My Hallway Gives Me the Munchies

Walking throughout the halls of my apartment building, I can often smell different things going on in the building.

I can smell good old fashioned home-cooking, fast food smells like McDonalds and KFC, even the pleasantly alluring aroma’s of women’s perfume.

Those are the smells in all hallways except for mine of course. My hallway seems to always smell of marijuana. Pot – that is what my hallway smells like, which is odd, because I don’t use the stuff.

The neighbor across the hall is in a wheelchair and never looks well. Maybe he’s got some of that medicinal marijuana to keep the pain down. Then there are the neighbors at the end of the hall. They don’t look to lame to me, yet I have smelled pot emanating from their apartment too – you can’t miss it while waiting for the elevator.

Then there is that weirdo on the other side of the building on my floor. He always wears bright yellow pants, a green baggy top, and a Rastafarian hat from Jamaica. I don’t mean to stereotype, but maybe he does the occasional joint too? Naw.

Yep. I actually caught this weirdo one day committing said crime. I was waiting for the elevator, amidst the aroma’s of pot from the apartment at the end of the hall, when the doors to the elevator fly open, and there is Mr. Weirdo, smoking away. And he wasn’t smoking a cigar or a cigarette either.

Mr. Weirdo quickly placed the still lit joint behind his back, hoping I didn’t say anything. I didn’t – though maybe I should have, I could have sworn his bright yellow pants looked like they were on fire. . .

I don’t care what people do in the privacy of their own homes. That’s their business. But, when it affects me in my home, then it becomes my business. Walking through the hallway smelling pot isn’t pleasant. Nor is it pleasant to smell it in my own apartment – which happens often. These guys must get the good stuff from Vancouver – because often you’d swear I was smoking up in my own place by the smell.

I have thought about mentioning something to the property manager about all the druggies on my floor, but then, what good would come from it? They aren’t the cops, and so they can’t really do anything legal. They could issue a notice telling them that the guy down the hall (me) has complained.

Oooooh I can see the spray-painted graffiti on my door after something like that happens. Don’t want that – I like where I live.

It must sound like I live in some white-trash, Jerry Springer-type poor-house. I don’t – I actually live in a rather up-scale high-rise that is quite well maintained. I just happen to have some rather unique neighbors.

Yeah, that’s the polite way of describing them – unique.

Pass the chips, I have the munchies.