The Broken Motorbike

On Monday morning my motorbike didn't start. I tried five times. Nothing. I was already late, so I left it and took a taxi. It cost a lot more than fuel. All day I thought about the bike.

After work I pushed it to the small repair shop at the end of my street. The mechanic, an old man called Pak Dedi, looked at it for one minute and said, "Battery." I asked how much. He said sixty thousand and one hour.

I waited on a plastic chair and drank sweet tea. Pak Dedi talked about his son, who works in another city. After an hour the bike started with one kick. I paid him, thanked him and rode home slowly, feeling rich.