Indonesia — The LockFiveo1

Standing silently in the hallway. His pack beside him. Preparing to leave.

He observed his surroundings. The adjoining rooms lay silent as he passed through the capital — arriving only the day before. The sun had not yet risen on the new day. A mist lingered in the air. A refreshing coastal breeze touched his skin. The world was still asleep. And Potter was about to wake it.

He approached the wall of locked boxes. A rainbow of multi-colored locks against individual steel-blue security doors. A petty fortress of other people's valuables, each lock a promise of safety. Each lock a lie.

The opportunity was too much to pass up.

He positioned himself at his starting point. One last moment of calm. Emotion and empathy absent. Not because he was a monster. Because in this moment, he could not afford them. Emotion makes you slow. Empathy makes you hesitate. Hesitation gets you caught.

He positioned the lock in his hand, partially obscuring it from the view of anyone who might interrupt his endeavor. A trick he had learned years ago — hide the act in plain sight. Most people see what they expect to see. A man checking his own lock. A traveler securing his belongings. No one looks twice at a key turning in a lock.

No one looks at all.

The tensioner now positioned at the base of the lock port. His thumb carefully applying the pressure needed. A simple set of tools he had fashioned out of stainless steel tweezers in Kuala Lumpur. Broken in half. One half shaped into an "L." The other given a slight bend at the end and filed down to provide an astonishingly effective key. A lock pick born from garbage. A skeleton key from a medical kit.

His right hand inserted the simplistic tool.

The feel of notches and grooves at his fingertips. The travel lock — a truly false sense of security. The majority only needing one or two pins pressed before giving way. Cheap metal. Poor manufacturing. The illusion of safety sold to millions who never tested it.

Potter tested it.

Positioned at the back, the thinly fashioned key passed over the pins. Back and forth. A gentle dance of tension and pressure. The furthest pin pressed into place and held. The correct tension — the solution to every lock. Too much pressure and the pins bind. Too little and they slip. Just right, and the world opens.

His hand felt the subtle sensation of movement. Additional pressure giving way. The key port shifted slightly. The telltale sign he was heading in the right direction.

One more pin. Two at most.

Then the lock would surrender.

—

Potter — a bit of a pirate in truth. The need to be close to the sea ran through his veins like salt water. He possessed a collection of talents unusual to most. Lock picking. Free diving. Spearfishing. The ability to disappear into a crowd and emerge somewhere else entirely. These were not hobbies. These were survival mechanisms. His reality.

The island of Sri Lanka — just south of India — was not originally on his list of must-see destinations. His travel companion in Bali had suggested they go there together after Indonesia. A very driven Filipina-American from Las Vegas. The perfect body to go with her ever-consuming drive to conquer the social media world and build her social influencer empire.

Her name was Sam.

They had met a few weeks earlier at a very tropical resort-style hostel. Ice-cold beers poolside. Various travelers coming and going on their journeys from every walk of life. Zooming off for their days of adventure exploring the beautiful, vast island of Bali. Crystal-clear, picture-perfect sandy beaches. Glorious coastal sunsets. Vast jungles hiding gems of every sort. All explored on rented mopeds that cost five dollars a day.

Sam had been backpacking for a year. She was attempting to pave her way to social media influencer. A successful businesswoman in her late twenties, she owned a handful of homes that she managed as rentals to fund her endeavor. She refused to accept the status quo of life — the 9-to-5, the mortgage, the quiet desperation of suburban existence. Instead, she chose to adventure the world, documenting her very sexy figure along the way in an astonishingly vast collection of itty-bitty, teeny-weenie bikinis, sexy tube tops, and short shorts. All of it packed into a single travel pack.

Potter was a happy camper along for the ride. The eye behind the lens. Something he was actually good at. He had a selective eye for the best settings and environment, capturing exceptionally dynamic shots that brought envy from the eyes of other photographers. He made her look amazing. She made him feel useful. They made a good team during their short time together.

A few short weeks. But a lifetime of adventure.

—

Before Sam. Before Bali. Before the locks.

Potter had been working his way through Malaysia, crossing by ferry into the northern tip of Indonesia. Stepping off the relatively short jaunt across the sea, he found himself uncertain of his next steps. The humidity hit him like a wall. The smells — spices, exhaust, salt, sweat — overwhelmed his senses. The language shifted around him, unfamiliar sounds bouncing off unfamiliar buildings.

He hailed the first motor bike taxi. Hopped on the back.

"Take me to the bus station, please," he said to the pint-sized driver.

The driver nodded. They zoomed off into traffic that defied all logic — a chaotic ballet of honking horns, swerving scooters, and pedestrians who valued destination over life.

—

The lock surrendered.

A soft click. Almost inaudible. The kind of sound that travels only inches before disappearing into the ambient noise of the world. No one heard it. No one turned. No one saw Potter slide the door open and reach inside.

He would be gone before the sun fully rose.

He was always gone before the sun rose.

—

This story continues in "Chicken Bus Indonesia."

What happened next involved two drivers, a pregnant woman, an old woman who may have died, forty-eight hours of Arabic music, and a bus full of actual chickens.

But that is another chapter.

For now, know this: Potter got on that bus. He survived that ride. And somewhere in the chaos between the lock and the bus and the island and the woman who would change his trajectory, he discovered something about himself.

He was not a good man. He was not a bad man. He was a man who could pick a lock in the dark, catch a bus at dawn, and outrun his own conscience for days at a time.

Whether that made him free — or just alone — was a question he did not ask himself.

Not yet.

Not there.

Not under that mist, in that hallway, with that lock still warm in his hand.

—

To be continued in "Chicken Bus Indonesia" — the ride from hell, the Day of Silence, and the cold Bintang beer that made it all worthwhile.