Anom sat at the edge of the drainage channel.
That afternoon was hot.
Sweat ran from his temples to his jaw, then dripped onto the net in his lap.
The blue bucket on his right side held six Plecostomus fish.
Their scales shone like metal.
The water in the bucket was clear.
Anom had stopped thinking about how strange that was.
He just accepted it.
Luck had come.
No point asking where from.
The shelter behind him had been neat for two days now.
Cardboard stacked.
Cloths hanging.
The dirt floor is clean of pebbles.
Inem was sleeping inside, or maybe just lying down.
Anom never knew for sure.
She was quiet as a rock.
Anom lit a cigarette.
The smoke rose thin into the hot afternoon air.
He sighed.
Everything was going too well.
And Anom knew one thing about life on the street: luck was never free.
Every bit of fortune brought envy.
A drop followed every peak.
He heard footsteps from the eastern tunnel.
Heavy.
Noisy.
More than one person.
Flip-flops scraping against gravel and dry dirt.
Anom didn’t need to turn around.
He felt the vibration of the concrete under his feet.
Ali.
And two other men.
Anom took a deep drag of his cigarette.
He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, then let it out slowly.
He folded the net he was fixing and put it on a rock.
He stood up.
Facing the tunnel.
Three shadows came out of the darkness.
Ali is in front.
His tank top was wet with sweat.
His face was uncertain, like someone forced to do something he didn’t want to.
Behind him, two men stood with their arms crossed.
Anom recognized them.
Fish catchers from downstream.
Faces he usually saw at the market when selling his catch.
But this time they weren’t carrying nets or buckets.
They carried unease and held-back anger.
Ali stopped three meters from Anom.
The two men behind him stopped too.
They stared at the blue bucket.
The fish inside moved wildly, hitting the plastic walls over and over.
“We need to talk, Nom.”
Anom wiped his wet hands on his shorts.
“Then talk.
You’re already here.”
The tattooed man on Ali’s right stepped forward.
His thin arms were covered in faded pictures.
He pointed at Anom’s bucket.
“Your catch is too much for this area, Nom.
For three days, we were downstream and got almost nothing.
The fish disappear before they reach our spot.
But you?
Mr.
Haji Duloh said you bring the best fish every morning.
You must be secretly fishing in our area at night.”
Anom took another drag of his cigarette.
He blew the smoke to the side.
“I’m still here.
I haven’t moved an inch.”
“Still here?” The tattooed man laughed short.
“This sewer water can give fish that clean?
You think we’re stupid?”
“I don’t care what you think.”
The tattooed man stepped forward.
He was now one and a half meters from Anom.
Ali raised his hand.
Calming.
“Enough.
Enough.
There’s something strange here, Nom.
I know you’re not a bad guy.
I know you’re honest.
But look at us.
The guys downstream are starting to go hungry.
Usually, twenty fish a day, now five is lucky.
While you…
You’re pulling all the fish to your spot.”
Anom looked at Ali’s face.
Then, at the two men behind him.
Their cheekbones stuck out.
Their clothes were ragged.
Anom understood.
Poverty was a competition.
In Jakarta, under this bridge, there wasn’t enough for everyone.
If one person got more, others got less.
That was the rule.
Cruel.
But real.
“I’m not taking what’s yours, Ali.
I just set my net like always.
If fish swim into my net, that’s not my fault.”
The second man, who had been quiet, finally spoke.
His voice was deep.
“The problem isn’t right or wrong, Nom.
It’s about stomachs.
If you keep getting that many fish here, we won’t get anything downstream.
You need to share with us.
Or move from this spot.”
Anom felt heat in his chest.
Anger.
But he didn’t let it show on his face.
He stayed calm.
He remembered the shelter he had fixed up with Inem.
He remembered the last few nights, when he slept with a feeling of safety for the first time.
He didn’t want to lose that.
“This is my spot.
I was here long before you started complaining.”
Ali sighed.
“We don’t want to be your enemy, Nom.
But we have to eat too.
There’s something not right about your fish.
Too clean.
Too big.
People are starting to say you’re using a sacrifice.
Have a supernatural pet.
You know yourself, rumors like that can become a big problem around here.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.
I don’t believe in sacrifices.
I only believe in nets and water.”
“Then where do those fish come from?”
“Just lucky with the water.
That’s why I get good fish.”
The tattooed man snorted.
He stepped forward again.
Now he was only a meter away.
His breathing was loud.
The smell of cigarettes and sweat stung.
“Rude.”
Anom didn’t know where the words came from.
But his mouth had already spoken.
The tattooed man shoved Anom’s shoulder.
Once.
Hard.
Anom staggered back two steps, almost falling into the drainage channel.
Luckily, he kept his balance.
Sand and pebbles pressed into his bare feet.
Anom didn’t think twice.
His fist flew.
Hit the tattooed man’s left cheek.
The sound was like raw meat being slapped.
The man staggered to the right.
His right hand touched his cheek, which reddened immediately.
Ali and the other man yelled.
“Stop!
Stop!”
But the tattooed man had already hit back.
His punch landed on Anom’s jaw.
Anom felt warmth in his mouth.
Blood.
His back tooth was loose.
But he didn’t fall.
He stepped forward again.
Punched again.
To the chest.
To the shoulder.
Anywhere he could reach.
Just to hit back.
The tattooed man punched back, hitting Anom’s arm, hitting his left ribs.
Anom coughed.
But he didn’t stop.
Ali grabbed the back of Anom’s collar.
Pulled him back.
The other man hugged the tattooed man from the side.
“Enough, Nom!
Enough!”
Anom broke free from Ali’s pull.
He stepped back three steps.
His chest heaved.
His left cheek throbbed.
Blood dripped from his split lower lip.
The knuckles on his right hand were scraped and bleeding.
The tattooed man was the same.
Cheek swollen.
Eyes red.
Breathing hard.
But in the end, he didn’t step forward again.
Ali stood between them.
His arms were spread wide.
“That’s enough!
We don’t need to fight over Plecostomus!”
The tattooed man spat on the ground.
His spit was mixed with blood.
“You’re lucky I didn’t bring a machete, Nom.”
Anom wiped his lip with the back of his left hand.
Blood.
His tongue touched the cut on his lip, which stung.
He stared at the tattooed man.
“Tomorrow,” Anom said calmly.
His voice was soft.
Not shaking.
“Or the day after.
Name the place.
But make sure there are no witnesses.”
Ali blinked.
The tattooed man stopped breathing for a moment.
“Either you or me will be finished,” Anom continued.
His eyes didn’t blink.
“But tomorrow morning I’ll sell my fish first.
Our business can wait.”
Silence hung under the toll bridge.
The afternoon wind blew between the concrete pillars.
The smell of diesel and blood mixed in the air.
The sound of vehicles above came faintly.
The tattooed man swallowed.
He hadn’t expected that answer.
An answer that could only come from someone who wasn’t afraid to die because he didn’t believe in anything after death.
The logic of someone who had done the math: better for both to be finished than to back down.
Ali pulled the tattooed man’s arm.
Hard.
“Let’s go.
Now.”
The tattooed man stared at Anom one more time.
His look was different now.
No longer looking down on him.
Even the anger seemed gone.
There was something like respect mixed with caution.
He knew the person he was talking to wasn’t a man who could be intimidated with a machete or empty words.
They turned around.
Their steps were fast, almost running, leaving the silent toll bridge.
Their flip-flops scraped the gravel until the sound completely disappeared around the tunnel bend.
Anom still stood in his place.
His chest heaved.
His right hand was still clenched, nails pressing into his scraped and bleeding palm.
Slowly, he unclenched his fist.
His fingers felt stiff.
Anom walked to the edge of the channel.
He crouched down.
Black water washed over his fingers.
Cold.
He scooped water to his face.
It stung on his split lip.
Stung on his swollen cheek.
But he didn’t groan.
He washed the blood from his chin.
From his cheek.
From his scraped knuckles.
In the murky water’s reflection, he saw his own face.
Swollen cheek.
Split lip.
Tired eyes.
But still alive.
Still standing.
“Tomorrow I sell fish first,” Anom murmured to himself.
His voice was almost inaudible.
“The life-and-death stuff can wait.”
He looked toward the shelter.
Inem stood at the doorway.
She didn’t run closer.
She just stood there, staring at Anom with her clear eyes.
Her stiff, tangled hair blended with the dark color of the shelter walls.
Anom stood up.
He walked toward Inem.
His legs felt heavy.
His whole body ached.
He stopped one meter from her.
“They left,” Anom said.
His voice was hoarse.
Inem nodded slowly.
“They were scared.”
“Not because I’m brave,” Anom continued.
“But because I have nothing to lose.
No sins.
No heaven.
No hell.
I only have today.”
Inem didn’t answer.
She just stared at Anom.
Then she turned around and went inside the shelter.
The cloth curtain hanging at the door swayed softly.
Anom sighed.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his still-bleeding hand.
Painful.
But this pain felt real.
This pain was grounded.
He looked at the blue bucket next to the channel.
The fish inside still moved wildly.
They didn’t care about the fight.
Didn’t care about the blood.
Didn’t care about death threats.
Anom picked up the bucket.
He carried it to the shelter.
Inside, Inem was already sitting in the neat cardboard corner.
She watched Anom come in, then looked down.
Anom put the bucket by the door.
He sat on the clean dirt floor, leaning against the wooden post supporting the shelter.
His eyes stared at the tarpaulin ceiling that was now tightly sealed.
“Tomorrow,” Anom whispered into the darkness that was starting to creep in.
“Tomorrow I sell fish first.
Everything else can wait.”