Desk Research

They say your life truly begins when you hit thirty.

To celebrate this milestone, Darma—who prided himself on being a "massive reader" despite the stack of unread paperbacks mocking him from the corner—started a new book at 2 AM. He had never cared about waiting for midnight to blow out candles or toast to the shifting calendar. He had never seen the significance of doing so; rarely was anyone actually born at the stroke of twelve anyway. Why perform for a clock?

The book, an older novel titled Walter, sat on his nightstand next to a bottle of expensive mineral water. The water was a whim, a glass-bottled imported brand he’d bought at the premium grocer because the label looked like something a successful person would drink. He hadn't intended to be awake, but his brain was too caffeinated with a strange, jittery anticipation to wait for the morning. He had work tomorrow—or rather, today—but the prospect of the novel and the heavy, humid silence of his studio apartment felt too romantic to resist.

He’d even left his phone off, tucked face-down under a pile of mail. By now, he was sure his group chat was buzzing with wishes. He imagined the notifications: the "Happy Birthday, Bro!" from Zidane, the flurry of cake emojis from Clara, and the warm, slightly maternal messages from Nunung and Lita.

They were the "sweetest" group, a tight-knit unit forged in the fire of undergraduate midterms. Now, they were all married or in the kind of serious relationships that involved joint bank accounts and discussions about floor tiles. Yet, they always made time for each other. They were not like friend groups who disband because of “family”.

Clara had given him Walter as an early birthday gift. She’d called it "stellar," claiming the story of a boring university professor’s mid-life awakening had inspired her to finally put a down payment on a house and "take more risks." Darma looked at the closed cover, the font elegant and cold. In thirty years, he could only count two times he had taken any sort of substantial risk.

The first was during a college internship at a mid-sized logistics firm. He had been twenty-one, fueled by a diet of campus activism and a naive belief that the world was a meritocracy of virtue. He’d gone up against a senior manager for the systematic sexual harassment of a fellow intern, a girl named Maya who had been too terrified to speak.

Darma had documented everything. He’d stayed late to photocopy logs; he’d cornered HR representatives in the elevator. The case, predictably, went nowhere. The manager was a "top performer," a man whose role was deemed too critical to the company’s Q4 targets to be compromised by "interpersonal friction." However, the HR department, perhaps sensing a potential lawsuit or perhaps genuinely moved by his misplaced courage, had offered Darma a permanent position upon graduation. A "Diversity and Inclusion" junior role. A peace offering.

He had declined it out of principle. He’d walked out of that glass-and-steel lobby with his head high and his pockets empty. Now, nearly a decade later, looking at the cracks in his ceiling and the borderline unusable health insurance card on his dresser, he wondered if pride was a luxury he shouldn't have afforded. Maya had moved to Canada and never spoke to him again. The manager had been promoted. And Darma? Darma was currently entering his third year in a customer service role for a telecommunications giant that viewed him as a replaceable part in a loud, angry machine.

He had long since resigned from being a "social justice warrior." Now, he just checked out the moment he clocked in. He made small talk in the pantry about the price of eggs or the rain, but that was the extreme of things. He didn't participate in "Team Building Thursdays." He didn't join the office football league. People had eventually stopped trying to invite him to things, which suited him until it didn't.

The second risk was Satrio.

Satrio was the "penultimate" engineering student who moonlighted as a barista at Pray Café. It was a small, unpretentious spot tucked between a hardware store and a florist. Satrio had dreamy eyes that seemed to hold a permanent spark of amusement, cute dimples, and a tan complexion that caught the afternoon sun in a way that made Darma’s chest ache. He rode a humble, meticulously cared-for Vespa, a cream-colored vintage model that he parked right out front.

Darma had become a regular there, timing his evening jogs to coincide with Satrio’s shift. He felt it was unfair that Satrio had learned so much about "the gay man in his late 20s"—Darma’s coffee order (just an americano), his preference for the table by the window, his tendency to stare at the park across the street—while Darma only knew the make and model of Satrio’s scooter. Which he quickly forgot two seconds after.

The breaking point came after a particularly soul-crushing day at work. A string of customers had spent eight hours calling him "incompetent" because their internet speeds had dropped during a monsoon. A cranky boss had reprimanded him for a three-second delay in answering a call. And to top it off, he’d found a literal, drowned fly in his lunch.

He’d lost his appetite for food, so he went to the café for a "dessert coffee" instead.

"Hey, Darma! You don't usually come in at this time!" Satrio called out the moment the door chimed.

Darma was so startled he dropped his keys. They clattered on the tile, a loud, metallic rejection of his attempt to look cool.

"So, what's the occasion? I hope they didn't send you home for bad behavior," Satrio teased, adjusting a bandana with a subtle batik pattern. "We could use an extra barista; I'm pulling double shifts lately. Finals week, you know?"

Darma ordered a sea salt latte. He loved that Pray Café wasn't like the big chains; they didn't bore you with the origin of the beans or the elevation of the farm. They just gave you a cup that tasted like comfort. He finished his drink in five minutes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He left an IDR 10,000 tip in the jar—a small fortune for a guy on his salary—and gathered his courage.

"Hey, thanks for the tip, man! Will you stop by again tomorrow morning?”

That’s it. Why would Satrio wants to know when they’ll see each other again? Surely, he had a bunch of other regulars.

“Probably not. But I’m free for dinner if you are?” There. No backing out now.

The silence that followed was thick, filled only by the hiss of the espresso machine.

“Oh… man… I mean, I’d love to, but… deadlines, you know? Major project due tomorrow,” Satrio said, rubbing the back of his neck. He didn't look away, which almost made it worse. He looked genuinely sorry, which is the cruelest way to be rejected. “Maybe some other time?”

Darma had nodded, forced a smile that felt like cracking plaster, and walked out. He hadn't stepped foot in Pray Café since. He’d changed his jogging route. He’d started drinking instant coffee at home, which he honestly couldn’t tell the difference.

Fast forward to the present. The only thing that had changed at work were the "Average Handling Time" (AHT) standards. Every call now had to be resolved in under eight minutes, or the system would flag you for a "coaching session."

Darma had turned this into a game of survival. He liked to live on the edge, stretching every mundane problem to the 07:59 mark. He would put a customer on hold—let’s say a Mr. Rudi who was complaining about a billing error—and go on a "phone break."

During those minutes, he wasn't Darma the Customer Support Representative. He was an explorer. He would window-shop for fountain pens he couldn't afford or fall down Wikipedia rabbit holes about 17th-century Dutch maritime law.

It was during one of these breaks that the memory surfaced. A flash of a girl-monkey on a pirate ship. A strange, fever-dream anime from his childhood that had aired on a local channel for maybe three weeks before vanishing. He couldn't remember the name, and the mystery felt like an itch he couldn't scratch.

While Mr. Rudi waited in the digital void, Darma opened a fresh tab. “Pirate anime girl monkey 2000s Indonesia.”

Nothing.

He grabbed his phone, the screen glowing with birthday messages he had finally decided to acknowledge. He bypassed the "Happy Birthday" wishes and went straight to the core of his obsession.

Darma: “You guys remember this old anime? Pirate crew, main character is a girl monkey?”

Clara: “Happy Birthday! And no... are you sure it’s not One Piece? Luffy is kind of monkey-like?”

Zidane: “HBD bro! I only watch Naruto, you know me. I’m not into the weird stuff.”

Nunung & Lita: (Left him on read at 2:14 PM).

The lack of an answer—and the generic birthday wishes—felt like a cold breeze. The truth was, the "sweetest group of friends" hadn't actually hung out in months. Their group chat was a graveyard of "We should totally meet up!" followed by "Oh, wait, I have a prenatal appointment" or "The husband’s parents are coming over."

Darma was the only one whose schedule was a blank canvas, yet he was the one who had to wait for them to find a gap in the paint. He felt like a ghost haunting his own social life, a "plus-zero" in a world of "plus-ones." He suspected they pitied him. He could hear it in the way they’d say, "You're so lucky you can just sleep in on Sundays," while they dealt with toddlers or mortgage brokers. It was the kind of thing people said to make themselves feel better about their own exhaustion.

When they finally did meet for a Sunday mall trip—the first in four months—it felt performed.

They walked through the air-conditioned corridors of the high-end mall, a procession of couples with Darma trailing slightly behind like a stray shadow. Their walks feel perfunctory, like it lacked rhythm. Have they been that out of sync?

Darma looked up. Standing near the entrance of a boutique stationery store was a man in a crisp navy polo and tailored trousers. He looked polished, successful—a "grown-up" version of the boy in the batik bandana.

It was Satrio.

Darma’s first instinct was to pivot and vanish into the nearest department store, to hide among the racks of overpriced suits. But Satrio caught his eye and his face lit up with a recognition that was entirely too genuine.

“Darma? Is that you?”

Satrio didn't just wave; he walked over and went for a hug. It was their first hug. Satrio smelled like sandalwood and high-end office air conditioning. It was a brief, polite embrace, but it left Darma feeling dizzy.

“Oh, hey, man. You look good,” Darma managed. “Where are you now?”

“At a small firm nearby. Logistics, actually. Nothing fancy,” Satrio said, flashing those same dimples. “You’re still at the tech company?”

“I am, yeah. Same old, same old.”

Darma’s friends stood in a semi-circle a few feet away, pretending to look at their phones but actually vibrating with voyeuristic energy. They were watching him like a character in a drama, waiting for the "moment."

“Well, we should catch up,” Satrio said, pulling out his phone. “I never got your Instagram or anything. I wondered where you went.”

Darma typed his handle in with trembling fingers. As Satrio walked away with a final, lingering wave, his friends swarmed.

“Who was that?” Clara squealed.

“He’s a ten, Darma. A little young, but a ten regardless,” Zidane added, clapping him on the shoulder.

They were being so supportive it felt patronizing. They wanted him to have this "win" so they wouldn't have to feel the low-level guilt of leaving him behind. They wanted to fix him so they could go back to their married lives without worrying about the "single friend" at the back of the group.

The next day, back in the 8-minute trenches of his cubicle, Darma felt a surge of reckless energy. He didn't care about his AHT. He didn't care about the billing errors of Mrs. Sari.

He posted a Story: a grainy, hand-drawn sketch he’d made of the girl-monkey. “Last chance. Does ANYONE remember this? It’s for my sanity.”

He didn’t expect Satrio to be the one. He expected Satrio to be a silent follower, someone who would watch his stories and never interact. But an hour later, the notification pinged.

Satrio: “I showed my brother. He’s a total nerd for retro stuff. He says it’s 'Gyoten Ningen Batseelor'. It aired on Global TV for like, five minutes in 2005.”

Darma’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. Gyoten Ningen Batseelor. He immediately went to YouTube. He found a playlist of low-resolution uploads. He pulled his second all-nighter of the year.

As the opening credits rolled, a surge of pure, uncut nostalgia hit him. He remembered the melody. He remembered the way he used to sit on the floor of his childhood home, eating crackers and waiting for the girl-monkey to save the day.

But by episode three, the feeling soured.

The show was terrible. It wasn't just "bad" in a charming way; it was a cynical, low-budget knock-off of One Piece and Dragon Ball. The dialogue was stilted, the girl-monkey was annoying, and the plot was a nonsensical mess of "fetch quests" and bad puns. It was a show that had been canceled for a reason. He realized that he had spent years holding onto a memory that wasn't actually good. He had built a pedestal for a "special" thing that was actually just a cheap product of its era.

He looked at his phone. He opened the message thread with Satrio. He started to type: “That’s the one! You’re a lifesaver. I actually watched a few episodes tonight… turns out it’s kind of awful haha. Dinner still on the table for 'some other time'?”

His thumb hovered over the send button. Then, he looked at the group chat. Zidane had posted a photo of a new baby stroller. Clara was asking for advice on "couples' insurance." None of them had asked him how his birthday was. None of them had followed up on the mall trip. They had performed their duty as friends for the quarter, and now they had retreated back into their forts.

Darma realized that if he sent that message to Satrio, he was just trying to restart a loop that had already ended. He was trying to find meaning in a barista who had moved on, and a show that was never good to begin with. He was thirty now. He couldn't keep living on "maybe some other time."

Darma deleted the draft.

He didn't thank Satrio. He didn't message the group chat. He wasn't going to be the guy who clung to ghosts just to fill the silence.

He turned off the laptop, the screen fading to black. He picked up Walter, the book about the boring professor who finally decided to live. He took a long drink of the remaining expensive mineral water—which, honestly, tasted just like tap water—and opened to page ten.