My neighbor is a playboy. I've got mental pictures of all 
the things he's enjoyed and I find them all replaying in 
my head when I hear the noises next door. I can hear him 
through the thin sheetrock walls, so clever but motives 
misguided. That's all I'd hold against this master of 
words that are all wrapped up in flame. It's in the way 
he responds to a lady's question  he's a smooth operator 
who works at the bank. I saw him last week when I cashed 
those two cheques from my aunt in New Jersey. I've been 
working as a bellboy. Each night there are two bags full 
of chips I've destroyed and a video (a loaner, a rental 
I'll return on Tuesday). I can hear Neighbor in the 
hallway, accompanied by the thin voice of some girl  it's 
always a new one. My ear's to the wall to imagine her 
hairstyle and choice of stockings. My neighbor doesn't 
give me no joy, though it was surely worse when I was 
unemployed... But then again I wonder what I would do if 
Roy Horodner left The Chalet. I'm really not quite sure 
how I would take it, his grand disappearance. My mind 
draws a blank. What then would I hear on the sixteenth 
floor but a passionless silence? I'm thinking of getting 
a job as a teller. Maybe I'd sit next to him at the bank 
and listen to what he says to all the ladies in line for 
withdrawals.