My downstairs neighbors smoke a lot of weed. And cigarettes, too, but mostly, just a lot of weed. It baffles me, because one of them is a 7th grade history teacher. And the smell permeates through their apartment. It seeps out of the walls. How is it possible that his bosses don’t have an issue with this? I can smell it on him from 10 feet away.
We share a common entrance in out apartment (it’s an old house that’s been converted), and when I walk in, I am usually immediately bombarded by the scent of mingled cigaretts, old bong water, and their two (very cute, but very smelly) dogs. Seriously. It’s revolting. Luckily for me, the scent just hangs down on the first floor, and by the time I climb the stairs into my appartment, it’s like I’m breaking through the cloud cover into pure, unpolluted air. Occasionally, I can smell them lighting up, but it usually goes away quickly.
Last night, about 4:15, I woke up to the smell of smoke. I have no idea if one of them was actually awake, like he stumbled out of bed and instead of getting a glass of water or going to the bathroom, he decided he just needed to take a couple of hits off the old water-bong or what, but in my groggy state, my immediate thought was: “Oh my god! My appartment is burning down!” I laid in bed for a few minutes, trying to hear if they were downstairs running around and screaming, because, obviously, they would be engulfed in flames at this point. Or maybe the dogs would start barking and alert me of DANGER! (Because they do alert me of danger whenever the postman walks up or someone pulls into the driveway. Or sometimes, they also make sure to keep me safe from the hickory nuts falling off the tree, or if the little dog 5 houses over starts to bark, they let me know they’ve got my back. Sweet dogs.)
Even though I didn’t hear anything from the dogs, I still made sure to make a mental note of where my purse and keys were, and I planned how I would reach over and quickly snatch my phone charger out of the wall, throw on my (brand new!) wool coat, grab my stuff and jump out the window. That way, when the news people came, I could tell about my harrowing escape, cry a little, and then people would feel sorry for me that all I escaped with was my fabulous coat and they would give me lots of money. Except I didn’t actually do any of that. I got out of bed and crawlled around my apartment trying to feel where the floor was the hottest, because that seemed really important somehow. Thank god I live alone, or I would have made an ass out of myself.
Eventually I woke up enough to realize that I was being a jackass, and the apartment obviously wasn’t on fire, and I went back to bed. Then I dreamed that I was working in a brothel. Not as a prostitute, but as a secretary. I was answering the phones for a brothel. And one of those old-west, pi-anee brothels where all the girls wear bustles and fishnets and all the patrons have those weird cracking voices. Needless to say, I’m exhausted today.