The label “ex-con” seemed permanently stamped across his forehead. He had been out of prison for two years, and for those same two years, he had struggled to find work.
Back in his prison cell, he had been taught how to bake and make handicrafts. Skills that were supposedly meant to help him survive on the outside. But theory had never aligned with reality.
He had tried almost every kind of manual labor. From washing dishes at a food stall and watching over a neighborhood grocery store to working as a porter at the harbor, delivering goods, and driving kids to and from school. Yet every time his employer learned about his past, his job ended on the spot.
Damar Prasetyo sat on a roadside bench, chewing on mendoan. Oil gleamed on his lips. His vacant eyes watched the traffic pass by.
“If I just sit here,” Damar said, finishing the last piece of mendoan, “I’m never going to find a job. I have to leave this city.”
He stood and walked away. After only a few steps, he turned back to pick up the plastic wrapping from his food, then threw it into a trash can.
Damar walked without any clear destination, but his feet always carried him to the same place. An empty house that had been unoccupied for seven years.
“I should’ve listened to you,” Damar murmured. “I’m sorry, Erin...”
He had no idea how many times he had said those words, but not once had he received a reply. Damar stared at the door of the house, holding on to the faint hope that the person he missed would suddenly appear and smile at him from inside.
“What time is it, anyway?” Damar grumbled, tapping his index finger against his watch. “Hurry up!”
“Yeah, yeah, just a second!” Erina tied her hair back, then ran ahead of Damar.
“Hey, Erin, wait!” Damar chased after her.
“Come on! We’re almost late! If Mr. Gi punishes me, it’ll be your fault!”
Damar managed to overtake her, laughing as sweat soaked through his white-and-gray school uniform.
The memory came flooding back. Memories of Erina, his childhood best friend, whom he missed terribly.
“Still no word?” a man’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.
Damar turned. Mr. Djatmiko, Erina’s neighbor across the street, smiled at him. Damar didn’t know him very well, but the middle-aged man always greeted him whenever they crossed paths.
“Why don’t you try going on that missing-person show on TV?” Djatmiko asked as he approached. “Maybe the crew can help.”
Damar gave a faint smile. Going on TV would be the same as announcing his ex-inmate status to all of Indonesia.
“Have you eaten?” Djatmiko pointed toward a bakso vendor who had just passed by. “Hey! Two bowls!”
Djatmiko sat on the cement wall in front of his fence. Damar sat beside him.
“Your girlfriend still hasn’t shown up?” Djatmiko glanced toward the empty house across from them.
“She’s just a friend, Mr. Djatmiko,” Damar replied quietly, staring at his scuffed white sneakers.
“Some friend, if you’re searching this hard,” Djatmiko chuckled skeptically. “You did something wrong to her and want to apologize, but she moved away before you could. That about right?”
“Something like that.”
Djatmiko nodded several times. “Where are you working now?”
“Unemployed.”
The bakso vendor handed them two bowls. They both took them.
“What kind of work were you doing before?” Djatmiko asked again.
“Driving kids to and from school.”
“Why’d you quit?”
“I got fired.”
“Fired?” Djatmiko chewed his bakso. “Have you looked for another job?”
“It’s pointless, Mr. Djatmiko.” Damar sighed softly. “I’d probably just get fired again.”
Djatmiko watched Damar bite into a fried wonton. “I own a fabric shop. If you want, you can work for me.”
Damar smiled bitterly. “Thank you, Mr. Djatmiko. But if you knew why I was fired, you’d fire me too.”
“How could I fire you if you do good work?” Djatmiko replied casually. “I’ve watched you stand in front of that house for two years. I know you’re persistent.”
Damar’s chest fluttered. It had been a long time since anyone had treated him like an ordinary person without judging him. But he knew it was only because Mr. Djatmiko didn’t yet know who he really was.
“She’s the reason I’ve held on this long, sir.”
“That’s why I said she’s more than just a friend,” Djatmiko teased.
“She was the first person I wanted to see when I got out.”
“Got out of where?”
“Prison.”
Djatmiko’s chewing stopped abruptly. The bakso vendor, who had been straightening the soy sauce bottles, suddenly turned to look as well.
“Prison?” Djatmiko repeated uncertainly.
“I got out two years ago.”
“What was the charge? Fraud?”
“Murder,” Damar answered honestly.
Djatmiko swallowed his wonton whole without chewing. The bakso vendor’s face went pale, and he slowly hid behind his cart.
Damar turned to the side. Mr. Djatmiko looked utterly shocked.
“Thank you for the job offer, sir,” Damar said quietly.
He stood, placed his bowl on the cart, and pulled out his wallet. “How much?”
“J-just right... this is enough,” the bakso vendor stammered, quickly taking the money from Damar’s hand without daring to meet his eyes.
Damar watched his reaction bitterly. It was a situation all too familiar to him—being treated like some terrifying monster.
“Mr. Djatmiko, I’ll be going...”
Mr. Djatmiko could only sit frozen, unable to speak.
Damar walked away with his head bowed. All along the road, he could feel people’s eyes on him, as if they were constantly judging him.