Stomp, stomp. Thump thump thump. Creeeeeak. Every night, the sounds of feet shuffling across the floor rattle the ceiling of my apartment, accompanied by classic rock from the speakers. // My upstairs neighbor's name is Frank. His friends call him Sunny. I thought it would have been odd for him, a 58-year-old man, hearing a college student pound on his door at one in the morning, asking him to turn his music down. It was certainly odd for me; a perfect stranger being invited in to fiddle with the volume control on his music player. Sunny is hard of hearing, and plays his music loud to compensate. // One month later, curiosity brings me to his door again. Sunny prefers to ask questions than answer them, and would likely rather chat with a drinking buddy than sit down for a formal interview. He gave me the only chair in the room, and sat down on a blue plastic cooler. He didn't want to have his picture taken. "People always take pictures of me when I'm drunk", he said, drinking beer out of a large glass measuring cup. // Sunny's apartment is covered wall to wall with recorded memories. The shelves are lined with VHS tapes of rock bands live in concert, Steely Dan, The Police, J. Geils, Rolling Stones. He put on a cassette tape of The Dictators from 1977, before handing me a handful of photos of his family and his time in Massachusetts. // He used to live in Bangor, but he had a few too many noise complaints. No wonder he wasn't phased when we first met. "My old landlord was a nice guy, he didn't evict me, he just said 'we're not renewing your contract… Getting evicted is like having to file for bankruptcy." // It's his left ear that doesn't work anymore. He went to a Megadeth concert in Bangor, and was right next to the speakers. "The next morning I woke up and *pop*, there it went." That's rough. "That's rock."