When you hear ‘Shaman’ do you think of an old school medicine man with feathers in his long black hair and caramel skin. Do you imagine him in a loincloith or maybe a tophat? You’re definitely a racist. Jack is caucasian and would probably be mistaken for a bum on a good day, a corpse on any other. He’s a pale fellow and his skin has a sickly sheen that reminds me of someone who drowned a long time ago and was left in the water after. He’s skinny though–not bloated at all. He was in fact wearing a top hat. Some things from the very old days don’t go away. Jack was shirtless today, his chest a grafitti board of tattoos, each of which had some special meaning to him. He was wearing what I refer to as hobo pants. They were brown from lack of washing and had at least six pockets all overflowing with what looked like junk. I knew from experience that these were fetishes; infused trinkets he used in order to summon his spirits and spells.
Jack greeted me with a friendly, “Hoi, chummer. Come to ride the tide?”
I nodded in response, my expression tight with anticipation. We were standing in what used to be a shoreside park on the edge of the river facing Manhattan Isle. There were a few homeless people poking their heads out of the boxes and tents that turned this park into a makeshift village. It was early enough that having a visitor, especially one in a suit, was unusual. Jack had worked this spot for a long time, so as soon as they saw me talking to him they went back about their business–whatever that was.
“Just the one this time, neh?”
“Yeah, but I need it clean, so ka?” I gestured towards my suit.
He made a tsk tsk sound and dug in one of his many pockets. He pulled out two clear garbage bags and unraveled them. Then he handed them to me. I stepped into the first and cinched it around my waist. I stuck my head through the second but hesitated before I pulled the second over my body. “Same account?”
“Always, omae.”
I typed in a code into my commlink. That number transferred funds to a private account. I always fantasized that Jack’s account fed the dozen or so people that lived in this tiny park come makeshift community. For all I knew he could be stashing the money away for a rainy day or even a quick getaway to parts unknown. Heck, he could have a woman or a kid somewhere he was feeding nuyen to. I’d always wanted to ask, but there are lines you don’t cross when you need the person on the other side of them.
He seemed to know the transaction went through and nodded in appreciation. He said, “On to it then.” He squatted down cross-legged as I finished cinching the top bag around myself. It wouldn’t keep me completely dry during the coming experience, but it was better than nothing.
“Here goes nothing.” I said, and we went.