The bad stairwell had been given over to smokers long before my arrival. I don’t object to this. I used to smoke. I used to love smoking. It was awesome. A friend once asked me what it was people liked about smoking. He said he didn’t get it. Was it an upper? Do they give you energy? Or a downer. Do they relax you? I answered, “It’s whatever you want it to be.”
But life messes with you, and now I can’t stand the smell of cigarettes. But, as I said, I didn’t object to the smokers having a place to hang out.
I seldom used the bad stairwell, and when I did I wasn’t in it long enough to matter. It was when I only needed to go up or down one flight and it was just plain faster than hiking to the other side of the floor where the elevators and the other stairwell were. So everything was fine.
Until somebody started leaving giant loogies in the bad stairwell. Someone was going out there to chew tobacco and spit spectacular loogies all over the place. It was a challenge to avoid stepping in one.
Now, it wasn’t hard to figure out who it was. What’s hard is telling someone else that their personal habits are so repugnant that I would rather just skip the conversation and instead track down and slap his mother.
Long story short, the spitting stopped, and nobody’s mother got slapped.