body odor – Susan Marie Molloy

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.

I lived 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 was never dull, especially if you had 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. However, at Sage Pointe Condominiums we had odors—layered and evolving.

Whenever I opened my front door or step off the elevator, I braced myself. I never knew what invisible cloud would greet me, or what new olfactory assault would come barreling toward my unsuspecting nose.

The most infamous contributors were Adonis and his family, whom I privately referred to as The Stankles. If it were scientifically possible for a scent to take physical form, they would have travelled 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 seemed to believe that the only way to apply cologne was to marinate in it. Not spritz. Not dab. Marinate.

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

I imagined inside their condominium. In my mind, a greenish mist hung in the air like a permanently stagnant weather system. The scent must have ripened throughout the week, as it settled 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 preferred something sharp and citrusy, another something musky and sweet, another something like patchouli mixed with body odor, and yet another something that smelled like a gas station bathroom trying its best. The combination was… unique.

The elevator, of course, had its own adventure. It faithfully recorded the comings and goings of the building’s most pungent citizens. Step inside, and you could tell instantly whether The Stankles had recently passed through. But they weren’t the only ones who left their mark.

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

Their stories and their scents deserved 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 made my building unforgettable in ways I never asked for.

Tag: body odor

Fusty Skunk, Rotting Fish.

The Stankles.

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