had a sad social life in high school, and also poor adult life, since we got somewhat low wages than them. Well, nobody would ever enter journalism world with the aim of getting rich and retire young anyway. You must attain a celebrity status like Barbara Walters to gain financial profit from this kind of job.

Well, although Jordan twirling me over and over like merry go round was helping our image to a new low, it was fun to see the horror in Leli’s eyes when we passed her receptionist counter. I could swear the mask she called make up was cracked in many places when she went agape. It was either caused by our clueless impersonation of Swan Lake or the sight of Jordan’s groin. Either way, I played along with enthusiasm that matched Jordan’s. Yesterday, Mel said something about celebrating little happiness that life gave us even in the time of great sadness that separation brought. Faux-ballet dancing in the morning was one way to celebrate, I thought, as it gave me the satisfaction from seeing the receptionist eyes almost popped out her skull. When Jordan winked at her when their eyes met, she looked like she was having a heart attack, or probably a gag reaction, I could not distinguish that with all that make up.

As if encouraged by her reaction, Jordan tried to jump jette toward our department’s door. When I followed the same action, he turned and caught me by my hips in time, lifting my left foot as high as my stiff body allowed me. He lifted me with such ease as if I weighted as his Pomeranian, Twinky.

“McCormack, Siregar, just get a room.” A bald man tapped Jordan’s shoulder as he shoveled us aside to open the door. Benny Sutanto, our Education editor. Jordan grinned at him and released me, allowing me to run into the safety of my cubicle, laughing happily all the way. Mr. Sutanto’s bald head reflected the fluorescent light of the room creating an out of place halo as he entered his office, and made him looked like a bald angel. People whispered that his baldness was caused by an experiment gone wrong when he was at college. He was a chemist-to-be who changed his major in his junior year to Journalism. His science background gave him an edge when he interviewed real scientist and wrote science articles, and it was those articles which brought me to become fascinated with this magazine back in high school.

 “Get a ballroom, actually.” One red-purplish head popped out from one of the offices to correct Mr. Sudibyo, it was the Art and Entertainment editor, Aisha Mahmud. The entertainment division was probably the only one who had ‘style’ amongst us. Another occupational hazard, I guess, for having interviewing celebrities and attending fashion shows as two of their job descriptions. Aisha’s bob-cut hair is colored to the root and always blow-dried perfectly. Her cats-eye glasses hanged nicely on her long straight nose. She always wore tight knee-length pencil skirt and stylish blazers in matching or complimenting colors. She single-handedly brought “librarian chic” to the next level. “Oh goodness gracious, Jordan McCormack! What happened? A cat stole your kilt?” Aisha put her hand on her eyes as if to protect them from any STD that could infect her from prolonged sight of Jordan’s… thing.

“Ha-ha. That’s one very politically sensitive joke, Aisha. Teasing my Scottish heritage, that’s very noble of you. Actually, that cat stole my sari, the one I used in my last Bollywood movie.” He counter-mocked and did his impression of Bollywood dancer with his hands.

“Aarrgh! I can’t take it, Jordan!!” A scream let out of the cubicle next to Mr Sudibyo’s, the owner walked out of it and confronted Jordan with a serious angry face. “You violate my morning by telling culturally inaccurate jokes. First, Aisha is of Arabian descent, so she does not wear sari.  Second, sari is worn by girls. You are a man, Jordan, act like one!” She poked Jordan’s brick-like chest on every word of her last sentence.

If the reproach came from everyone other than Sally Wijaya, Jordan must be angered by it. However, the girl who spoke is three-quarters his height, half his width, and probably a third his weight. Jordan put on a fake-gallantry and bowed down in front of her, “Thine humble servant begged to be pardoned. He is honored by how Milady showed such great care upon his demeanor.”  Then, he swept Sally off her feet and brought her back to her cubicle, bride-style, ignoring her futile resistance. He curtsied in front of Sally just to tease her further, but she is too mortified to reproach him again, her face was glowing red.

I observed the drama in front of me. Sally was smitten with Jordan from their first meeting. She stole a quick glance on Jordan’s back as he walked out of the lounge to his studio and smiled warmly, oblivious to my observation. I gaped at that. Nobody would ever dare to guess there’s something between Sally, the self-righteous, walking-encyclopedia education specialist, and Jordan, the gay/confused gender photographer. There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. I shrugged at the thought of them, married and having progenies that inherited their combined characters. I held my laughter, they probably would be self-righteous tutu-wearing precocious children.

Observing behaviors, deducing people’s response, and inferring motives and desires of people around me were among my most favorite things to do. Human beings fascinated me as much as radioactive for Marie Curie or a formula that can proof there is no God for Stephen Hawking. Since primary school, my mother propelled me to be a psychologist so that my stalker tendencies would be channeled toward a fruitful and helpful occupation. However, after finding out that I could not write about my patients without their strictest consent if I were to be a psychologist, I changed course into journalism in my sophomore year. It was a decision that I had never regret.

Right after my bachelor degree in Journalism, I won a scholarship to polish my writing skill. One of my professors referred me for an internship in this magazine, an English-language weekly news magazine that he stated as the place fitting of my wit and sharp tongue. My first job was titled apprentice reporter, but basically all I did was to read unedited articles to find grammar mistakes and making cups of coffee for the senior editors.

The magazine decided to hire John Setiawan, who was a rising investigative reporter of The Economist, who also a grandchild of the owner of Samsara, as a senior editor. After 4 months of internship, he told me he liked the taste of the coffee I brewed and then took me under his wing. He basically made me his personal henchman as I did more interviews and field research than writing. When I got my degree, I was hired and officially titled junior investigative reporter for a year and afterwards, a senior one until today.

My job required me to collect information about human affairs based on observation, deduction and induction and also used them all to gain more information. Well, to say that I love my job would be an understatement. Addicted would be a better word to describe my feelings. Working here, in this internationally acclaimed news magazine, was an honor that was given to privileged few. The journalists here, no matter how quirky, were highly regarded among the best ones in the country. We worked in such a dynamic that was not only both effective and efficient, but also was able to sharpen each other. To outside observer we might seemed working individually, but people who read our magazine continuously would see how one article are interconnected with the others.

Okay, enough with the introduction, I actually got an article to write about another corruption case of a member of DPR. What a great way to vent out a bad mood.

...And I have a class to teach and a pile of essays to mark. See you in a week and don't forget to comment! :)