Steve Does Bali… and Survives!

Morning, Unfortunately

I’d woken up with the distinct feeling that someone had replaced my brain with a warm bowl of nasi goreng. Not the good kind either — the kind you get at 2 a.m. from a place with a flickering light and a cat that looks like it’s seen crimes.

My first conscious thought was:
Never again.

My second was:
Why am I still wearing one shoe?

And then the memories of the night before came back in a slow, painful slideshow.

FIFO King screaming Elvis into a microphone that deserved better.
The Aunties slow‑dancing with Bali Boy like he was a prize they’d won in a raffle.
The Tanning Students filming everything, including me, which should be illegal.
And the flamingo — the inflatable one — being dragged into the bar like a wounded soldier returning from battle.

But the worst part, the part that made my stomach drop even harder than the neon cocktails, was the memory of Bali Boy’s magic trick with my room key the unwilling prop…

And now, in the harsh, unforgiving light of morning, I was staring at my room key — warped, sticky, and absolutely not going to open anything except maybe a portal to further humiliation.

I’d shuffled out of my room, down the corridor, and toward reception, holding the key between two fingers like it was radioactive.

The lobby was already alive with the sounds of holiday optimism — children screaming, someone blending something aggressively, and a man loudly explaining to his wife that “Bintang counts as hydration.”

I approached the reception desk.

The staff member smiled at me with the serene calm of someone who has seen everything and judged none of it.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “How can I help you?”

I placed the key on the counter.

It stuck.

She tried to pick it up.
It resisted.
She peeled it off like a sticker.

“Oh,” she said, in the same tone a doctor uses when looking at an X‑ray and seeing something that should not be there. “What… happened?”

I considered telling the truth.
I really did.

But how do you explain that your room key was destroyed by a man named Bali Boy performing a magic trick he absolutely did not know how to perform, while an inflatable flamingo watched from the corner like a disappointed parent?

So I said, “It got… wet.”

She nodded slowly.
“Very wet, sir.”

“Yes.”

“And sticky.”

“Yes.”

“And bent.”

“Yes.”

She sighed, typed something into her computer, and handed me a new key with the gentle pity usually reserved for lost children and people who fall off scooters in front of cafés.

“Please try to keep this one dry,” she said.

I nodded, because what else could I do.

As I turned to leave, I heard the unmistakable sound of FIFO King’s voice echoing from the pool area.

“STEVE! MATE! YOU MISSED THE MORNING BINTANG!”

I closed my eyes.

The day had barely begun.

And already, I needed a holiday from my holiday.

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