The Chronos Consultant

 

Sublan (Suro Blandong) sits on a foldable nylon chair that groans under his modest weight. He wears a batik shirt that has seen better decades and a pair of mismatched flip-flops. In his lap lies a battered copy of Heidegger’s Being and Time. Around him, the humid morning air of Jakarta smells of exhaust fumes and hope. He is currently third in a line that stretches around three blocks.

 

"You've been staring at that page for forty minutes, Sublan. Are you actually reading or just practicing your 'intellectual' face?"

 

Sublan doesn't look up. "I am engaging in a temporal ceasefire, Jojo. Besides, page forty-two is where the existential dread really starts to itch. Why are you checking your watch again? It won't make the store open faster."

 

Jojo, a professional queuer like Sublan, but with significantly less metaphysical baggage, wipes sweat from his forehead. "Time is money, man. I’ve got three other spots to hit today. A limited-edition sneaker drop at ten, and a hospital registration at noon. My schedule is tighter than these jeans."

 

"That’s your first mistake," Sublan says, finally closing the book with a soft thud. "You think time is a container you fill with 'tasks.' You see time as a linear progression of billable hours. It’s tragic, really."

 

"Tragic? I’m making two hundred thousand rupiahs just for standing here. What’s tragic about that?"

 

"The commodification of your soul, Jojo. You’re not selling your labor; you’re selling chunks of your life. You’re literally dying for a pair of shoes you won't even wear."

 

"I'm dying for the commission, Sublan! My client is a nineteen-year-old kid whose father has more money than sense. Now, be a pal and hold my spot. I need to get a coffee."

 

"Go. Seek your caffeine-induced illusion of productivity. I shall remain here, a monument to the stationary traveler."

 

Sublan watches Jojo disappear into the crowd. He sighs, feeling the heat of the pavement through his sandals. A shadow falls over him. It belongs to a woman in a designer suit that costs more than Sublan’s entire philosophy degree. She looks at her gold watch, then at the line, then at Sublan.

 

"Are you the one they call 'The Chronos Consultant'?" she asks, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

 

Sublan looks up, squinting against the sun. "I prefer 'Sublan, the Professional Waiter,' but marketing has never been my forte. How can I help you, Madam? Are you here for the new iPhone, or are you just lost on your way to a board meeting?"

 

"I am Mrs. Ratna. I hired you through the 'Antri-Cepat' app. You’re supposed to be holding the first spot for me, but you’re third."

 

Sublan gestures to the two teenagers in front of him, who are currently filming a TikTok dance. "The boys in front of me arrived at 3:00 AM. I arrived at 3:05 AM. In the grand scheme of the universe, five minutes is a blink. However, in the realm of the 'First-Come-First-Served' dogma, it is an eternity. I apologize for my tardiness. I was distracted by a particularly stubborn stray cat."

 

Mrs. Ratna taps her foot. "I paid for the first spot. I need that bag. It’s a limited release. Only ten in the country."

 

"Ah, the desire for the exclusive," Sublan muses, leaning back. "You want the bag because others cannot have the bag. If everyone had the bag, the bag would cease to be a bag and become a mere sack for carrying items. Your desire is predicated on the exclusion of others. Fascinating."

 

"I didn't pay you for a lecture on social dynamics. I paid you to stand. Why are you sitting?"

 

"I am standing in spirit, Mrs. Ratna. My physical buttocks are merely resting. Tell me, what will you do with the time I’ve saved you?"

 

Mrs. Ratna blinks, caught off guard. "What? I’ll be at the office. I have meetings. I have a lifestyle to maintain."

 

"So, you are paying me to exist in this line so that you can exist in another line—a metaphorical line of corporate ladder-climbing. It’s a trade. You give me money; I give you back a portion of your mortality. Do you feel younger yet?"

 

"You are a very strange man, Sublan. My assistant said you were the best because you never leave the line, not even for the bathroom."

 

"A philosopher’s bladder is a disciplined thing, Madam. Besides, when you realize that 'place' is a social construct, the urge to move diminishes. But let’s talk about the bag. Why this bag? Why today?"

 

"Because it’s the 'Aethelgard' clutch! Everyone who is anyone will have one by tonight."

 

Sublan chuckles. "And if everyone who is anyone has one, then being 'someone' becomes incredibly common, doesn't it? You’re essentially paying for a ticket to a very crowded room of people trying to be unique."

 

Mrs. Ratna looks at him, truly looking at him for the first time. She sees the frayed collar, the calm eyes, and the sheer audacity of a man who owns nothing telling her about the worth of her possessions.

 

"What do you do when you're not... waiting?" she asks.

 

"I think. I observe. I occasionally help the local satay vendor with his accounting, but mostly I think. I have a degree in philosophy, you see. It’s a wonderful degree for a man who wants to understand why he is unemployed."

 

"You aren't unemployed. You’re working for me right now."

 

"Am I? Or am I merely a participant in a performance art piece about the absurdity of late-stage capitalism?"

 

The doors of the luxury boutique begin to rattle. The crowd surges forward. The two TikTokers in front of Sublan stop dancing and tensed their muscles like Olympic sprinters.

 

"It’s opening!" Mrs. Ratna hisses, grabbing her purse. "Get ready, Sublan! As soon as those doors open, you get inside and grab the midnight-blue one!"

 

Sublan stands up, stretching his limbs with agonizing slowness. "The midnight-blue. A color that suggests the absence of light while simultaneously demanding to be seen. A contradiction in leather."

 

"Move, you idiot!"

 

The security guard unbolts the door. The two teenagers vanish inside like a blur. Sublan steps forward, but instead of rushing, he stops at the threshold. He looks at the security guard, a man named Bambang who Sublan knows from the local coffee stall.

 

"Morning, Bambang. How's the gout?" Sublan asks.

 

"Better, Sublan. You here for the fancy purses?"

 

"I am a proxy for desire today, Bambang."

 

"Sublan! Get in there!" Mrs. Ratna screams from behind the velvet rope.

 

Sublan enters. The store is a temple of white marble and excessive air conditioning. The two teenagers are already clutching two bags. There are only eight left. Sublan walks to the display. He looks at the midnight-blue Aethelgard clutch. It sits on a glass plinth, illuminated by a spotlight as if it contains the secrets of the Holy Grail.

 

He reaches out, but he doesn't grab it. He simply stares at his reflection in the glass.

 

"Sublan! What are you doing? Grab it!" Mrs. Ratna is practically vibrating with anxiety at the entrance.

 

Sublan turns around. "You know, Mrs. Ratna, there’s an interesting concept called 'Sunk Cost Fallacy.' You’ve spent money on me, and time traveling here, for an object that, once possessed, will immediately begin its journey toward becoming obsolete. In six months, this bag will be in the back of your closet, replaced by the 'Borealis' tote or some other seasonal whim."

 

"I don't care! I want it now!"

 

"But do you want it, or do you want the wanting of it? The tension of the line, the thrill of the chase... that’s where the life is. Once you have the bag, the moment is dead."

 

The other shoppers are grabbing bags. There are three left. Two. One.

 

Sublan’s hand stays by his side.

 

A woman in a tracksuit lunges past him and grabs the last midnight-blue clutch. She lets out a yelp of victory.

 

Mrs. Ratna stands frozen. The store is quiet now, save for the sound of credit cards being swiped. The "limited edition" event is over in exactly ninety seconds.

 

Mrs. Ratna walks up to Sublan. Her face is a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "You... you missed it. You just stood there and let that woman take my bag. I paid you! I gave you a deposit!"

 

Sublan nods calmly. "You did. And in return, I gave you a profound experience. Look at your heart rate. Look at how alive you feel in your anger. If I had bought the bag, you’d be bored by the time you reached your car. I have saved you from the banality of satisfaction."

 

"You are insane. I’m reporting you to the app. I’m getting my money back. I’ll make sure you never work in this city again!"

 

"Madam, you cannot fire a man from a position he never truly occupied. I am not a queuer. I am a mirror."

 

"A mirror? You’re a failure! A philosophical failure!"

 

Mrs. Ratna storms out of the store, her heels clicking like gunfire on the marble floor. Sublan stands alone in the center of the boutique. The sales assistants look at him with a mix of pity and confusion.

 

Jojo walks in, holding a cup of lukewarm coffee. "Hey, Sublan. I saw Mrs. Ratna running out looking like she was about to explode. Did you get the bag?"

 

"I did something better, Jojo. I liberated her from a heavy burden."

 

"She didn't pay you, did she?"

 

"She did not. But the insight I gained was worth the loss of revenue."

 

Jojo sighs, leaning against a display case. "You’re going to starve, Sublan. Philosophy doesn't buy rice."

 

"On the contrary, Jojo. I have already been paid."

 

Jojo frowns. "By who? The app shows a canceled transaction."

 

Sublan reaches into his batik shirt and pulls out a small, high-tech earpiece he hadn't been wearing earlier. He taps it.

 

"Subject 42 exhibited peak cortisol levels followed by a complete emotional breakdown when the superficial goal was denied. The hypothesis holds: urban dwellers value the acquisition over the object itself. Transaction complete?"

 

A voice crackles in the earpiece, audible only to Sublan. "Data received, Professor. The university thanks you for your field research. The remaining grant money has been transferred to your account."

 

Jojo stares at him. "Who are you talking to? And did you just say 'Professor'?"

 

Sublan smiles, the eccentric "unemployed" look fading into something much sharper and more terrifyingly intelligent. He tucks his Heidegger book under his arm.

 

"I told you, Jojo. I’m a professional waiter. I’m just waiting for different things than you are."

 

"Wait, so you're not actually broke?"

 

Sublan walks toward the exit, his flip-flops suddenly sounding much more intentional on the floor. "Broke is a state of mind, Jojo. I, however, am merely on sabbatical."

 

Jojo follows him out, his head spinning. "Then why the batik? Why the plastic stool? Why the 'Antri-Cepat' app?"

 

Sublan stops at the sidewalk and looks at the long line still forming for the next big release next door—a new brand of organic donuts.

 

"Because," Sublan says, eyes twinkling, "no one tells the truth to a man in a suit. But a man waiting in line for three hours? He’s a confessional booth on legs."

 

"So... what now? Are we going to the sneaker drop?"

 

Sublan looks at his watch—a cheap plastic thing that is perfectly synced to an atomic clock in Switzerland.

 

"Actually, Jojo, I believe it's time for you to meet my boss."

 

"Your boss? Who’s your boss?"

 

Sublan points to a black sedan with tinted windows idling across the street. The door opens, and a man in a military-grade suit steps out, holding a tablet.

 

"He's the Head of Behavioral Sciences at the Ministry of Social Stability, and he's very interested in why you're willing to stand in line for shoes you can't afford."

 

Jojo pales. "Is... is this a sting operation?"

 

Sublan laughs, a warm, genuine sound. He claps Jojo on the back.

 

"No, Jojo. It's much worse than that."

 

"What could be worse than a sting?"

 

Sublan leans in close, his voice a playful whisper.

 

"It's a focus group."

 

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