Walter Banks is rolling through the neighborhood, driving east along Olson Memorial Highway in his Isuzu Trooper. One hand rests loosely on the steering wheel, the other props a cell phone to his ear. On the radio, the funky divas of Destiny's Child are insistently and repeatedly demanding, "Say My Name." Whoever is holding down the other end of this phone conversation seems just as vehement. Banks, a man who is paid to talk for a living, is limited to interjecting a few tentative "Yeah, buts" when possible, which isn't often. Finally, he clicks the phone shut. "We got cut off," he shrugs with a... More >>>