Haiku

“This is the big one, Ho,” the man wearing three raincoats whispered to me, his thin, reedy voice steeled with the absolute certainty possessed only by a true believer. He did not face me directly as he spoke—his eyes were focused somewhere beyond the night’s horizon.

Every winter, Michael lines his raincoats with discarded tickets he collects from the floor of a nearby OTB parlor. He armors himself with what they symbolize … that all the world gambles, but most do so without skill. This is the only warmth he needs.

Michael sees himself as a master of logic, scornful of “amateurs.” His faith is as unshakable as his contempt for those who worship the false idol they call “Luck.”

That his logic is founded on faith would never occur to him. And I have never pointed it out. It is not my place to do so. I renounced all such conduct long ago, and I have stayed true to my vow.

“Yes?” I said. All I said.

“It’s a mortal lock,” he assured me. Michael had once enjoyed high status in the financial services industry. But that was when his mind was in perfect synchronicity with his profession, a profession that requires total control of one’s own emotions in order to fully exploit those of others.

Michael had spent his days delicately balancing on a
high-wire stretched across a world he now describes only in fragments: “arb edging,” “no-cash margin bluffs,” “counter-hedge plays.” Always painfully conscious of a void deep within himself, Michael kept demanding that the wire be raised. Over and over again.

After many years, his expertise at perceiving risk wove itself into Michael’s very essence. He became a believer in the religion of his own infallibility. Too late, the risk-taking he had come to worship finally threw off its disguise and revealed itself for what it was.

The impact of Michael’s downfall was greatly magnified by the height from which he descended.

By then, it no longer mattered. Gambling had invaded Michael’s spirit and taken it captive. The parasite was not symbiotic. It took without giving, keeping its host alive only by increasingly rare gifts of good fortune. All that remains of Michael today is his demented worship of what he calls “action.”

When Michael began his prayer chant that morning, I waited patiently for him to finish. Patience is not a personality trait, as most believe. Patience is a skill—a skill that can be practiced only when undetected.

I knew no further encouragement would be needed for Michael to continue; all he ever requires is acknowledgment that someone is listening. My simple “Yes?” was more than sufficient.

This need for acknowledgment limits his potential audiences significantly. Were it not for our tribe, no one would ever listen to Michael. Not anymore.

Our very existence stands against Michael’s greatest fear: that, one day, he will begin speaking to himself. All those of our band see such tortured individuals every day. We know this to be the ultimate loneliness.

Perhaps that is why so many of this city’s nomads are accompanied by dogs as they travel their circular journeys. And why they will feed their animals even before themselves.

“I was over in the slot on Nine, Ho. I saw the whole thing,” he said, lowering his voice and partially covering his mouth with one hand, as if to further protect his secret. The taut skin covering his face seemed to draw tighter with each word he spoke.

Michael is aware of his tendency to become excessively aroused; he knows his speech can become so pressured that it feels like an assault to others. He once told me that is why he refuses to stay in the shelters, even when the world out here turns to ice. That was when I learned of his deepest fear.

“They have this ‘Intake’ thing you have to go through. And they always try and make me see a shrink, Ho. Like
I’m
crazy when I tell them how I don’t want to bed down with a bunch of psychos. I tried it once. And let me tell you, these guys are
way
over the edge. If they’re not muttering about
how they’re going to get even with someone who ‘dissed’ them, they’re talking to themselves. And
answering
themselves, too!”

Had Michael confided this to me many years ago, I might have uttered something profound about how humans can be colder than the elements that surround them. But I am no longer in thrall to my own arrogance. So, when Michael speaks, I listen. And try to learn.

This is a technique I taught myself. The most difficult of all those in which I have attained proficiency.

Today, when others address me, I stay silent, shifting my posture slightly to communicate I am paying attention, neither encouraging nor discouraging their flow of words.

Thus, I learn.

The “slot” to which Michael referred is actually a series of coffin-sized dugouts carved into the wood at the base of Pier Nine. The wood had been allowed to deteriorate through a lack of maintenance. The pier itself has been inactive for many years, visited only by ghost ships.

It took us many months to create our place of safety, as we could work only at night, using whatever implements had come to hand on any given day.

The slot had been my idea, modeled on the “capsule hotels” popular in Japan. They allow no room for heating units, but, once properly insulated, the tight, shielded spaces enable one’s body to retain warmth throughout the most bitter of nights.

To sleep under such conditions, calmness is essential. I shared my skills by showing the others how to slow the heartbeat,
regulate the breathing, and drop the pulse. They all have learned these techniques, to varying extents.

Such learning requires commitment. But what is of greatest significance—no, the
only
true significance—is that each man’s commitment was his own. The others were not following my orders; they were not slavishly imitating. They listened to me on a subject I know well, just as I would defer to each of them in their own areas of expertise.

Listening is how I have learned to see the world as they do. And now, it is a world seen as
we
do.

Rather than lecturing about the dangers of plugging space heaters into bridged connections, or burning kerosene pots as they slept in abandoned buildings, I showed the others how calmness within the slots could keep them warm
and
safe.

They listened as I explained that excitement is like alcohol—it temporarily gives the illusion of warmth, but that is soon replaced by enhanced transmission of cold. Each of them knew others who had failed to survive winter’s assault.

They find fundamental truth in their own life experiences. This is what makes my explanations acceptable, not because they are the words of some “master.”

People descend into our world by different paths. But among our band, certain commonalities had been experienced before our paths had crossed. To live on the streets of this city is akin to standing in the rain: some are better equipped for this than others … but rain falls equally on all.

Each one in our band is an individual, which means each
has his own reason. Ranger is still sufficiently connected to his past life so that he regards the slot as an excellent place to hide from an omnipresent enemy, whereas Michael had simply accepted that I would be culturally correct about this method of creating shelter—after all, I am Japanese.

Time passed. People passed around us as if we did not exist.

Although his belief system is powerful, Michael is ever-vigilant against being mocked. Just as no evidence was required to sustain his beliefs, no assurances could overcome his fear of being viewed with scorn. But our band knows of my ability to become still within myself, so there was no danger that Michael would misread my patience as silent commentary.

“Okay,” he finally said. His tone communicated that I had succeeded in persuading him I would not scoff at whatever he might say, not that I might actually
believe
it. “What about a white Rolls-Royce, Ho? How many of those do we ever see around there? That
has
to mean something.”