It was two PM the day after I mailed the aforementioned letter. I’d awoken from a sleep that stretched on far too long. After a smoke, I decided to venture out to the local bakery to procure breakfast. The bakery, located on an alley about a three minutes’ walk from my lodgings, was a cozy, endearing sort of place. For several years now, I’d been unable to begin my day without dropping by for my usual: a small, freshly baked loaf of French bread split and fitted with sausage inside, a cream bun, and a cup of coffee. Even before I left the warmth of my futon, I could feel the exquisite crunch of the crust between my teeth and the fragrant aroma of the shop’s interior tickling my nose.
I turned the knob of my door, mind lost in a fantasy of bread. But when I pushed, the door wouldn’t budge. Frustrated, I slammed my body against it, which only produced a terrible, sticky creak.
I folded my arms and observed the door. I’d spent the great majority of my extended college career holed up in the walls of my apartment, but that was not because I’d been forced to. I chose to spend my time here of my own free will, having concluded that a primarily indoor lifestyle was conducive to my personal goals. Being stuck in my room normally would have not bothered me in the slightest, but it is like night and day between freely choosing a lack of freedom and having one’s freedom taken away against one’s free will.
After struggling with the door a while longer, I finally decided to open the window, crawl out to the bicycle parking area at the back of the building, circle around to the front entrance, and approach my own door from the outside. There, I was presented with a most atrocious sight: My entire door had been covered with strip after strip of duct tape, as if I had been declared a toxic hazard and my room sealed off for the public’s protection.
A scrap of paper dangled from one tiny speck of un-taped door. On it were listed the titles of the videos I’d checked out from the video shop the other day—titles I’d rather avoid repeating here, out of concern for how they might affect my standing in my dear readers’ minds.
Below the list was a brief message:
Consider living your life with a bit more integrity.
I crumpled the note into a ball and set about the task of unsealing my door.
Anger burned in my breast. What a thing to say! And especially to someone like me, a gentleman of integrity heretofore unknown! This type of roguery was precisely why I detested interactions with illogical men.
Still, as I ripped another strip of tape from the doorframe, I muttered to myself, “This Endou is a rather usual fellow, isn’t he?”
✦ ✦ ✦
At this point in the story, I must introduce to my readers the phenomenon known as the cockroach cube.
Perhaps there are some of you who are already well acquainted with this. It is the kind of thing you find in the space under your sink or perhaps inside a long-neglected cardboard box. At first glance, it’s easy to mistake for a jiggling block of black tofu. Its olive-brown surface possesses an oily sheen, and it seems to wriggle and writhe with excitement. Only on closer inspection is the cube’s true nature revealed: It is a mass of constant crawling motion, composed of countless roaches heaped atop one another.
Prior to life as a single adult, I’d been unaware of roaches’ proclivity to assemble themselves in such a manner. Perhaps the cockroach cube is a phenomenon peculiar to Kyoto roaches. At any rate, over my extended experience as a college student, I’ve now encountered such cubes many a time. The first time I saw one and understood its composition, I found my courage all but sucked away. I was aghast. And then, after a while, when I really took the time to observe the cube, I found that its wriggling radiance possessed an almost narcotic effect. This ostensibly simple object seemed to offer a glimpse into the deepest mysteries of life.
Later, I learned that a particular research lab in the Faculty of Science keeps cockroach cubes on hand for entomological study. I don’t remember where I heard it, but I’m certain that I did.
It just so happened that on the very evening of my bitter experience with the sealed door, in the deepest recesses of a dimly lit shelf, I spied a familiar twinkling. Just a glimpse of its hypnotic light was enough to convince me of the requisite course of action. Simply put, I’d found the perfect Christmas present for my dearest Mr. Endou.
Who wouldn’t rejoice on receipt of such a gift? I was delivering to him the very secrets of life. When he witnessed the cube’s splendor, all notions of romantic attachment and other foolishness would at once flee his mind. He would wander aimlessly no more.
The challenge of stuffing an intact cockroach cube into a garbage bag is something that can only be comprehended by a person who has attempted the feat. Perhaps, dear readers, it is something you would be content never to understand. At any rate, I can assure you it is no easy task. The moment you draw near, the eager creatures begin to disperse, impeding your efforts. In my case, I was forced to annihilate several that separated themselves from their oily brethren. After an hour’s hard struggle, I was exhausted and choking back tears for the beautiful lives lost. However, I had successfully secured the cube, and I knew that Endou’s delighted smile when he opened this most precious gift would make all the sacrifice worth it.