When I lived at the Sage Pointe Condominiums, I never knew which putrid odor would ambush my unsuspecting nose when I opened my door to the hallway or when I stepped on or off the elevator.
The hallway had its own olfactory roulette wheel. Some days the marijuana smelled like musky, gassy skunk. Other days it hit like rotting fish drenched in pungent patchouli. Sometimes it was a perfect blend of old, fusty socks and rank elephant. Sometimes it smelled of eucalyptus. Add to that the lingering smell of cheap cologne and cigarettes, greasy sausage, and those scents stayed for hours, only to fade and make room for the next dreadful strain of stench.
One of the building’s finest “amenities” was the elevator, which faithfully preserved the perfume of whoever rode it last. I have taken rides perfumed by Grandma Weede’s lingering skunky marijuana haze from an hour earlier. On other days, the odor du jour was a baffling mix of candy‑sweet pre‑teen bath and body sprays and lotions from the Stankle girls. It was a combination that somehow managed to get stronger the farther down you travelled on the elevator car.
Mrs. Stankle, on her own, specialized in mysterious stenches that defied classification. Some days it was sugary carrots, and other days it was akin to coconut-musk that went terribly wrong. And sometimes it was something so indescribable that the only reasonable response was to pray for deliverance.
Adonis was no different. If he didn’t just return from the gym dripping with smelly sweat, he reeked of a potent blend of sweat and Drakkar Noir, a combination that could have knocked a grown adult back a full step or two. His life is lived in bold, glossy strokes of sweat, swagger, and spectacle.
Then there’s the Weede Family, whose contributions varied by the hour. Their hallway offerings ranged from “forest‑floor funk” to “burnt tire with herbal aspirations.” Or they left the elevator lingering with the aroma of greasy chicken or the tang of old tacos. Their door was like a portal to a different dimension, one where ventilation systems and their filters went to die.
One entire floor in one of the complex’s buildings reeked of cheap cigarette tobacco that emanated from just one condo unit.
Then there was the smell of wet dog, musty dog, stale dog. It emerged unpredictably, but usually in the late afternoons, and clung to the elevator walls until it was finally overpowered by some other mysterious stench.
The elevator contributed its own disturbing whiffs of diesel fuel, and that’s a story for another day.
Rarely did the hallways offer the uplifting aromas of barbecue or simmering spaghetti sauce. When I brought my dog home from his Spa Day appointment, he became a walking air freshener— sort of a jasmine-lavender-powdery scent that lasts until his next appointment. Since my condo retains this scent, I imagine he also left his trail through the hallways and elevator, just like everyone else, so maybe it was disturbing to others.
At Sage Pointe, the smells changed by the hour because there was always someone contributing to the fragrant or stinky bouquet. Rarely—oh so rarely—did the hallways offer the comforting aromas of barbecue or sweet baked cakes. Those scents were the rarities of Sage Pointe: imagined, longed for, and almost certainly elusive.
Susan Marie Molloy 