Sept. 09, 2025

Life Between 120 Doors

My apartment building feels like a small city stacked on itself. There are 120 units, a mix of lives layered fifteen floors up, and no two days smell the same. Some mornings the hallway hits you fresh baked bread, like someone’s grandmother is opening a bakery. Other afternoons it’s pure Tide and sunshine from the laundry vents. About 60 percent of the building’s seniors, which means elevators are polite, voices are low, and people actually say good morning. The rest’s a mix of students hauling backpacks, young families juggling strollers, and a few of us in between, trying to keep our plants alive and our sanity intact.

We’ve got two elevators, technically. In reality, one’s the reliable friend and the other’s the flaky one that swears it’ll show up, then ghosts you. On grocery day I say a quick prayer to the elevator that works, grab my grocery bags, and practice patience when the doors crawl open like they’re lifting the Titanic. The upside is you meet your neighbors. Not in long chats, more in those small nods that say, I see you struggling with that case of sparkling water, you got this.

The laundry room’s huge, thank God. Plenty of machines, decent lighting, and a radio that’s always on. The music makes the chore less chory, which matters when you’re folding fitted sheets and pretending they’re not winning. People swap tips on which dryers run hot. Someone always leaves a cup of spare detergent on the counter like a tiny act of mutual aid. I’ve solved exactly zero life problems in that room, but I’ve walked out lighter, which counts.

The lobby’s huge too, all tile and echo, great for deliveries, less great for vibes. The garbage room’s right next to it, so some days the scent situation’s unfortunate. It isn’t a mystery scent either. It’s straight up garbage, clear as day. The fix’s simple, walk fast and breathe through your mouth, then step outside into the neighborhood that makes the rent make sense. The street’s busy in the good way, close to everything you actually need, and quiet enough at night that you can hear crickets if you try.

Rent’s high. No point pretending it isn’t. But high rent for a great neighborhood with tenants who hold the door and pick up their packages on time feels like the trade I signed up for. People keep to themselves, but not in an icy way. More in a respectful, let me know if you need anything way. When a kid drops a mitten in the hall, it ends up neatly placed in the mailroom like a tiny lost and found. When a senior shuffles out with a full cart, someone reaches for the lobby door without being asked. It’s not a building of best friends, it’s a building of decent people. I’ll take that.

Every floor’s got its own personality. On mine, it’s basically Italy. The smells are unreal, lasagna, garlic bread, sweet baking, and a rotation of yummy Italian dishes that send warm, tomatoey air down the corridor. There’s an incredible cook whose spices announce dinner to all 8 apartments on our level. I haven’t met them yet, not officially, but we’re in a parasocial relationship and they don’t know it. I cheer for their meals like a sports fan.

It’s surprisingly quiet for how many bodies live here. You hear a kettle click off, a laugh drift down the stairwell, the shuffle of someone coming home at 10 p.m., then nothing. The seniors set the tone, calm, routine, lights turning off at reasonable hours. The students bring energy. The families bring snacks in the elevator that make every ride smell like crackers and apple juice. Together it balances out. Every so often a dog barks, quick and guilty. Mine adds to the chorus, usually when the elevator dings. We’re working on it, with snacks.

There are small rituals I didn’t expect to like, checking the elevator screen for the little green arrow, timing my trash run for when the lobby’s least fragrant, picking the washer that never eats quarters and waving at the maintenance guy who knows exactly what’s broken without being told. It’s the kind of place that teaches you to be patient and prepared, keep headphones handy, carry an extra tote, and say hi to the person waiting with you because you’ll probably see them again tomorrow.

Is it perfect, no. One elevator’s a diva, the lobby has its off days, and the rent makes my bank app sigh. But it’s safe and friendly, in a neighborhood that pulls its weight. The tenants are kind. The laundry room’s got good music. The hallways smell like real food. My dog’s happy. I sleep well. That’s a good place to live, which is what I wanted. If the second elevator ever decides to get it together, we’ll throw a party. Until then, we take the stairs sometimes, we hold the door for each other, and we keep going.