Station 4: Malaysia

"Haiyaaa what the car doing now?" Swimming alone in its lane, the Alfa Romeo Giulia begins to emit an ominous sound. It has run out of breath and is now pacing itself along the leftmost lane of the highway. Every event has its own cause and effect. The rain comes down because of precipitation in the air. Children are singing because they are happy. Likewise, the components of the V6 mint and black machine must have held a conference among themselves. The engine is facing a deficit of fuel and asks for the spark plugs to cooperate but it refuses to do so. The crankshaft isn’t happy either and wants more support. Each component builds up a sense of entitlement and unwillingness to complete their respective transaction. Twelve always thought that this car had been reliable, and a real driver’s car too. It had excellent balance–it doesn’t budge when trying to steer it. Yet something beneath the hood must have given up. In an instant, Twelve can hear the engine’s emanating noise cut short like a light switch. No sign of life from the internal combustion unit as the wheels continue to roll the car using the remaining kinetic energy it has. Mother would be complaining anytime now about how he hasn’t turned in the car to the workshop for regular maintenance checks. There's a train station fortunately stationed about a dozen car lengths up the road. Still holding onto the steering wheel, he coasts the car along the highway and parks inside.   

“Why don’t you want to function? Now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere". Using the phone as a flashlight, it flies over the hood, looking for the culprit. But is unable to find anything suspicious with the internals. Except for the scattered streetlamps working their overnight shifts, it is complete blackness here. His phone’s battery is running on its last legs as well. His phone, Twelve believes, is surely the undisputed champion for the Olympic sport of battery running. And each day, it is breaking the world record that it set the day before. There is no signal. There is no car. There is no one else here. He is alone. 

Nevertheless, he sends his live location to a close friend on his iPhone, as well as a “HELP MY CAR IS BWOKEN!” and then turns off his phone. A notification appears about Antonelli winning the latest F1 race but decides better of himself not to open it.  Sighing, he heads onto the train platform with ease, the platform was directly connected between the parking space and the platform. To his right, there is a small wooden shack but Twelve doesn’t take notice of it. Stepping into the light, he could feel the injection of color ten times better. A square office sits at the side of the station and peering inside, it is still turned off so he keeps the flashlight option on. There’s a noticeboard plastered with irrelevant train arrival times and messy advertisements that occupy the wall on all corners. There is also a window with scribbles from a market to his left. He can vaguely identify a man as well as several animals. It appears to be monkeys but anything can be primal. To the right is a vending machine with household soft drinks like Coca-Cola and Sprite. Defeated by his ignorance to bring a battery bank, it’s time to return to older traditions. He plunges his hand into his pockets and takes out his wallet. Ignoring the cards, he finds and inserts the coins into the hole, only to find out that it dropped directly to the ‘return coin’ section. It’s Indonesian currency from his travels last week. Still frustrated, he entertains his fingers once more to find the right ones. Finally, with enough coins, a Coca-Cola can drops out of the dispenser. The flap of the machine creaks as he picks up the drink. A metal crack pierces the surroundings as he gulps down the sugary beverage. At this point, despite already drinking four cans of beer and now another drink, he is left feeling empty still. 

What if there was a vending machine with buttons that dispense anything you want, like a vending machine to buy emotions? For a 100,000 rupiah, you could buy happiness in a bottle. Like traditional drinks, there would be a nutritional label: 1 serving of happiness equals 240ml. Each can have 2 servings. ‘Total energy’: 19g to bash through the day, ‘Total blissfulness’: 148 mg so that no one can stop me if I want to eat ice cream before dessert, Vitamin ‘Emotional Resilience’: 240 mg for when my parents and their army of two come charging towards me.  Upon finishing the drink, an internal world of thoughts will open up where space will change and time will not. 

The view is incredibly serene. Facing out of the office,  the platform is plain with three pillars at the sides and the center. Rectangular slabs of concrete of about one meter rest on the ground with steel poles protruding upwards to support the wooden roof. Between the poles are a set of blue benches. Separating the office from the platform, there is a bed of potted flowers outlining a gravel trap connector. Train tracks run along the coastline before the pristine ocean expands beyond the infinite horizon. A sense of calm washes over him as he rests on the metal benches. It is the perfect picturesque scene for a childhood movie. 

Before all of this, he felt like a drunk satellite on a merry-go-round around the globe. He circumvented the earth, believing he was the only person in the vast emptiness of space. Unable to walk straight, but nonetheless able to get to the other side in one piece, each step carries greater weight as if he’s stamping one foot in quicksand each time. This Coke can has brought him back down to earth. 

The last thing he remembers was entering an isolated wooden shed outside the bar with his silver can of beer. Once inside the squeezy confines of what he presumed to be a workshed, he swore the nutritional information label changed into a series of instructions. But before he could read the instructions, he passed out. 

He positions himself comfortably, gently closing his eyes, and imagines he is one of the waves. The sound of crashing waves pervades the air. It is whispering the secrets of the wind, transferring energy and secrets that soothe the inner peace. As each wave hits the shore and retracts, there is a gentle lapping sound. For a moment, he can indulge in the melodic mantra of the waters. The cosmic rhythm, the waves, and his heartbeat were in perfect sync. 

“Thirsty?”

“I asked if you are thirsty?” 

A furry brown hand that is translucent props out in front of him, holding yet another soft drink can. Turning to his right, a one meter tall baboon sits right beside him in a dark blue uniform and a conductor hat. A soft glow outlines his stature, its red eyes stare directly at him. 

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

“If you insist.” The baboon opens the cap and nonchalantly takes a sip. Even though he could see through the baboon and the rest of the blue bench, the water he drank couldn’t be seen inside him at all.

For some reason, wherever reality is stranger than fiction, there is a latency lag between what processes from the eyes to what processes in the brain. The rules of the universe have yet to verify that the construction of a human is different from the construction of a baboon. A soul talking to another soul sees each other for what they are. When he least expects it, the stark realization tracks up to Twelve.

“What the hell!” Twelve says. “Who are.  A lot of people must have asked if you’re a baboon and can talk.” He drops down his guard and tone midway through the sentence when he encapsulates his innocent appearance. It’s such a dumbfounded question. The fluffy brown teddy is right in front of him. Of course, he knows a baboon is talking and is real.

He tries to grab hold of the words to continue but he cannot. The baboon carries on saying: “ Yea I know. You’re not the first.” The baboon takes another sip. “But there aren’t many either. Sometimes I come here on a starry night to admire the view and watch guard. You could say I’m manning the station.” The baboon chuckles, hoping that he catches onto the primal joke. 

Twelve asks if this is what spirits are supposed to look like. “Not cor-right but also not inco-wrong. I’m just a concept. I used to live here normally like all my other baboon friends.” The baboon says. 

“Cor-right and inco-wrong?” 

“Oh haha. Back when I was working, my master used to tap me on the shoulder to give me instructions. If I performed a correct signal, he’d give me a thumbs-up and say ‘cor-right’, and if I messed up, he’d give a disapproving look and say ‘inco-wrong.’”

He begins mapping what the baboon’s original life looked like from start to finish. How can a baboon count and follow instructions? Inversely, were humans just stupid enough to not know about it? The baboon looks straight ahead and laughs, causing Twelve to check himself. “The way you speak is very Asian. I heard your groaning as soon as you pulled over. Your ‘Haiyaa’ was perfect pitch.” 

Twelve nodded and stuttered once more. Admittedly, he’s been using more Asian slang recently. He can hear his ancestors getting heart attacks as soon as the baboon says it. But it is exactly the frustrations of so many thoughts colonizing his mind and words that they begin to trip over each other. 

“I’m not sure if you can tell. But I used to be a train conductor. And this is my uniform.” 

“Yeah, I could tell that quite obviously. I knew that already.” 

“Did you know that a lion only fucks for thirty seconds?”

He almost spits out his Coke but manages to contain himself from unleashing a monsoon.

“Hm no.” 

“Well, now we both know something new!” 

Saving himself from making the conversation ever more awkward. Twelve takes another gulp of Coca-Cola. He’s beginning to think the aluminum can has a bottomless pit of juice. The air around the platform turns still before the baboon laughs again. “We animals have identical brain capacities to keep schedules and communicate in our own languages. You humans just never noticed it until a group of engineers spotted my company. They discovered how capable I was at counting and coordination. A man called James adopted me. Every train needs a signal to know where to turn left or right. I was the solution to the manpower shortage and therefore I controlled the railways along this line for nine years.” 

Twelve then asks him if it was tough work. “It was definitely hard work. But they rewarded me with plenty of brandy to drink. Whenever I struggled, James would protect me from making mistakes, he covered my tracks perfectly. I even got a tiny home in the distance over there.” as it pointed over to the far right where a wooden shack was just about visible amidst the complete darkness. 

“But then, why did you die? You seem quite young for a baboon, and nine years isn’t exactly a long time.” 

“I know right? Maybe I should have just not died. It’s that simple right, human?”

“Yeah, just don’t die. Among my list of recommendations, not dying would be one of the top. If my sources are correct, ‘not dying’ is recommended by nine in ten doctors.” I tell him. 

“What happened to the last doctor?”  “We do not talk about the last doctor.” 

The baboon smirks and sighs, tilting his head slightly against itself. “You wouldn’t understand but we animals have always gotten the shorter end of the stick from you guys. I served what was ordered of me. In fact, I did a great job of keeping ‘track’ of all the details. But you guys always look for something or someone mysterious and try to dispose of it regardless. Or perhaps they got jealous of my brandy. Either way, I guess I at-track-ted too much attention. They went off the rails and sought to get rid of me. One day, while I was cleaning the tracks, some engineers were in charge of a train carriage. With my back facing towards them, they accelerated towards me. The next thing I knew, I saw stars in the daylight and here I am–this in-between realm between the earth and the afterlife. When my boss, James, asked what had happened, they shrugged it off, saying I died of tuberculosis and they sent me away for cremation. The nerve.” 

He enunciated each train-related pun. Twelve figured he did his English homework in advance. Otherwise, he would not have been able to come up with so many. He still doesn’t know how long he’s been stuck here. Maybe that is what time does to a person stuck in bodily limbo. Each time he joked, he would take his two fingers from each hand and curve it like a quotation mark.

“What's your name” 

“Twelve.”

“Like the number?” 

“Yes, but it's alphabetically written out T W E L V E.'' Each letter queued up after the other as each one was spoken slowly and delicately as though speaking to an actual twelve year old. “ Why the funny name?” Honestly, I’m not really sure. If I had to guess, my parents are huge football fans. In a game of soccer, there are eleven players. But we call the fans in the stadium the twelfth player because they are the ones cheering on the team and ultimately build the beautiful game. Oftentimes it can generate as much of an influence on the match as the players. Without supporters, there is no one to watch them. That’s the only significance I see with the number. Naturally, I grew to love soccer as well.”

The baboon then asks Twelve what team he supports. “A team in England that you wouldn’t know. It’s called Bournemouth. I love watching real-life fairy tales. With each season they were promoted and climbed the football ladder despite the gravity of being a smaller club which was and has always been pulling them down. They may not always be the best, but they can always be their best.”

“I can see why they named you Twelve. Together, your mom and dad were a dream team. When you were born, you were the plus one they needed to bring everything together.” 

It was a nice way of saying it. Under a harsh spotlight, both his mother and father were slap bang in the middle ordinary Indonesians. But two ‘five’s sum up to a ten, and in the process, added a plus one. With each other, their whole was greater than the sum of their individual parts. He thanked the baboon for the nice compliment.

“What’s your favorite position?” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Bodoh, I am talking about football.”

“Left-wing.”

This baboon is a joker. An awkward silence stalled the time before they both knew the baboon’s next joke. “Interesting choice, I prefer the right wing.” Twelve pushes the envelope further and asks for the Baboon’s favorite players including Messi, Odegaard, Stalin, Zedong, and Mussolini. 

“What do you do in your free time now?” 

“I do comedy, in case you have not realized.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize that either?” Twelve responds back sarcastically. 

Twelve randomly recalls the times when he was younger when he would send a message to his friends, expecting a reply the following day. Instead, a ping travels across the sky, sending Twelve into long conversations in the middle of the night that lasts for hours. The time would multiply effortlessly as he and the other person(whoever it may be) offered each other their undivided attention. Those times have since been long gone until now. 

The baboon gives another useless fun fact about how four hundred and fifty people die annually by falling off their beds, and he asks himself to remember this fact for any future party. 

“So does that mean that you like comedy?” Twelve asks. 

“Cor-right. I do comedy full-time now. A good comedian makes the audience experience the past again. I have a responsibility and opportunity to be entertaining and elevate. People need to be told stories. As the world receives more polluted information, we lose more autonomy to those above us. We need more people to tell stories about who we really are, why we really are, and what we can do. You will only ever see a comedian do literary and physical punch-ups.” “I may have a lot of train jokes, but I am working on varying them. I have tunnel vision when it comes to these things, just wait and see.”

The baboon continues prophesying about storytelling: “I think I found the key. Comedy is really just a reflection of where society is. Find something that allows you to speak of authenticity, vulnerability, and most importantly, universal truth. The car crashes, awkward encounters, and adventures are the appetizers to grab people’s attention before I serve them a full-course meal. 

“So Twelve, what do you do for a living?”

“I'm a hacker, so I code on a computer to find errors and rectify them with security layers.”

“What programming languages do you use?”

“There's a few that can be used. C double plus, Python, HTML, Java,” 

“Why are you coding in Java? Why not Sumatra?”

Twelve always thought of it but never heard someone say it until the baboon

Twelve cannot believe he has confided this much in a baboon. A baboon of all things. They have been deep in conversation for what feels like the past ten minutes about life. He looks back at the coasts and sees the moon. Now that he thinks of it, he hasn’t taken a good look at the moon in a long time. It looks way more bluer than before. A distinct yellowish-white surface is layered with a vague hue of dark blue on top. If Uranus and the Moon combined colors, what Twelve was seeing was the result. The moon can have feelings too. Sometimes it is just feeling a little blue from running across the earth every day that it just needs to take a break. Why should he care whether or not the moon changes color or not? Someone has to wear the pants.

“How are you feeling now?” 

“Good.” Twelve told it. 

“Inco-wrong. A man whose breath wreaks of alcohol and who is sitting on a platform talking to an animal is never feeling good. What happened to you?” The baboon has seen this over and over again. People underestimate its inquisitiveness and ability to sense feelings. 

He might never see the baboon again. Twelve thinks. There is nothing of significance that he has to hide from the baboon. “My parents are quite reluctant to take some new medication. Their condition is critical and so what I am giving them is important.” “They every time complain that the treatment is too expensive, or that they cannot take it due to some new allergies, which is false. I can tell they are hiding something but I don’t know what. I want to help them. It doesn’t make any sense. You want to hate them, but of course, you cannot. They’re your parents after all. It doesn’t help either that my wife is a doctor, so she’s pushing me to push my parents. Their problem is now my problem.”

The baboon has never gotten into a problem like this before. Additionally, it has never listened to someone who was so economical with their words that it felt like a new English language altogether. They sat lost in thought for a few minutes. If they wait long enough, maybe a bird will magically fly in telling them all the answers they need, there's already a baboon here. The baboon fidgets with the sleeve of its uniform before knowing what to say. “If I can dissect the Asian slang and the rest of what you are saying apart, you have the medicine and want your parents to take it. But they say no and you do not know why? Is that cor-right?” 

Twelve looks at the baboon and nods so that it can continue “Perhaps they don’t need the medicine.” His eyes glare up, letting the baboon know, without telling, that his ears were wide open. The baboon tries to defend himself: “I am not saying that your parents have a death wish or anything. But what is the average life expectancy of a human now? Seventy years if I remember correctly. That’s a very long time to live. If your parents are living day to day for the sake of it, it can be rather dull. They will definitely be asking why do they live? My grand-monkeys are still alive, but tired of living too. The average life of an Indonesian baboon is forty years old. They are in their mid-thirties. But you can see it in their eyes that their soul has already left this place. It’s as good as gone.” 

He takes in a deep breath of the ocean air. Holds it for a few seconds and releases it back. Uncrossing his hand, he rests his palms by the sides on a chill bench. Seeing that the water is only a few meters beyond him, he picks up a lone pebble on the concrete floor. Arching his arm back, he launches the pebble into the ocean. A small ripple forms on the surface. A whisper of reverberations of the collisions is barely audible.

“When’s the last time you had a good conversation with your parents?” “I haven’t talked that much with them in quite a long time. I check in on them once a week to hand them the medicine. I tell them about the vitamins and components that make the treatments useful but they don’t budge. That’s all there is to talk about.” 

 “Nonsense. There’s always things to talk about. Your parents don’t want to be instructed and taught what to know and what to do. They’re gonna die in a few years anyway so what’s the point in arts and crafts or taichi practices? What they love is teaching and passing their wisdom on to younger generations. They have a story that they want and need to tell. You just never asked them for a story so they keep it to themselves.”

"You're probably right about that. But there's also some friction between us which hasn't been resolved for a long time. You see I–"

The baboon pushes its finger against Twelve’s mouth, cutting him off from speaking any further. "You don't need to tell me what's wrong with your family. People hate each other for all sorts of reasons. Some make more sense than others. It’s impossible to float everyone’s boat. I loved James for giving me the life I had, but I hated most of my co-workers. There were times when things got so heated between the two of us and the rest. They didn’t like the idea of someone monkeying around with their business. But I still loved my time. 

"There were times they left me out on the road outside while they partied indoors. But man, every once in a while, the road is the club. Their hatred was nothing but a face just because everyone else did so. Once they got hungover, they adored me just as much as everyone else. We’d sit around this very platform playing games, drinking, and singing like kids. No one cared if you were white, black, human, non-human, green, or French, we just wanted to have fun while we were still here.” 

If animals can now talk, anything could be possible. How would green people be treated as they tried to order lunch and dinner at the mall? His mind simulates the possibilities before he refocuses back on the problem. He asks the baboon what to do now

“Just because your parents may need the medication does not mean that they want it. The medication they need is not something you have in your pocket. Try cheering them up first–talk to them and give them something to smile about, and stay perhaps a little longer when you meet them next time. More often than not, laughter is the best medicine.” 

"So you want me to tell my wife that all the antibiotics and pills she's giving are useless? I can just go up to her and say "No need dear. A baboon just told me the other night that laughter is the best medicine" Proceed to give her a cheeky smile and then happily walk away." 

“I’d be impressed if you actually say that. Just ask them if they miss you. If so, what times did they enjoy when you were still growing up with them? Ask them what they want to tell you, yet never had the opportunity to do so. Once you allow them to speak up, they won’t shut up.” 

There was a time when he and his parents were waiting at the train station. Twelve’s mother had just gotten her phone stolen and she insisted on getting a snack first. She would catch us inside the train later. But she never came. The train would take off without her and he was scrambling with his father as they played an elaborate game of chess on what to do. We could have waited for her at the next stop, taken the train back, and searched the station. Expecting the worst, we came back. Conversely, Mother took the next train first to the next station, and then our original destination and waited for us. In trying to search for the lost sheep, the shepherd got lost as well. Twelve argued with his father indefinitely as they searched until evening. In the end, all three returned to the one place they knew they would find each other. Home. 

By the time everyone was home, their energy was completely drained. That did not stop the three of them from starting a blaming contest of who’s who. Mom insisted that if the trip was so important for Father, they should have continued without her. Dad used the excuse of family and that she did not try hard enough to look for us. And yet, despite all of that, when the dust had settled, when each of their bodies were aching and crying for rest, we still had enough muscle to smile. In this short twenty minute conversation, the baboon had earned Twelve’s respect. He felt more at ease now that he has found direction and could steer the ship. 

Twelve thanks the baboon for the advice and promises he will look at what he can do. Assuming his car doesn't break down again in the middle of nowhere, he will probably never see the baboon again. He could tell the baboon anything he wanted, and nothing would leave the confines of the train platform. The baboon asks if it could lead him to show something. 

They find a wooden shed and the baboon asks Twelve to open and look inside. Turning on the light, it’s the same one which he encountered just before he came here. He looks back and sees that the baboon is no longer there. He receives a message telling him that his friend is outside the station. The phone has been recharged to full battery as well. Further behind, a pair of headlights illuminate from the carpark followed by an intrusive honk. The car was undeniably his friend's. The Toyota Hybrid opens its doors as he makes the lonely walk back to the station, across the mini bridge connecting the platform and the office and down the steps into the parking lot where the car is.

His friend asked him how he got here and he said his car broke down. The friend then reminds him that he doesn’t have a car and he was right. He never owned a car(let alone an Alfa Romeo). It was previously planned that since he would have obviously been drunk tonight, his friend would fetch him home. Looking through the tinted windows, the wooden shack was nowhere to be seen. He was certain he saw it. But in its supposed place is now a mere patch of grass similar to its surroundings. 

In his right ear, the sound of a locomotive fades into the distance. Twelve’s eyes darted left and right, but no indication of any train nearby. Randomly, he gets a thought that is not his. He knows it's not his because he would have never thought of it, but it still infiltrated his mind nonetheless. He pictures the baboon looking him dead in the face: “Haha, I gotcha!” The engine starts, and as the car makes a one-eighty, it heads back out onto the highway. Twelve offers his own rendition of the story which fails to convince anyone.