Monday when the man who lives across the street, 34-year-old Christopher Patten, came up behind him and shoved him against the door jam. "He was feeling me all over and he was saying, 'Where's your wallet? Where's your wallet?'"

When I move into the apartment my landlord Marianne tells me about the neighbors.  “They’re not good pet owners,” she says brushing her hand through the air in disgust.  “They’re also very loud.”  Marianne and her husband Tony Orlando don’t talk to their neighbors very often.  I can’t tell if it’s because they don’t get along or because they’re black.  Once I even saw Tony, who goes by Chip to avoid the reference, sitting in a lawn under the opened garage door watching the father and son struggling to carry a new couch inside.  He simply sipped his beer and flicked his cigarette.  The neighbors have a black dog and Chip and Marianne have a white dog.  Its name is Little Guy and he barks incessantly every time he sees me, not because he’s delighted to see me, but because I’m always a stranger.  The neighbor’s cocker spaniel is named Bridgett and loves to bark at her reflection in their sliding glass doors.  It makes me think about all the people I don’t want to be and all the things I don’t want to do.  It makes me think about watching myself in the window reflection after the sun’s gone down, and about how I always avoid eye contact with my reflection up to half hour after I’ve masturbated.  I can’t remember the last time I looked at my face in a puddle of water but am fairly certain I was confused and on drugs, which is interesting since last night I looked at my reflection in the toilet bowl because I’m currently still confused and on drugs.  It makes me think about when Chris and Colleen when they would get very drunk.  This was very often, and more often than not it would end in disagreement.  One night they were having an argument in the upstairs bathroom and suddenly Colleen paused and very confusedly asked, “Are you watching yourself yell at me in the mirror?”