The whacky neighbor is a basic staple in television comedy. I Love Lucy had one, so did Seinfeld, even the Flinstones had one. So it’s not too groundbreaking that this archetype also exists in the sit-com I call life.

Upstairs is a man who goes by the name Billy even though he is over forty and not a gunslinger. He has shoulder length bleached blond hair, a scooter he uses for transportation and a little dog named Zipper. He likes to fold paper airplanes and throw them out his window so that our backyard is littered with these paper planes.

Our interchanges have been few and far between. I know he composes music for Animal Planet television shows and I occasionally hear him tickling the ivories through my ceiling. The other day I was sitting in the backyard we share when he cruised up in his Vespa.

“Hey Billy, how’s it going?”

“Good. I just bought some vodka. I’m going to call some friends on the phone and drink until I pass out.”

According to my roommate he once had a girlfriend or a wife or some other woman in his life. I do not know the details, but I am certain I will soon find them out. He has invited me to shoot hoops with him, which is where all men reveal who broke their hearts.


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