Dad didn't smoke.
He had only one hobby: drinking coffee at the 24-hour coffee stall across from our rental room.
At least, that's what I thought when I was little. Every night, after the motorcycle repair shop closed and the sound of passing motorcycles began to thin out, Dad would walk to the stall. He'd sit on a plastic bench, order a black coffee, then stare at the road while checking his phone from time to time.
Once, I asked why he didn't just drink coffee at home.
"The coffee's the same at home," he replied.
"Then why go there?"
Dad shrugged.
"So it looks like I have an office."
I laughed. At the time, I thought he was joking.
Years later, I learned that the stall really was Dad's office whenever the motorcycle repair shop was slow.
From a small table near the fried-snack display, he took service calls. He set his phone beside his coffee glass. Next to it were a thin wallet, a set of wrenches, and a notebook whose cover was beginning to peel.
"Bro, my motorcycle broke down in Pulogadung."
Messages like that could come at any time. Even when everyone else was getting ready for bed, Dad would put his wrenches into his bag, check his flashlight, and stand up.
"Dad, is it far?" I asked one night.
"Not far."
Pulogadung was actually quite far from our rental room. But Dad always had his own way of measuring distance. Far meant somewhere that wouldn't earn him any money. As long as there was a chance of bringing money home, no matter how far it was, he called it not far.
That night, it was already eleven. I hadn't gone to sleep because I was waiting for Dad to come home. The light in our rental room was dim. Outside, the neighbor's television mixed with the clinking of spoons against glasses.
Dad put on a thin jacket and picked up his tool bag.
"Go to sleep, okay?" he said.
"Dad, where are you going?"
"To fix someone's motorcycle."
"Now?"
"If their motorcycle broke down, they can't wait until morning either."
I wanted to ask if Dad was tired. But the question felt unnecessary. His face had already answered it.
He left at a brisk pace. I stood in the doorway, watching his back grow smaller beneath the streetlight. Then I went back to bed, but I didn't fall asleep right away.
At two in the morning, I heard his footsteps outside our rental room.
Dad came in carrying his tool bag and a package of coconut rice tied with a rubber band. His clothes smelled of rain, gasoline, and the night wind. He set fifty thousand rupiah beside his wallet, then put the rice on the table.
"For your pre-dawn meal," he said.
I sat up in bed.
"Have you eaten, Dad?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
Dad was quiet for a moment.
"At the stall."
I knew he was lying because his voice changed slightly. Not much. Just enough for a child who lived with him every day to begin recognizing the sound of concealed hunger.
I opened the package of coconut rice. It was still warm. There was an egg, rice vermicelli, and a little sambal wrapped separately. Dad took a glass, poured himself some water, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"You have school tomorrow," he said. "Go back to sleep."
"Dad."
"Hm?"
"Did you get that fifty thousand from fixing the motorcycle?"
"Yeah."
"What if nobody calls?"
Dad looked at the money beside his wallet.
"Then I drink coffee."
I laughed softly. He smiled too.
Years later, I understood: Dad didn't go to that stall because he wanted to drink coffee. He went because there was still a chance someone there would need his hands.
That little stall was an office that never gave him a desk, a uniform, or a steady paycheck. But from there, he gathered money little by little—to pay the rent, buy rice, and make sure I could keep going to school.
That night, he came home with fifty thousand rupiah and a package of coconut rice for my pre-dawn meal.
Only then did I realize that some people work until late at night not because they aren't sleepy.
They simply don't have the option of stopping.