Allow me now to write of Kouhei Ido.
Though Shikama and Takayabu each had idiosyncratic pursuits I could never hope to keep pace with, Ido was on another level entirely. No matter the time or place, the man was always busy digging pits of despair to cast himself into. Shikama, Takayabu, and I observed the endless loop of Ido’s existence with morbid curiosity and perhaps a slight sense of inadequacy. Ido proved that the grudges we held with the world were in fact a trifle of what could be.
Ido trod a thorny path of mental equilibrium, the brambles snagging on every part of him, drawing blood from his soul, tears from his eyes, sweat from his skin, and numerous other cryptic secretions from who knew where. All the while, he wailed in endless agony. We presumed him liable to a total breakdown at any moment yet perceived in him a steel resolve—a refusal to be defeated. Ido forever toed the line, and for that we had to tip our hats to him.
Typically, he spoke very little, silently nursing his ruthless grudge against the world. Occasionally, the hatred boiled over. Ido would erupt in a geyser of dreadful rage, soon to be doused by a storm of self-hate. He’d berate himself for the outburst and sink into a bog of misery even deeper than the last, where hatred for the world would again pool until sufficient to propel the cycle once more. Ido’s was a deep, scalding, awe-inspiring rancor. It was a weapon that even we, his three companions, would hesitate to wield.
To me, it seemed a nightmarish existence. Ido lived like a monk, an ascetic devoted to the art of anger. Even Shikama couldn’t help but encourage the man to take an occasional break. (Mind, this was the same leader of ours who had declared to Takayabu that he’d waste no effort attempting to rouse a man from his sorrows. Shikama was loath to admit it, but he did harbor compassion for his brothers-in-arms.)
If Ido was able to take a break, I’ve no doubt he would have. But it was his inability to do so that made him who he was.
I’ll never forget his covert maneuverings during my spat with Ebizuka. They were dirty and cowardly, and I found them to be very commendable. However, I have my scruples about recording them in any detail here. When I discovered what he was doing, I made no attempt to admonish his actions or to stop him—a decision that I also regard as quite cowardly, commendable, and unnecessary for me to expound upon.
Of all the people in all the world, Shikama, Takayabu, and I alone escaped Ido’s net of hatred. At least, we hoped that to be the case. We were all that Ido had. We were his only source of reprieve. If he did hate us, he risked total isolation.
That is to say, with the sole exception of our small band of brothers, Ido harbored a fateful indignation toward every human being that crawled the surface of the earth. He wished with every fiber of his being that all other souls were doomed to wallow in perpetual misfortune.
He once explained his stance to me by saying, “If everyone else is unhappy, then I’ll be happy by comparison.”
And I had to admit, there was a certain logic to that. Ido may have been stuck in a bog of worldly jealousy for time eternal, but his self-torture had led him to at least one enlightened truth.
✦ ✦ ✦
Takayabu’s criticism seemed to hit home, and Ido ultimately ended up sitting in a corner of my four-and-a-half-mat room, knees bunched up under his chin as he quietly berated himself. A thick curtain of gloom descended from the ceiling to cordon off his corner and swallow him up. He seemed to be thinking, I can’t believe I brought up sex again. I’m deplorable. I’m the worst.
Takayabu broke the silence with a peculiar and unprompted observation.
“Objects placed in high locations possess a great deal of potential energy,” he announced. “When such objects fall, their potential energy transforms into kinetic energy.”
Shikama shot him a quizzical look as he picked at the remains of the hot pot. “What are you getting at?”
“Think about it. People have their highs and lows, too. If a euphoric mental state signifies potential energy, then it stands to reason that the energy is expelled outward when disappointment strikes. I mean, the energy has to go somewhere, right? And if we could just find a way to harness it…”
We began to fantasize about this immense resource that could be used to save the whole of humankind. All we needed to do was figure out how to convert failure, heartbreak, and fatal disease into usable energy. The sufferings that beset humanity would power every automobile and aeroplane in the world. We’d have limitless internet bandwidth; we’d be able to watch videos of idol groups day in and day out. There could be no greater future.
And it would turn individuals like Ido, stuck in their endless vortexes of anguish, into the saviors of humanity. The obnoxiously positive people who are the darlings of the world today would be chucked right in the garbage, and it would be Ido’s time to shine.
Ido poked his head out from the gloomy marshland he’d terraformed in the corner of my four-and-a-half-mat room.
“If I had access to an energy source like that,” he said, “the first thing I’d do is focus it into a beam to fry all the couples sitting along the Kamo River.”
The rest of us nodded in unison.
The flocks of evenly spaced cuddlers along the Kamo were a well-known social phenomenon. This ubiquitous behavior had come to be known as the Kamo River Law of Even Spacing. Even now, the couples and their arrangement present a particularly noisome problem to any lonely student who happens to wander onto the banks around sunset. So far, none of the great minds tackling it have been able to produce a solution.
We ourselves had taken to forcibly and frequently elbowing our way between the happy-looking pairs, such that the bank was then arranged man-woman, man-woman, man-woman, man-woman, man-man-man-man, man-woman, man-woman, man-woman, man-woman. This disturbance of the regular arrangement was our attempt to arouse regret and embarrassment in others present, but the standard pairs were all so busy gazing at the epidermis on each other’s faces—which was hardly that attractive, mind you—that they failed to even notice our piddling struggle. In the end, we were the ones most subjected to pain and embarrassment by our endeavor.
Even so, another two or three months down the line, our green-eyed monsters would thrash once more in our breasts, spoiling for a fight. We’d ignore the heavy casualties of our previous campaign and embark on a new raid to thwart the Law, using precisely the same tactics as before.
Takayabu cut in again, unable to leave us to our fantasy.
“If we did find a way to extract the energy from the depressed masses,” he said, “they’d rocket to new importance in society. The future of humanity would rest on their shoulders. And once they realized that, they’d probably start thinking themselves pretty special. They’d decide they can’t go around looking depressed anymore. Pretty soon, they’d be the obnoxiously positive people all the rest of us have to deal with.”
“And if that happens… Poof! There goes our newfound resource.”
“Hmm. Yes. Quite the dilemma.”
I noticed that the hot pot was nearly picked clean, so I quickly emptied another package of noodles inside. As we waited for the broth to boil again, we grew relatively quiet. Ido disappeared back behind his curtain of depression. Shikama stared as the noodles slowly softened and untangled, his mind clearly filled with the disturbing, the indecent, and varied other categories of thoughts. Takayabu was still pouring cup after cup of liquor into his bottomless digestive pit, a permanent smile buried beneath his steel whiskers. I lit a cigarette.
The rain continued to drum, accented by the occasional whoosh of a car on its way up or down Yamanaka Pass. I looked up at my clock. The hands had already nudged past midnight.
“Can I bum a smoke?” Ido said, his hand extending almost apologetically from one corner of the invisible curtain. I placed a cigarette into Ido’s open palm, and it withdrew to apologetically insert the filter into his mouth and apologetically light the tip. He returned to staring at the walls of his dark corner, letting out the occasional, apologetic puff of smoke.
“What are we even talking about?” Takayabu asked.
“I’ve got a better question. What have we been talking about for the past five years?”
“This is how it’s always been,” I mumbled.
We could have jumped back to any point over the past half decade and found ourselves sitting exactly as we were now, having the same kinds of discussions. We were a stick of Kintarou-ame candy—always the same no matter where you slice it.
“Yeah. How come we never talk about anything constructive? What’s with this massive waste of our talents? It almost makes me feel bad.”
“That’s just the nature of the war we’re fighting,” Shikama replied.
“What’s the war even about?” Takayabu asked, the rim of his sake cup against his lip.
Shikama continued to stare into the hot pot. A slight, ineffable smile spread across his face.
“I’ve no idea.”
The four of us sat in pensive silence, ears tuned to the drumming rain.