1/5/01 I stopped at the pay telephone on Catalina Ave. in front of Party House Liquor. I wasn’t even really that nervous which was making me feel sort of like a freak. I dialed my next door neighbor and he answered. Still not even a little nervous. I told him my name was Debbie and I was calling from a nearby record store. I went on to tell him that we had been running a contest for two backstage passes to the LIT show at The Palace and his name had been drawn as the winner. He told me he hadn’t entered. “Well, someone entered your name, Mike, because you won”. When he finished telling me how “fucking stoked” he was, I realized I could take it a little further. Limo service from his door to The Palace. He almost lost his mind. I explained that he had to be at the record store by 7am on Saturday morning. “Oh my god, this is insane, I’ll be there at 7am. Should I ask for you?” “Yep, ask for me and give this reference number: 22500.” “Thank you so much, I can’t even describe to you how stoked I am”. That’s how happy I wanted him to be. Even less happy then that would have made me feel satisfied. I hung the phone up, got in my car, drove home, parked and got out of my car. Mike was right there in the driveway getting something out of his truck and looking like he was in an especially good mood. Must have gotten some good news. Now, Mike isn’t a bad guy. I wouldn’t even really call him an asshole, he’s a little to dim to be an asshole. In fact, he’s more of a dipshit. A dipshit that has driven me to hate him. He lives his life at the most offensive volume. The sounds of his life have become part of my life. His stereo is loud, his answering machine, his voice, his television, his alarm. If he lived at the volume that most humans do, I wouldn’t have known his phone number, or that he loves the band LIT or that Saturday is his only day to sleep in or that his dad caught a record size marlin in Baja. The volume on his answering machine is so loud that I hear his outgoing message (Hey, you’ve reached 371-5588, I’m either making money or spending it, leave a message”) and I hear every incoming message. I hear all his phone conversations, I know all his favorite sports teams and I get to hear all his music. And the music is the toughest part. The music just ruins me. Maybe I have become too focused on it, but it is always the worst music at the worst time. I had a migraine one night and he played Billy Squier. The entire album, the one with “Stroke Me” on it. And he’ll program songs on his CD player to repeat. That’s how I know all the words to “Love in an Elevator” by Aerosmith. I must admit, he is generally nice when we see each other around the building. I’ve thought about just asking him to tone it down. But things lined up so badly one night that I decided to just make him feel like shit, the same way he has done to me on so many occasions. I had run a bath, added bubbles, lit candles. I was feeling so calm. I got into the bath, started to relax and within a minute, Volume Boy puts “The Ocean” by Led Zeppelin so loud it felt like an electrical shock. It sent the lamest feeling through my entire body. I mean, why not just stand in my bathroom and play air guitar while I bathe. Stand on my toilet and do beer bongs while you flip your hair around. I got out of the bath and drove to Party House Liquor. Dialed. I just heard him tell the story of how he showed up at the record store at 7am only to find that they didn’t open until 10am. He went back at 10 to discover there was no Debbie, no contest, no winner. He called The Palace to find out that LIT was not even scheduled there. “I can’t even tell you how fucking bummed I am, I was so looking forward to that night. It fucking feels like someone punched me in the stomach”. Sorry. —Megan Baltimore