Street smart mom

Eric Musa Piliang   |  Sun, 02/08/2009 11:24 AM  |  Short story

Sitting in the back of the car, with my mother beside me, I watch the world pass by. The street is jammed-packed. Cars, motorcycles and buses big and small fight for every inch of space in the narrow streets. Everyone seems to be rushing to get somewhere, everyone impatient, although there is only that small space for each of them and one can only move so fast, or rather so slow.

Cozying up in the leather seat and absorbing the cool air, I feel lucky to be inside. It's hot out there, and I know how suffocating the exhaust fumes can be. Inside, we are insulated from the noises. Instead, we get soft music playing from the car radio.

It's just nice. I cuddle mother for comfort.

The man at the wheel looks handsome, wearing a red tie and crisp white long-sleeved shirt. He seems deep in thought, or maybe he's just enjoying the music. His eyes are fixed on the road as he effortlessly steers the car through the morning traffic.

"How old is the child?" he breaks the silence for the first time since we got in, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.

"Oh, he's 6, sir," mother replies as soon as she learns that he's speaking to us.

"Isn't he big enough to be in school?"

"He'll go next year, sir."

"How come there are only a few of you today?" more questions that keep the conversation going. "Was there a raid this morning or something?"

"False alarm. Someone spread the rumor and people quickly dispersed in fear."

"Ever been caught?"

"Once. I don't think I could go through another one," mother says in a tone that mixes sadness with anger. "Those public order officers are rough. They keep us for days in this house, and ask for a lot of money before they release us."

**

Riding in an expensive car is something I do almost every morning. The man at the wheel is always smartly dressed. From time to time, we get a woman driving the car, and she is also beautifully dressed, smelling of sweet perfume, and very pretty.

Some of them don't talk to us, preferring instead to speak on their small cell phones as they drive. From time to time, we get a man or woman who's curious about our condition and asks pointed questions.

"You're a jockey," friends in the neighborhood tell me about my profession. Others describe me as "A three-in-one kid."

Mother takes me every morning on a crowded bus to a place where we stand by the street and wait for one of these expensive cars to pick us up as extra passengers. Once inside the car, we head to town, driving through the wide streets lined with tall buildings. The car stops at some point, and mother collects money for the both of us.

As jockeys, we make up for the passenger numbers in a car to make sure there's three, including the person at the wheel. Mother told me that at certain hours of the day, the main thoroughfares of Jakarta are restricted to cars carrying three persons or more.

"Be good, don't say a word when you're in the car," mother repeatedly tells me. "Just enjoy the ride." And who am I to argue with mother?

I can't tell how long I've been doing this. I remember mother carrying me in her arms. Now that I can walk by myself, I still help with her morning routine.

"We need the money," she says. "Your father never brings home enough, even when he works at the building site."

Having a kid on her tow apparently gives her an edge over the other jockeys. The field, or rather the streets, are filled mostly with young and not-so-young men and women doing the same thing. Mother says many car owners prefer to take a woman with a toddler, rather than take two young persons. Hence my role in all this.

The younger jockeys can be rough. Once, two young men forced their way into a car when the driver clearly signaled for mother and me. They were rejected and we got in, but not before a shouting match with the two nasty boys.

"Why are they rich and we are not?" I asked mother one morning after we were got out of a car.

"They are smart people. They finished school, and then went to university. Maybe their parents are rich," mother shrugged. "If your grandpa was rich, I would have finished school and gone to university. Perhaps we'd be rich, too."

She continued in a motherly fashion, "You too should go to university, so that one day you can be smart like them and drive one of those cars.

"You already have a taste of what it's like being rich," mother joked. "Don't end up like father, doing odd jobs at construction sites. You will always be poor."

**

"Candy?" the man at the wheel offers, breaking the silence once more as we cruise along the main thoroughfare where the traffic is much lighter.

"Thank you sir," mother says, taking the assorted candies from his hand and giving them to me. "What do you say to the nice man?"

"Thank you sir," I say, and only because mother prompts me.

"So why isn't he at school yet?" he goes back to the early theme about me.

"We don't have enough money."

"What does his father do?" he queries.

"He left us a long time ago," mother says, obviously lying, but with a straight face. Father is at home, most likely sleeping after an all-night card game with neighbors.

"I've had to raise all three children by myself," she adds, again another lie. There are only two of us, my older brother and me.

"I can't afford to buy milk for the young one," she goes on. What young one? What milk? I am the youngest, and I hate milk.

Remembering my mother's warning not to open my mouth while in the car, I just stare at her, wondering what the purpose of all these lies is. I've been told by people at the mosque that you go to hell for lying.

When we reach our dropping point, the man at the wheel gives mother some money, much more than the going rate for jockeys.

"Here is some extra to buy the milk for your baby," the man says, unlocking the back door to let us out.

"Thank you so much, sir," mother says.

We exit and close the door, and the car speeds off.

Mother smiles, and I can now see why.

"You're smarter than him, mother."

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