"Sure." He gestured with a sweeping motion as if introducing the next act. "What do you hear?"

It sounded as pleasant as the tree-lined street appeared--chirping birds, scampering squirrels, not a soul in sight. Ideal. I rented the apartment. Little did I know my quest had only begun.

I first noticed him as he tended his garden. Actually he didn't tend his garden, rather my neighbor wandered around sprinkling a few plants. Quite elderly, I thought. About the age of Strom Thurmond's brother--his older brother. My neighbor looked like many men of advanced age--harmless and tranquil.

Later that day, as I pored over a textbook, the ambiance shattered with a sonic boom. John Philip Sousa and his marching band were right outside my window--cymbals, drums, trombones.

Stepping over spilled coffee, I peered through the window. Nothing unusual. Not a parade float in sight, no colorful uniforms, nothing. Yet the audio onslaught continued.

I stumbled outside with the expression of a train wreck survivor. The same peaceful neighborhood stared back at me. Yet the ear-splitting sound of John Philip Sousa assaulted my senses as if I'd been front row at a Black Sabbath concert.

Apparently I'd discovered the real reason for the hole in the ozone layer. It's not those pesky chemicals in our air-conditioners after all. It's John Philip Sousa.

The chirping birds had vanished. No doubt cringing in their nests with wings pressed to their tiny ears.

The blast's intensity made it difficult to determine its origin. An ocean of audio engulfed everything.

Wincing, I finally detected the source of the cacophony. Evidently my elderly neighbor had suffered a stroke while adjusting the volume on a sound system with speakers the size of Mayflower moving vans.

Banging on his door seemed like watching myself underwater--I could see my fist make contact, but couldn't hear the impact. Nor, apparently, could my neighbor.

After two or three knuckle-bruising minutes the door flung open which--though it defied the laws of physics--further increased the decibel level.

"Whaddya want!?!" Somehow that fragile old man could make himself heard above the din. He probably studied with Pavarotti, I thought, or one of those farmland freaks who win hog-calling contests.

Until now we hadn't met. Introductions seemed irrelevant, if not impossible on my end. At that moment even his porch vibrated.

"Lower the damn volume!" I wondered how the KGB missed this guy. Instead of tediously torturing suspects, they only needed a few minutes of this guy and his John Philip Sousa.

In spite of his appearance my neighbor had the disposition of a moray eel disturbed at mealtime. Headphones, as far as I could tell, were a novel concept to him. Either that or he didn't give a hoot how many eardrums hemorrhaged around him. But then, anyone capable of hearing was working.

After he let me know what I could do with my request to lower the volume he slammed his door with a force that rattled my fillings.

"What do you mean he's loud?" My landlord remained unsympathetic to my lease-breaking plea. "I've never heard him make a sound." He frowned and squinted at me as if I'd just asked permission to date his teenage daughter. "The guy's got to be 90 for crying out loud." With that he shook his head and drove away while I waited for the next window-cracking eruption.

The next episode convinced me that I valued my sanity more than my deposit. It was either that or ten years for manslaughter.

I relocated to an upstairs apartment in a nice house owned by a middle-aged couple. They claimed to be Bob and Evelyn and I believed them. Just as I believed their assurances I'd have sufficient peace and quiet to complete two graduate degrees.

"Quiet?" Bob smiled at my question. "Peaceful as an empty church." Not two days after the ink dried on the lease, Bob decided to remodel the house--most of it apparently on the other side of my wall.

Bob's project, of course, required power tools. Lots of 'em. And several Tool Time-types to assist in the effort. They arrived at daybreak with chain saws, sledgehammers, and other instruments of destruction. Then they set about distracting everyone involved in anything more thought-provoking than boiling water. I developed a new appreciation of the Normandy invasion.

Small claims court, I quickly discovered, couldn't be scheduled for at least a week. Which meant, of course, living under Tool Time conditions until then. I evacuated.

After forfeiting sufficient deposit money to pay for a Caribbean cruise, I found myself thinking the unthinkable. I decided to pursue my PhD at the University of Iowa. Surely, I told myself, it has to be peaceful in Iowa. After all, how much noise can corn make?

Yet as I write, within 20 yards of my window a neighbor is tinkering with one of those 900 horsepower engines you see on the Speed channel. That's the station where grown men fondle carburetors and speak of mutant Chevrolets and tractors as if reminiscing about the time they lost their virginity.

Admittedly, genetically-defective vehicles moving at alarming speeds for no apparent reason once held an allure for me--when I was 17, pizza-faced, and tripping over testosterone. The aging Andy Granitellis outside my window are 40-something.

Lucky for me the mailman just arrived with brochures about a dandy place run by Trappist monks. I hope none of them like John Philip Sousa.