Drive-by Saviours by Chris Benjamin Page A

again. To Bumi’s concerned gaze he responded, “Quick motion is hard on my head, and my stomach.”
    Bumi nodded and Pram added, “Son-of-a-bitch! He’ll tolerate the rats and the roaches but a war vet he attacks.”
    Bumi, uncertain of the appropriate response, asked, “Where’s Arum?”
    â€œOh,” Pram answered. “At her usual spot. Not much good hanging out together without you around, except at night of course.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œWell, who would listen to our stories? Who would take Arum’s textiles to sell in the market?”
    â€œYou could tell each other stories. You could sell Arum’s sarongs. You could share the money.”
    Pram laughed at the notion of a store owner buying products from an earless old freak with a puking problem. He told Bumi, “We can’t pay each other to listen to our stories.”
    â€œYou can live off the sarongs,” Bumi said. “Or you can tell your stories to strangers for money.”
    â€œNo adult wants to hear our stories, Bumi, only children. And usually children are broke. Would you like a story now?”
    â€œI gotta find Arum,” Bumi said, exasperated.
    Pram took him to her. She was sitting on an unfinished sarong shaking a can with a few coins in it. Bumi kneeled beside her and asked if she was sick. She shook her head ‘no.’
    â€œSad?” he asked.
    She nodded and without looking up, she asked him, “Where did you go?”
    â€œSchool,” he told her.
    â€œCongratulations.”
    â€œI hate it.”
    Now she looked up and met his eyes. “But it’s what you wanted,” she reminded him.
    â€œThey took me from home. I can’t see my family anymore.” He couldn’t even begin to explain how his friends no longer liked him.
    â€œSurely your father is near now.”
    â€œNot until later. He’s still gathering nets. I have to get back. I ditched a field trip to see you. I’m gonna get caned.”
    Arum flashed him a gummy grin, then looked down to the ground. “Terrible rattan cane. I remember it too well, Bumi.” She looked back up at him. “What are they teaching you?”
    â€œNothing,” he said. “First they let me read novels, but when I asked for a novel about something else besides getting rich or fighting wars, Ibu Nova made me learn grammar like the rest.”
    Arum’s gums practically gleamed as her smile grew wider. “I’ve taught you well,” she said. “What you may not know is that Indonesia has some of the finest writers alive, and they all live together in one place now: prison. And their books have all been sent to hell. Now we’re stuck with government-issued trash written by shit-eating hacks who live in the anuses of politicians.”
    In Bumi’s young literal mind this image was disgusting. It burdened him with the guilt of having once enjoyed the work of these minute and hideous beasts. Wishing to pursue neither the image nor its implications any further he said, “The newspaper says there’s a bus to the mountains, costs three thousand rupiah.”
    â€œYa, it’s true my little beauty. You catch it at the main station.”
    â€œI was there today! That’s where I ditched them. Ibu, do you have any sarongs I can sell? Please.”
    â€œJust the one I’m sitting on. I gave up on it when you stopped coming by. It’s a bit dirty.”
    â€œI need three thousand. That’s five sarongs.”
    Arum pondered the order and scratched her chin. “That’ll take a couple months,” she said. “I’m out of practice now.”
    â€œNo problem. I can wait.”
    â€œBut Bumi, if I spend all my time stitching, and you’re not here to sell them as I finish, I’ll have no income and no time to beg. I’ll starve.”
    Pram nodded behind her. “We were much richer when you were around,” he