Ten Floors of Shame

So, there’s this woman. She’s something of a fixture around our building. You know how some people just are part of the architecture? Like the weird rust stain in the stairwell or the plant that died in the lobby planter six years ago but nobody’s had the heart to remove? Yeah, she’s that. She smokes out front. Every day. Same outfit. Same spot. Rain or shine or minor apocalypse.

Anyway, we were coming back from a wild afternoon of outdoor play—grass stains, pine needles in unmentionable places, the usual. We get into the elevator, all four of us—me, my wife, and the girls, just trying to reach sanctuary (our unit) before anyone notices the mud prints or feral energy.

And then she steps in. Our nicotine-scented building mascot. She presses “10” like a person with purpose. The doors close. And suddenly, like a slow-moving fog of regret, the smell descends.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: Just pretend it’s nothing. Breathe shallow. Keep your head down. But children are truth-slinging prophets, unfiltered and wildly timed.

My youngest—bless her tiny, savage heart—looks up at this poor woman, and with the volume of someone announcing the royal decree of an ice cream ban, declares:
“It smells DISGUSTING.”

Time. Stopped.

My wife and I locked eyes in panic. It was the kind of eye contact that says: Can we hit the emergency stop and escape through the roof vent? Or time travel? Either would be fine.

But alas, the elevator did what elevators do—it kept rising, unbothered by the emotional carnage inside.

The woman said nothing. Not a word. She just exited on 10 like a ghost who had lost all her will to haunt. And the four of us remained there, frozen in a cocktail of shame, amusement, and the slight tingle of secondhand smoke.

Honestly, parenting is just walking around with a live microphone in the hands of a tiny truth-teller who hasn’t yet developed a filter—or the social contract that keeps the rest of us from saying what we’re really thinking in elevators.

But hey—at least the kids are honest. Blunt as a hammer to the kneecap, but honest.