Tag: condominium living

Smoke, Scrape, Yell, Repeat.

After writing “The Sheriff of Decibels,” regarding the whole “your TV is too loud” saga with the neighbor who heard phantom sound waves, I thought I had earned a brief intermission in the neighborhood drama, but then it reminded me of one of the downstairs neighbors I had once, and those thoughts led to me think of a whole different angle.  Life in a condominium is basically a rotating cast of social challenges, and the next act began downstairs.

I lived in a condominium where one of my downstairs neighbors used her balcony like it was her personal broadcasting studio.  Whenever she had company, the visitors were always on the sidewalk below.  Their conversations rose straight up.  I didn’t even have to try to overhear; the dialogue arrived fully formed, projected upward with the confidence of someone who believed the entire building was her audience.  If she ever decided to start a podcast, she wouldn’t need equipment.  She already had the lungs for it.

Then there’s the patio furniture.  Every time she shifted a chair, it sounded like she’s dragged a cast-iron park bench across a stone floor.  I’ve heard less noise from actual construction sites.

And of course, there was the cigarette smoke from a cheap brand she probably bought by the truckload.  It drifted upward in slow, dramatic spirals, and somehow it slipped into my condo like it had a key.  One moment I’m enjoying fresh air; the next, my living room and/or kitchen smelled like a casino buffet circa 1960.  It wasn’t ideal, but I learned to adapt since the odor didn’t last more than a half hour or so.

But here’s the important part: I didn’t complain.  Not ever.  Not a text, not a note, not even a pointed throat-clear over the balcony railing.  Why?  Because this was life in a building full of people.  They talked loudly.  They scraped furniture.  They smoked.  They lived.  And unless someone was hosting a demolition derby in their living room, I tolerated the occasional disturbances.

Besides, after the Sheriff of Decibels dealings, I’ve developed a new appreciation for not becoming That Neighbor.  If I ever feel tempted to pick up the phone and lodge a complaint, I remember how it feels to be scolded for noises that may or may not exist, and definitely weren’t from me.  It’s an excellent deterrent.

So, I let the balcony monologues rise, let the furniture screech across the concrete, let the cigarette smoke drift out and upward like a weather pattern.  I breathed, I adjusted, I moved on.  Because in the grand, chaotic symphony of condo living, sometimes the most intelligent thing you can do is simply not add your own instrument to the noise.

I just laugh it all off.

 

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The Sheriff of Decibels.

I once lived in a high-rise condominium where everyone kept to himself, and all was peachy with the world.  But there was one night when I received a phone call from a neighbor, informing me once again that my television was on “too loud” and he can’t sleep.  I was watching an old movie, as I usually did in the early evenings if I stayed home.  This was a recurring performance on his part, a kind of neighborhood opera in which he played both the aggrieved victim and the self-appointed Sheriff of Decibels.  At that point, I was starting to wonder whether the sound was actually carrying or whether my neighbor simply enjoyed the thrill of a good complaint because the room where my television is did not butt up against his bedroom, but against his butler’s pantry.

Here’s the twist: I could hear his television, too.  Talk shows, game shows, dramatic monologues, the whole cinematic buffet.  And yet I’ve never felt compelled to call him and deliver a noise citation.  I’d assume he was just… living.  Watching things.  Being a person in a building full of other people doing what people do to live.  It’s part of the deal when you choose communal living over a cabin in the woods on ten acres.

Still, every time my phone lit up with his name on the screen, I rolled my eyes.  At that time of evening, it could not be a friendly hello.  It’s always a report, as if he was monitoring my condo with a sound meter and a clipboard.

I played with the idea that conducting an experiment or two.  I thought of turning down the volume to a whisper—barely audible even to me—and wait.  Would my phone ring?  I don’t know, but I was willing to bet a dime to a donut that he was hearing phantom noises, or he had superhuman hearing, or perhaps the echoes of his own television bounced around his condo like a boomerang.

There’s a special kind of fatigue that comes from dealing with neighbors who are both hypersensitive and oblivious to their own habits.  It’s like being scolded by someone about your manners when they are chewing food and smacking loudly with their mouth open.  You want to point it out, but you know it won’t land.

So, I’ve reached a conclusion: either my television had mystical projection abilities, or my neighbor developed a hobby of policing imaginary disturbances.  I continued living my life at a reasonable volume.

And honestly, at that point, the only thing louder than my television was that special kind of comedy.  Personally, I think he had his wig on too tight.

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The Stankles.

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.

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