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! :)