Welcome to Riverside West

There's a gentleman who lives alone above John and Christa; his name is Steve. He's a bit heavy, from what I've heard, and has an oxygen tank. This summer when Mitch and I would sit outside on the patio with our late neighbors, Eric and Emmy, (little oil lamps on stands and Emmy smoking and drinking wine) we'd hear Steve's alarm clock yammering away at eight p.m. and again at ten. Wake up, Steve!

Christa and John say they can hear when Steve is peeing. The sound comes down through the pipes in the walls.

Carrie and Julie picked Christa and me up one night for yoga class. Our apartments' living-room walls that face Riverside Ave are a set of windows and sliding glass doors. With the lights on, the rooms blaze apparent to viewers on the street.

Julie, bless her heart, was driving, and as we pulled away she said she had seen the upstairs neighbor hanging out in his panties.

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