Little America was a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the Special Capital Region around Jakarta. The closer you got to Jakarta proper, and to LASK, the more expensive, the more exclusive, the less a bule like me was welcomed. It was going to be a challenge to make it to the stars, but I had to start somewhere.
Looming above the Little America neighborhood was a tall highway overpass that cut across the urban sprawl and poured traffic into the heart of Jakarta. I could see the overpass from anywhere in Little America—it was directly overtop of Little Tokyo, which was eternally shadowed by the massive structure.
Little America was populated with old style, late 22nd century apartments. They had some modern furnishings but were…cramped, to say the least. Especially when six of us shared the space in order to afford it. Because there were so many of us cramped in there, I spent as much time as possible outside of the apartment. One of my roommates I considered a friend—Harry Harper. We both got work doing maintenance and odd-jobs at a fancy apartment complex for pribumi a few blocks inward towards the heart of Jakarta. Pribumi were just native Indonesians who were born and raised here—they considered themselves better than the scavenger bule but still weren’t part of the aristocratic priyayi class who governed the city. Nevertheless, they enjoyed certain privileges and honors which we bule had to scavenge for, and working at their apartment was an opportunity to learn the language, rub elbows, study the nature of things.
Harry and I would meet on lunch breaks and split a sandwich.
“How’s things upstairs?” I asked.
“Same old, same old. Pristine, perfect.”
“Did you see that girl?” I took a tiny bite of the sandwich, trying to make it last.
“No, unfortunately. I don’t even know how to talk to her.” Harry pulled out a stub of a cigarette and lit what was left of it.
“I thought your Indonesian was coming along better than mine. You can’t say ‘hello’?”
“I’m afraid I won’t understand what she says back! I’m just a bule anyway, she wouldn’t want to talk to me.”
“Chin up, Harry, this is Indonesia, anything is possible.”
We laughed.
After work, Harry and I would often sneak into the maintenance ladder on one of the massive cement columns of the highway overpass. We would climb the seemingly endless flights of stairs. Sometimes we would stop halfway and just sit on the steps and look out at the city. If you looked right, you could see the rising glass skyscrapers, reflecting the golden hues of sunset, the promise of the future. If you looked left, you could see endless sprawl, the skies beyond fading into purples and deep blues.
Today, though, I was feeling bold. “Harry, let’s climb up to the top—see if we can spot any Sakti driving by.”
We climbed the rest of the way, our legs screaming by the time we got to the top. I was the first to peek over the cement barrier.
Cars flew by at unspeakable speeds. I couldn’t see anything. They emerged out of the sunset, blinding me, sped past so fast I could barely make out their color, much less who was driving. And they faded rapidly into the evening dark.
I climbed down so Harry could peek.
“Something comforting about this.” He said.
“Why’s that?”
“Reminds me of traffic. Back home. Even at the beating heart of the world, people have to drive in traffic.”
I chuckled. “I guess you’re right.”
“It’s humanizing, you know? Every Sakti and Priyayi that just drove past us, for all their airs, they have to get in a car and drive somewhere. No free lunches and all that.”
“I’ll say.”
It was getting dark, so we climbed carefully down the cement column back to the main street, through Little Tokyo, towards Little America.
“Hey, Pete, you see the news?”
“What news?”
“Superbowl is next week.”
“What? It’s hard to know what day it is, much less what season, in this tropical heat. Who is playing?”
“The Omaha Panthers and the Detroit Steelers.”
“Detroit Steelers were my team!” I said, wistfully. “They never made it to the big game when I was home.”
“Dude—let’s throw a superbowl party.”
“None of us has a TV!”
“O’Flannagan’s American Bar & Grill has a TV, they’re sure to play the game.”
“We can’t afford O’Flannagan’s either!”
“Yeah but we can watch! It’ll be crowded, who’s gonna know?”
“That might be fun.”
“It’s gonna be great. A little taste of home. I wonder if we can get jerseys.”
“HA!” I barked. “Jerseys, all the way over here?”
“I’ve seen crazier. You know the guy down the hall who got real American beer?”
“Yeah how did he do that?”
“He won’t say, but I bet if we ask him he can get jerseys for us.”
“Alright we can talk to him but we can’t be spending money willy-nilly. Rent is due soon.”
And so, as dark fell over Little America, we arrived in front of our apartment building, with something of a plan, and I felt a little less like a bule, and a little more like I was home.