Eau de Elevator

I have smelled many a pleasant fragrance in my day. And I have experienced many awful, chemical-warfare type odors as well. I had no choice. Gym class was required in middle school.

Just reading that, many thoughts went through your mind more than likely – a pumpkin pie on the counter fresh from the oven on Thanksgiving Day perhaps. Or maybe the bathroom on Thanksgiving Day when your little cousin didn’t bother to flush. I’m sure that all those memories came flooding back to you.

You can thank me later.

Growing up as an all-American guy, I was sure that I had already experienced the most horrible smells known to man via my fluctuating friends, who just thought that they were so hilarious and clever, and from always having dogs in the house. But no, I have recently had to deal with a most unpleasant odor that causes even the very hairs in my nose to shrivel in agony.

Recently, the bureau office I worked in was closed and I was moved to the main Beaumont newspaper office owned by our company. It was here that I was introduced to the most putrid smell I have ever known … that of the odorous elevator.

It starts off innocent enough, I suppose. Men and women alike get dressed for work every morning and put on a dash of their respective cologne and perfume before heading out the door to yell at traffic on the interstate. Well, some put a dash. Others, I firmly believe, must bathe in the stuff.

Anyway, I guess that just meeting with a person one-on-one, even if they are drenched in the foul-smelling liquid of their choosing, is bearable for a short time, especially if you are in open air or a large room.

But not the elevator, the five-foot by four-foot (or so … I don’t carry measuring tape) box of fragrant death. All these people get to work and ride the elevator to their respective floors, and the stench from each person’s bathroom-dash ritual lingers behind, mixing together into one massive, invisible cloud of wretch-inducing magnitude.

And of course, I’ll get to work, still groggily clutching to my coffee cup, the caffeine trying desperately to pry my eyelids open with little crowbars, and I’ll forget what horrible redolence awaits me behind the elevator doors. And I’ll step in.

My eyes pop open as I suddenly remember that the stairs are a much easier breathing option, but I do not make an attempt to bolt out the doors for fear of knocking over any fellow passengers. My coffee, now having lost its appeal as the taste is consumed within the elevator of doom’s aroma, is not even strong enough, as I cannot cram my entire nose and mouth into the cup. Well, I guess I could, but again this would only cause a sense of alarm for my fellow passengers.

Stepping out on the third floor, I am finally able to catch my breath and exhale the aroma of mixed perfumed toilet water, quite appropriately named, making my way to my desk resisting the urge to gag. And I come to the realization that maybe the health magazines are right.

Taking the stairs really is better for you … in more ways than one.