The sound of a coconut grater machine rumbled in the distance.
The shouts of porters carrying baskets of vegetables mixed with the sound of knives slicing meat.
Anom walked through the crowd with a firmer step than usual.
In both hands, he carried two blue plastic buckets.
The lids were tight.
Inside weren’t live fish flopping around.
Just piles of clean white fillets from his work all night long.
Sixteen large plecostomus fish.
All skinned, separated from the bones, arranged neatly in thin plastic layers.
Since Inem came, the work of skinning plecostomus felt different.
Before, Anom had to fight with every inch of that tough skin.
His hands were always cut by the sharp fins.
Sweat mixed with the fishy smell of blood soaked his whole body.
Now his knife cuts felt smoother.
The skin that used to stick like cement to the meat suddenly came off easily under his fingers.
Anom didn’t want to bother thinking about why.
…
Anom arrived at Pak Haji Duloh’s stall.
The old man sat in his high chair, sipping black coffee from a plastic cup.
His squinty, wrinkled eyes immediately went to the two buckets in Anom’s hands.
A flash of greed passed through his gaze.
But Pak Haji Duloh quickly covered it with a sour face.
The face that had been his business uniform for decades.
“Put them there,” Pak Haji Duloh muttered.
His chin pointed to the wet cement floor.
Anom put down both buckets.
He opened the lids one by one.
Piles of white meat looked neat inside.
Under the flickering neon light of the stall, the meat looked like it didn’t belong in such a dirty, muddy environment.
There wasn’t much like this in a lower-class market.
Pak Haji Duloh got down from his chair.
He took a piece of fillet, pressed it with his thumb, then smelled it.
His thick, calloused fingers turned the meat over.
His eyes narrowed.
He knew exactly that this was the highest quality merchandise that had ever come to his stall.
Meat this fresh was usually only found at expensive seafood stalls across town.
Not in the hands of a sewer fish catcher from under the toll road.
But Pak Haji Duloh snorted.
“The market’s slow right now, Nom.
The restaurants on the outskirts are closing.
There’s a health raid from the city police.
Stock from other places is also plentiful.
I can’t give you the same price as yesterday.”
Anom was quiet.
He watched Pak Haji Duloh putting on a show.
The old man rubbed his chin, winced, and shook his head.
A scene Anom had seen thousands of times.
Before, at this point, Anom would immediately beg.
Tell him how much money he needed to eat.
Explain that he had no one.
In the end, he would accept whatever price cut Pak Haji Duloh gave.
But today, Anom just stood there.
His eyes looked at Pak Haji Duloh.
No fear in his gaze.
“How much lower, Pak Haji Duloh?” Anom asked.
His voice was flat.
“Five thousand per kilo from yesterday’s price.
That’s already the best price.
With someone else, I might just refuse altogether.” Pak Haji Duloh glanced at the fillets.
His eyes hoped Anom would give in soon.
Anom looked at the piles of white meat in his buckets.
Sixteen fish.
Eight hours of work last night.
Sweat is pouring down.
Inem was sitting beside him in the dark, keeping him company without a sound.
His hands started to feel lighter as he skinned those fish.
Anom bent down.
He closed both plastic buckets again.
The sound of plastic clashing was firm.
He grabbed the bucket handles and lifted them.
“Hey, where are you going?” Pak Haji Duloh was surprised.
His plastic chair screeched as he stood up suddenly.
The coffee in his glass spilled a little onto the table.
“If the price isn’t right, I’ll take them somewhere else.” Anom’s voice was soft.
Pak Haji Duloh stared with his mouth half open.
For years, he had held the economic neck of people like Anom, and not once had anyone dared to talk like that.
Especially Anom.
Anom, who always looked down.
Anom, who always accepted any price.
Anom, who had no choice because no other seller wanted to take the risk of buying fish from the sewer water.
“To another stall?” Pak Haji Duloh laughed.
But his voice was forced.
“Who would take your stuff, Nom?
Everyone knows where you find them.
Only I’m crazy enough to buy plecostomus from that black sewer.
You want to sell to the carp stall?
They’ll chase you out before you even open the lid.”
Anom started walking.
He didn’t look back.
He passed the first vegetable stall.
Second.
Third.
“Anom!
Stop!”
Anom kept walking.
Now he had passed the spice stall.
“Anom!
Come here first, don’t act like a child!”
Pak Haji Duloh got down from his stall.
His flip-flops scraped against the wet floor.
He chased after Anom and grabbed his arm.
His thick hand clenched Anom’s thin, hard arm.
“You’re so sensitive now.
I only said the market was quiet.
Doesn’t mean I don’t want to buy.”
Anom stopped.
He looked Pak Haji Duloh right in the eyes.
“I’m tired of working my ass off just to get cut down like this, Pak Haji Duloh.
These fish are different from the others.
You’ve seen them, touched them, and smelled them yourself.
If you can’t see the difference, then you’re too old to be a seller.”
Pak Haji Duloh flinched.
That sentence hit his pride.
His mouth opened, about to argue, but no sound came out.
He looked at Anom.
Something was growing inside Anom.
Something Pak Haji Duloh couldn’t step on anymore.
Pak Haji Duloh let go of Anom’s arm.
He caught his breath.
He looked around, making sure no other sellers had seen this scene.
An old seller is brawling with a homeless person in public.
Embarrassing.
“Fine, fine.” Pak Haji Duloh’s voice gave in, though he wrapped it in grumbling.
“Yesterday’s price.
Don’t bring your ego into business.
Put the buckets back here.”
Anom didn’t move right away.
He stared at Pak Haji Duloh for a few more seconds.
Then he turned around and walked back to the stall.
He put both buckets on the cement floor.
Pak Haji Duloh took out a hanging scale.
The needle swayed.
The numbers jumped.
He slid small weights one by one.
His eyes counted quickly.
Decades of trading made him able to determine the price in seconds.
He pulled out his leather wallet, shiny from being touched so often.
Bill by bill, he counted in front of Anom.
Fifty.
Fifty.
Twenty.
Ten.
“The math is exact.
Not a single rupiah short.”
Anom took the money and counted it again.
Not because Anom didn’t trust him.
It’s just that Anom wanted to feel every bill he just received.
Not just the nominal value.
But…
there was a feeling from his own sweat.
He put the money in his pants pocket.
…
Pak Haji Duloh went back to his high chair.
He lit a clove cigarette.
The smoke rose thin in the humid market air.
His eyes watched Anom tidying up the two buckets before leaving.
“You’re brave now, Nom.” Pak Haji Duloh blew out smoke.
“What made you change like this?
Is it because of that girl under the toll road?”
Anom stopped.
He didn’t turn around.
“The fish are brave, so I’m brave.”
Pak Haji Duloh frowned.
“What do you mean, the fish are brave?”
“Those fish dare to live in the dirtiest water.
Every day, they drink factory waste, diesel, and detergent.
But they still give meat that’s clean and white.
If they can keep their quality in the middle of trash, why can’t I?”
Anom didn’t wait for an answer.
He lifted the two empty buckets and walked away from Pak Haji Duloh’s stall.
Pak Haji Duloh could only sit in silence.
His cigarette smoke curled in front of his confused face.
He looked at the white meat in the buckets.
Realizing that tomorrow he couldn’t play games with Anom like before.
…
Anom walked through the market.
The crowd was starting to fill the narrow aisles.
He passed vegetable stalls, spice stalls, and seafood stalls.
People glanced briefly, then ignored him.
He touched the money in his pocket.
Six bills.
More than usual.
Enough to pay off his debt to Mpok Lela, buy rice, buy cigarettes, and still have some left.
He passed Mpok Lela’s food stall.
The woman was pouring tea into plastic glasses.
She waved at Anom.
Anom nodded politely.
Didn’t stop.
He wanted to get back under the toll road fast.
He wanted to tell Inem.
…
When he arrived in front of the shack, Anom saw Inem sweeping dust with a piece of broomstick in front of the door.
The girl looked up when she heard Anom’s footsteps.
“Sold out?” Inem asked.
“Sold out.
Full price.”
Anom sat on the concrete pillar in front of the shack.
He let out a breath.
His hands, which were stiff earlier, slowly relaxed.
Inem smiled slightly.
“The world always tries to push people down, Anom.” Inem’s voice was soft.
“But if we know what we’re carrying is valuable, they have no choice.
They have to respect it.”
Anom stared at the canal water in front of him.
“Inem.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow we’re buying rice.”
“How much?”
“A lot.
Enough for a week.”
Inem didn’t answer.
She went back to sweeping dust in front of the door.
But the smile on her lips didn’t fade.