The Stankles.

I live in a large mid‑rise building, the kind with long hallways, welcoming vestibules, perpetually humming vents, and a cast of neighbors who could each anchor their own documentary.  Life at the Sage Pointe Condominiums is never dull, especially if you have a sensitive nose.  In today’s essay, I’d like to introduce you to one of our more… aromatic residents.  I have lived in buildings that have friendly doormen or fresh flowers in the lobby, and a dedicated cleaning crew that cleaned and deodorized a couple times a week.  Here, at Sage Pointe Condominiums we have odors—layered and evolving.

Whenever I open my front door or step off the elevator, I brace myself.  I never know what invisible cloud will greet me, or what new olfactory assault will come barreling toward my unsuspecting nose.

The most infamous contributors are Adonis and his family, whom I privately refer to as The Stankles.  If it were scientifically possible for a scent to take physical form, they would travel through life surrounded by a perpetual soft green fog—something between a cartoonish stink cloud and a government chemical weapons test.  Each member of the family seems to believe that the only way to apply cologne is to marinate in it.  Not spritz.  Not dab.  Marinate.

When that throat‑tightening, eye‑watering haze slaps me across the face, I know exactly what it means: The Stankles have either left for work and school or have triumphantly returned.  They live on the opposite end of the hallway from me, which makes the reach of their fumes all the more impressive.  For the stench to drift all the way to my wing, it must be clinging to them like a second skin, and through all seven layers, too.

I imagine inside their condominium.  In my mind, a greenish mist hangs in the air like a permanently stagnant weather system.  The scent must ripen throughout the week, as it settles into the carpet, the curtains, the couch cushions, the walls; every surface absorbing a different note from each family member’s chosen fragrance.  One of them prefers something sharp and citrusy, another something musky and sweet, another something like patchouli mixed with body odor, and yet another something that smells like a gas station bathroom trying its best.  The combination must be… unique.

The elevator, of course, is its own adventure.  It faithfully records the comings and goings of the building’s most pungent citizens.  Step inside, and you can tell instantly whether The Stankles have recently passed through.  But they’re not the only ones who leave their mark.

There’s The Princess, whose perfume is so distinctive it might as well be trademarked.  She rocks through the building with her dogs like a scented comet, leaving behind a shimmering trail of powdery, floral, and a slightly sweaty body odor insistence.  And then there’s the unmistakable contribution of The Weede Family, whose fusty skunk aroma drifts through the vents with the determination of a creature lazily seeking freedom.

Their stories and their scents deserve essays of their own.  And believe me, I’ll get to them in future essays.  Life at the Sage Pointe Condominiums provides no shortage of material.  For now, consider this your first whiff of the cast of characters who make my building unforgettable in ways I never asked for.