And then there was the unmistakable contribution of The Weede Family, whose fusty skunk aroma drifted through the hallways with the determination of a creature lazily seeking freedom.
I have lived in buildings that had friendly doormen and fresh flowers in the lobby, and truly dedicated cleaning crews that cleaned and deodorized a couple times a week. When I lived in one of those large mid‑rise buildings, the kind with long hallways, welcoming vestibules, perpetually humming vents, there was a cast of neighbors who could each produce their own documentary, for everyone had such pleasantly interesting lives to tell.
However, when I lived at Sage Pointe Condominiums, there were odors of marijuana, tobacco, and perfume that were thickly layered and ever evolving on every floor and in the lobby. That condominium association was immensely different than all the rest. Life there was, indeed, never dull, particularly if you had a sensitive nose or didn’t care how dirty the common areas were. Speaking of the common areas, the walls were always dirty with oil or Cheetos® dust, the common hall carpets were never cleaned, the lobby walls were a patchwork of rinky dink Spackle® repairs and paint that never matched. “They” never wanted to repaint the entire walls the proper way.
In today’s essay, I’m introducing you to one of the more fusty aromatic residents, The Weede Family.
They lived on my floor and at the far end. One would never think that the odors from their wing would reach way down to my wing, but they did. Whenever I opened my front door or stepped off the elevator, I braced myself. I never knew what stench or invisible cloud would greet me, or what new olfactory assault would come barreling toward my unsuspecting nose.
The fetid odors were unmistakably marijuana. Not just one kind, but several, and one would never know from one day to the next what strain they’d be smoking. The worst was the kind that smelled like dead, rotting skunk. Sometimes that stench was mixed with cheap perfume, and it was enough to suffocate a maggot. Truthfully, I was surprised I never smelled it in my own condominium unit, but only out in the hallway.
By the time I learned to recognize their specific bouquet and the shifting medley of strains that was each more pungent than the last, I also learned something else: in a building like ours was, no door was ever fully closed, no hallway ever truly empty. Scents travelled like rumors as they drifted, settled, and rose again when you least expected it. The Weede Family managed to turn our peaceful corridor into a living, breathing testament to that truth. Their skunky, dank fog became part of the building’s strange ecology, and a reminder that even in the most ordinary mid‑rise building, the air itself can tell stories you’d never believe unless you smelled them yourself.
The Oasis in the Desert 