It Feels Like...part II

 On December 3, 2009, I had woken up neither by bunch of random nightmares nor by the noise that was coming out from my own nose. It was a bit too early, only a few minutes from five in the morning and I have set up the alarm to scream its familiar tunes at six am. Though the dark dump room is poorly lit by the sun most of the day, the premature ray of morning sun always seeps into the room at these odd hours. Something that had never happened  in Medan. There’s a slight of annoyance driven by this fact. I hang some of my tees in hangers covered the windows, but the night lamp on the wall facing my bed is also a bit too bright for my somewhat sensitive eyes. I cupped my eyes but I still kind of sensed the blue-shaded lamp. I stood to my feet only to reach to turned off the lamp and press on the radio’s power button, a soft whisper from the silver small yet fat radio always seems comforting. I laid on my back, looked up at the brown painted plywood ceiling [I then noticed they were set up/installed less professionally,] raked my mind what would I wear for my short visit at Orlando’s. The black pair of shoes are rather humiliating, it gives out this nauseating smell no matter how often I washed it. A new pair of socks is a fail attempt. The brown one which had been wrapped in a Carrefour plastic bag is safely tucked inside the drawer of the table, I hardly used it because it feels funny every time I  put them on. I threw my look to the rucksack and medium sized handbag, asked myself what would be the proper clothes to wear. The only joy from having only few clothes and super limited jeans are only taking place when I’m traveling. I keep telling myself I would buy new n proper clothes and working pants ONLY after I get a job and settling down [get fix/permanent place.] Everything is so temporary and uncertain which only accumulates my ever-growing anxiety.

Orlando had agreed to get someone picked me up and would be kind enough to spare his time for me. A very generous and much appreciated offer from him, while the fact is I might have been getting on his nerves with my when-can-we-meet-up texts.

Soon enough, everything came to life. The regular shrieks of horror or laughter from kid next door. The strong smell of burning incense from a small Hindu family temple which is literally sits behind the brown moldy brick walls outside my room. The low voice in Balinese conversations, the weak stream of water running down from the pipe in the bathroom outside our rooming-house. Everything is making its significant noise that I knew it was impossible to swim into a dreamless sleep.

The running water from the bathroom is annoyingly loud in these early hours, sometimes I find it much louder than the radio on the table in front of me. The man who stays in a room opposite my room must have taken his shower. I noticed that there’s unwritten habit in the house; he’d take the first privilege of bath, followed by the kind of sheepish yet friendly older man on the other end of the house, and it will be unoccupied for a while.

When I heard the soft bang of his door, I walked out silently, bent down to reach my shower artillery/bucket, as if I was stealing the next guy’s turn to use the bathroom, I walked faster as I were getting closer to it.

I peeled  off the boxer and hung it carefully to the nail on the door, sat down on the toilet, nothing, then took a quick bath. My old habit—singing—is  long abandoned. At least since I moved into this house. My voice sounds louder and harsh in that hardly furnished room of mine. The table and an iron stool were the only noticeable properties besides the old mattress. The newly additional radio doesn’t make much impression. The house itself has this old air and abandonment even though the paint still looked fresh.

Since I have no water dispenser, nor mug or anything that come to be handy to make myself a simple breakfast of tea and bread, I left the house as soon as I packed some fresh tees into my small bag.

On the way to the main road, I stopped by at the small shop and bought me a small bottle of water then headed for the net café, I still had enough time to check my regular websites and all. The sun was magnificent, people looked fully charged with smile and energy, ready to leave for school or work, with their cars and motorcycles. I stayed walked on the far end of the small road avoiding the stream of motorcycles.

The fuck! Everyone has motorcycles! I said under my breath. And that always makes me feel Strange and consequently, poor. Telling you the truth, I’m still feeling like a real outsider for some reason, but mostly because of the fact I have no vehicle and can only rely on my strength to take a long walk to get me around the city.

I learned one thing, these people are not good at giving directions. When I asked some people where was the closest Bank or Post office, if the happened to know, they would answered it in a way as if it was not far at all. ‘Just go ahead and you will find this intersection then turn left,’ someone had said. Until I realized their measurement of distance is accustomed for car drivers or motorcycle riders.

A string of unfamiliar number appeared on my mobile screen and I knew it must be the one who’d pick me up. ‘Please wait for me in front of the High school,’ I said. It was 20 minutes ahead of the schedule.

It was easy to spot him because he drove the same black car. He walked out of the car and reached out for a handshake, a cordial smile. Once inside the car, he started to fire the Frequently Asked Question, ‘What’s your job?’ Everyone asks this question either out of their curiosity or it is simply a genuine get-to-know-you attempt which in the end, always leaves me uncomfortable. But I’ve grown accustomed to this.

The drive to Ubud seemed quite long partly because it always feels that way every time I go to a new place for the first time, memorizing the landmarks just in case I need to go there on my own in the future.

He stopped the car in front of the front gate of Orlando’s house. I never tried to visualize how his cribs would be like because the idea of Ubud itself is quite entertaining. Rice paddies, tall trees, nice breeze, no much Australian surfers storm around in their surfboard tied in the motorcycles. Don’t get me wrong, I love that scenes of surfers riding fast or walk fast to the beach in Kuta with white powder or sunblock lotion smashed their faces and hands and half of their bodies but Ubud has its own so-called tourists, more  laidback, yoga freaks, and Nature worshippers.

A loud cheerful woman voice distraught me as I walked slowly into the opened front door. She wears short cut hair, big white tees and kind of short. She welcomed me in such polite way, ‘Mr is still taking shower. Would you like to drink something?’

Orlando rushed out of his room with his usual black outfits. This has become his signature and indeed, he looks good in it. I waited with a glass of cold water in my hand while he laced his shoes. ‘Hop hop hop hop!’ good humouredly he said to his young driver, ‘Let’s go.’

It turned out that we were going to pick up two friends/clients of him on the way to his factories n office. I sat next to the left door behind the driver while these two clients/visiting friends shared the rest of the left space beside me, Orlando sat at the front seat, talked in Deutsch to the guests.

I was literally dumbfounded after he gave us a tour to all of his business sites. Overwhelmed by how much he knows every single operations of the machineries and all. Though he explained everything in Deutsch for the guests’ convenience, I was amazed and overwhelmed that when we got into the meeting room and waited for the lunch meal, when he asked me did I find a foreseeable job/position at the place and realized all eyes were averted to me, I screwed up by saying something lame—if not stupid, ‘I don’t really know.’

‘What,’ Orlando said, ‘what can you do, name some.’

Stricken  from unexpected full attention from them all, people I hardly know [at all,] I said, ‘I can read sleep all day. Watch TV forever, and simply do nothing much.’

They laughed. If only I had a good taste in practical jokes, I said to myself.

Practically, he didn’t work almost half day and I kind of felt bad about this. I mean, my visit and this tour somewhat, affected his work and all.

The driver took us home after we visited the last factory, ‘I think I better leave you here,’ I said a bit apologetically, ‘so you can get time to work and all, you know.’ He nodded.

‘See you later.’

Once I was at his home, there were Udin and the security guy and another guy whose name I cant remember. When Udin knew I was there, he got out of his room and sat next to me on the porch, looked exhausted from his long sleep. It was his day off, Thursday. We talked random things while looked around, such green area, peaceful. It’s even too quiet for me.

I was thinking what is the best way to tell Orlando my intention of applying for a job and when would be the best time. ‘Tonite,’ I thought, ‘maybe.’

When he was home, his look and all broke my heart. It’s been too much for him for today. God knows how many hours left for him to work after the tour and lunch and all, I said to myself. Moreover, when he nodded and said yes to my are-you-tired question, I felt discouraged to give him another problem.

The following day was no much different. We spent most of the morning with these two friends of him, along with another three staff. Had breakfast at a so-called organic restaurant on the mountain, or it seemed, he ushered us to the cars. I was supposed to return to my place that afternoon and he was about to give me a good-bye-hug when I took his hand to the other corner of the road and told him my intention of extended my stay at his place. ‘I don’t feel like going home now.’

To my great surprise he was okay with it, though I read something else in his face. I head back to his house while he went back to his work. That evening, I fell sleep after ten and woke up when I saw him was already home, ready to sleep.

The next morning he called me into his room and stood in such a way as if he was about to deliver the gravest news, ever. He would be so busy for the next few days that it would be impossible to spare a time for me. My heart sank not because of this, but mainly because that made me feel like a devil, took his valuable times and attention while he is occupied with work and meeting clients all the time. He even hardly get time for himself, to be on his own, to relax or something.

It was Saturday morning. He took me and others for breakfast. Went back to his house, I used his computer and printed down my application letter, CV, clipped them along with my 3x4 color photograph taken for my univ certificate, and on top of it, a one-page letter for him.  Later that afternoon, along with the two guests, we were heading for Seminyak. They would stay one night over there and would meet another newly arrived client. Plans have been arranged for the next day as well and God knows how busy he will be for the rest of this month until his date for Christmas leave on the third week, ‘I’m going back to Switzerland for Christmas,” he told me.

He replied my thank-you text message and said he’d check out my application letter for sure.

When Udin dropped me off in front of the Circle K mart close to my place, I felt a pang of sadness and a blast of weakening expectation.

I don’t know.

It feels like I unconsciously putting such big hope on him now. And the way he carries himself and treats people and his charm and warm personality and his admirable entrepreneur skills affected me in such a way. My hope of working for him becomes stronger than ever.

Instead of going straight to the house, I crossed the road, sat down in front of the computer and checked my hotmail account. It is a sad fact, even becomes a damn big puzzle for me why None of the companies respond to my application emails. I sent a copied one to my other email account to see if the problem was my own account.

No.

I got the email, alright.

The dinner time was over yet I was still stared at the computer screen try to fathom what is really going on in my life. What keeps me from getting any positive response from those  many companies.

Should I use a completely new email address?

Should I send not only one, but three emails to one company so they won’t miss [any of] it?

Should I write application letter in French or Greek?

The latter one was rather a silly rage which I would never do, unless I would like to see my email to be blacklisted and find my graduation photograph listed on the ‘Nauseatingly Psycho job seeker’ list. LOL