In this loveless everyday life eroticism is a substitute for love. — Henri Lefebvre (b. 1901), French philosopher. Everyday Life in the Modern World, ch. 4 (1962).

Two summers ago I came across a Japanese animated series called Maison Ikkoku. The series is a romantic comedy about a clumsy protagonist called Yusaku Godai and his live-in boarding house widow manager, Kyoko Otonashi. Yusaku is at first depicted as a poor, failed college student who is about to move out of Maison Ikkoku (a decrepit mansion). However, as he is just about to exit the house, he is met at the door by the beautiful Kyoko. Yusaku not only finds the young widow attractive, but he empathizes with her circumstances, and he decides to stay on at the mansion. Soon, a love struggle for Yusaku and Kyoko begins, ending in the typical romantic happily-ever-after marriage. Their everyday life is punctuated by boisterous and mischievous next-door tenants, and challenged by Yusaku’s charming love rival, Shun Mitaka.

Recently, I moved into a family house and the circumstances here reminded me a lot about Maison Ikkoku. There are reasons that prohibit me from mentioning these circumstances, but let it suffice to say that we have our version of Maison Ikkoku at my new home. Next door are two very quiet medical school students and a very hardworking employee of a famous fast-food chain. In the few weeks I have known my roommates, one thing is consistent: we all love food. As evidence, I present to you our perpetually overflowing fridge, and our ever greasy microwave. All tenants live on the second floor, while our live-in landlady lives downstairs, in the room with the only doorbell speaker system. (This way, she ensures that everyone entering the house passes by her door and submits rent on time when it’s due!) In my estimation, however, there is a second advantage to this arrangement: that she regulates who gets in and out of the house at will because if anyone came and rang the doorbell, she’d be the first to know.

I have not had the privilege that the landlady has – that is, to interact with every tenant at length and regularly because each one pretty much minds their own businesses. However, on those golden “water-cooler” interactions during a microwave oven “traffic jam,” I learn about my roommates poco a poco. For instance Kay (pseudonym) is from a forgotten Island Country in Africa. Guy (also a pseudonym) drove 2 days from the West Coast for his Medical School rotation requirement. I have not asked why he chose to drive instead of flying over, but I shouldn’t really question such decisions during such a financial hard time as the current one. Besides, the reason could be just that Guy planned a cross-country road trip to coincide with his travel to New England.

My other roommate, Ann (again, a pseudonym), is less quiet than Guy and Kay, but I hardly bump into her by the microwave. I figure that because she manages a fast-food business, she hangs around ovens and microwaves so often at work that home must only serve as a reprieve for her. Therefore, she  keeps her distance from additional blasts of electromagnetic waves emitted by our overused microwave. I have, nonetheless, had a “water-cooler” experience with Ann. It happened one day as I was emerging from my room to heat up some left-over Chinese take-out food I ordered the previous evening. She was stepping out from taking a shower after an apparently very busy and long day at the fast-food joint. To add to her pain, her folks had also been nagging at her to get married, and when she finally found a man to fill that need, it was no easy task to sell him off to her parents as “the right man.” So here I was, a paper plate in hand and a fussy stomach in need of food, half-listening as she vent her frustration on poor me!

Incidentally, her folks are very austere adherents of tradition. They want only the best for their daughter: the right man to care and provide for her as her father has and does. Of course, it is without contention that the father’s argument is only with the very best of intentions for his beloved daughter, but this presented a challenge to my free-spirited roommate who found herself a carefree christian boyfriend. Also, our esteemed “right man” stated that he wasn’t ready to meet the parents. Now, it is important not to forget my situation: I am still holding my plate and wishing she’d stop making that “would-you-say-something?” face. Inevitably, I had to interject with “uh” and “ah,” at the expense of my comfort which was already registering signs of loss by the parching of my lips. I could have slipped the plate in the microwave in the meantime, but from where I was standing, I’d have to go past her, turning my back on her in the process. The spirit of chivalry just didn’t seem to allow my muscles even to twitch.

Eventually, I made my sure-kill end-of-conversation remark: “Well, good luck!” I couldn’t believe it. I said it so effortlessly it seemed cynical. In truth, I was angry for two reasons. One, I was hungry, and by Pavlovian association I was angry. Two, I was looking at this pretty thing in front of me wondering why on earth she’d be troubling herself with “finding” the right man to impress her family. It seemed utterly ridiculous. I mean, let’s face it: I am loveless (and I bet a good percentage of men are); yet, I am filling my role as an emotional tampon to my very lucky roommate, who happens to have guy issues she should either be sharing with her girls or with the man in question!

Having had Ann unload her burden on my willing ears, it dawned on me that I was stupid for allowing myself to get drawn into the conversation (although it was by and large, one-sided) in the first place. Why did I feel hesitation to get to the microwave, which was only four-feet away, when my stomach squealed for a warm plate of chicken and fried rice? I realized to my disbelief and later, vexation, that I enjoyed watching her grieve her predicament. It gave me such an ecstasy to see her struggle for my support and understanding even when I was clearly unfocused. Thinking about it now, my loveless life has really made me a lowlife.