There had been no exaggeration in the case of this young Lampung girl, easy to see. According to Razali she might have been up almost 12 hours already. The girl managed on two or three hours sleep a night. Razali had said the lass could sleep on her feet. One had seen in the telling the man had good evidence to support his claim and there was no exaggeration and sure enough here she was after the busy lunch hour seated at the corner around the side of the shop weary head sagging toward the table-top. Sagging, sagging. The phone before her was attempted cover: fingers half-curled over it and turned toward the wall, her hair provided screening—the boss would come around from behind and call out something first if she was to be berated. Junkies down south were the closest counterpart, inserting themselves at the edge of a cafe's pavement row and drooping in the chair. Eyelashes prominent on the angle here and no extensions in the case of the Lampung girl. The old post-war generation had remarked on the soldier asleep on his feet on guard duty — na strazu. Found out such dereliction was a capital offence. Listening in childhood it sounded preposterous. How to sleep on one's feet? With the Post Office closed on a Friday in the new Islamic arrangement in Johor, instituted by the local Sultan a couple of years ago, the observation was kept up. After twenty minutes the head was bent a couple of inches from the phone on the table, strands of loose hair slipping. The older waitress, a Javanese, came around and draped her arms over her young compatriot, whispering in her ear. Unable to be roused. It was only the boss, the Chinese auntie, who could rouse the young girl, a single word would have her hopping. The woman was strangely keeping off. In the more than half hour she had not come around once to that side; perhaps she had gone off on an errand. Earlier over lunch the auntie had been chuffed to hear what a spitting image was her youngest boy, this year waiting on tables himself and entrusted with collecting monies. RM1.50 for teh O kosong; a new system of marker pen on the table-top. Some banana cake would be a nice treat for the girl and her fellow workers, when she came to she would enjoy that. The queues at the bakery across the way had cleared, small pack about RM5. Still the lass dozed and still the auntie kept away. The spitting image young son, about the same age as the Lampung girl, came past a number of times without disturbance, passing indulgent smiles. When the lad was called inside he did the same as junkies down south before entering office buildings: ciggie dropped beside the doorway for retrieval—in this case the raised planter for the beautiful, broad-leafed tree that was currently losing its crimson flowers. Nearing three another wave of customers was yet to appear. Fully three quarts of an hour the lass had sat, jolting her head back every so often, but also some good shut-eye achieved. Toward the end of her siesta when she had abruptly started and focused more strongly on the phone, the cake was offered, only for the gal to refuse. Pressed she refused again. Pressed again and again, the plastic box knocked against her arm, the girl would not be budged. Mau, mau, mau. "Want" in bahasa Indon—the lass must have been biting off the negative. Only fifteen minutes later when she had re-surfaced again was she successfully prevailed upon. Again mau initially. But then soon after relenting and taking a piece. Makasih. Makasih. Not long after that when the voice of the boss sawed from around the corner up the Lampung lass leapt and around to report for duty. Later in the night, after midnight and nearing one am when the light had been put out after Heidegger's paragraph on Van Gogh's shoes in his Origin of the Work of Art, the answer to the riddle of the young lass's stout refusal tumbled in the mind. No, no, no, no — Mau, mau, mau, mau. Totally defeating tiredness had overpowered the girl and made even delicious sweet banana cake for which Singaporean tourists came over especially and queued was of no interest to her whatsoever. A young girl like that from Lampung in South Sumatra on slave wages would never be able to afford RM4.80 mouth-watering cake, no chance. Yet that was no nevermind in her condition, in that state of collapse she dismissed the treat as of not the slightest worth or value.
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Rock-a-bye Baby
There had been no exaggeration in the case of this young Lampung girl, easy to see. According to Razali she might have been up almost 12 hours already. The girl managed on two or three hours sleep a night. Razali had said the lass could sleep on her feet. One had seen in the telling the man had good evidence to support his claim and there was no exaggeration and sure enough here she was after the busy lunch hour seated at the corner around the side of the shop weary head sagging toward the table-top. Sagging, sagging. The phone before her was attempted cover: fingers half-curled over it and turned toward the wall, her hair provided screening—the boss would come around from behind and call out something first if she was to be berated. Junkies down south were the closest counterpart, inserting themselves at the edge of a cafe's pavement row and drooping in the chair. Eyelashes prominent on the angle here and no extensions in the case of the Lampung girl. The old post-war generation had remarked on the soldier asleep on his feet on guard duty — na strazu. Found out such dereliction was a capital offence. Listening in childhood it sounded preposterous. How to sleep on one's feet? With the Post Office closed on a Friday in the new Islamic arrangement in Johor, instituted by the local Sultan a couple of years ago, the observation was kept up. After twenty minutes the head was bent a couple of inches from the phone on the table, strands of loose hair slipping. The older waitress, a Javanese, came around and draped her arms over her young compatriot, whispering in her ear. Unable to be roused. It was only the boss, the Chinese auntie, who could rouse the young girl, a single word would have her hopping. The woman was strangely keeping off. In the more than half hour she had not come around once to that side; perhaps she had gone off on an errand. Earlier over lunch the auntie had been chuffed to hear what a spitting image was her youngest boy, this year waiting on tables himself and entrusted with collecting monies. RM1.50 for teh O kosong; a new system of marker pen on the table-top. Some banana cake would be a nice treat for the girl and her fellow workers, when she came to she would enjoy that. The queues at the bakery across the way had cleared, small pack about RM5. Still the lass dozed and still the auntie kept away. The spitting image young son, about the same age as the Lampung girl, came past a number of times without disturbance, passing indulgent smiles. When the lad was called inside he did the same as junkies down south before entering office buildings: ciggie dropped beside the doorway for retrieval—in this case the raised planter for the beautiful, broad-leafed tree that was currently losing its crimson flowers. Nearing three another wave of customers was yet to appear. Fully three quarts of an hour the lass had sat, jolting her head back every so often, but also some good shut-eye achieved. Toward the end of her siesta when she had abruptly started and focused more strongly on the phone, the cake was offered, only for the gal to refuse. Pressed she refused again. Pressed again and again, the plastic box knocked against her arm, the girl would not be budged. Mau, mau, mau. "Want" in bahasa Indon—the lass must have been biting off the negative. Only fifteen minutes later when she had re-surfaced again was she successfully prevailed upon. Again mau initially. But then soon after relenting and taking a piece. Makasih. Makasih. Not long after that when the voice of the boss sawed from around the corner up the Lampung lass leapt and around to report for duty. Later in the night, after midnight and nearing one am when the light had been put out after Heidegger's paragraph on Van Gogh's shoes in his Origin of the Work of Art, the answer to the riddle of the young lass's stout refusal tumbled in the mind. No, no, no, no — Mau, mau, mau, mau. Totally defeating tiredness had overpowered the girl and made even delicious sweet banana cake for which Singaporean tourists came over especially and queued was of no interest to her whatsoever. A young girl like that from Lampung in South Sumatra on slave wages would never be able to afford RM4.80 mouth-watering cake, no chance. Yet that was no nevermind in her condition, in that state of collapse she dismissed the treat as of not the slightest worth or value.
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