Chapter 2: The Sauerkraut Gambit

The next day, I hit the bar with some buddies. When I got home and stepped out of the elevator, I was greeted by a massive jar of sauerkraut sitting right outside my door.

It was peak August heat—humid, muggy, and the stench was indescribable. It smelled like rotting fish, or maybe a dumpster in July.

Even through the thick hallway air, the stink hit like a punch. I yanked my t-shirt up over my nose. Some Midwest grandmas might keep a crock of kraut, but this was a biohazard. It was so foul it could make a grown man gag.

No need for detective work—this had the hallway tyrant’s fingerprints all over it.

A little Post-It on top read, “for pregnancy cravings.” I half-laughed, half-sighed, rolling my eyes at his creative brand of passive aggression.

I marched over and knocked on his door.

A burly bald man with a fleshy face answered, looking put out.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

His voice had that gruff, nasal edge—like someone who’d spent too many years yelling at the Giants game. He looked at me like I was there to repo his cable box.

I pointed at the jar of sauerkraut:

"This yours? It’s not okay to leave it out here."

He looked me up and down, then stuck out his chin:

"What’s wrong with it?"

"The smell is unbearable. Who could stand it?"

"If you can’t stand it, tough luck. My wife’s pregnant and craves sour food. I can’t keep it inside and stink her out, can I?"

So he does know it reeks.

"If you have to store it, keep it by your own door. You put it here and I can barely open mine."

"Are you blind? My side’s already full. Yours is empty anyway. And this is a public hallway—first come, first served. If you want to blame someone, blame yourself for not staking your claim first."

He was so shameless and self-righteous that most people would blow a gasket dealing with him.

I hadn’t even pushed back yet, but Mr. 1601 started shifting blame:

"And you—how dare you come to me? It’s already ten o’clock. Didn’t I say yesterday, no using the elevator after nine? You’re disturbing my wife’s rest. Can’t remember? Want me to print those rules out and stick them on your door?"

Man, it was like being scolded by my old high school principal.

He even wagged his finger at me, like he was about to hand out detention slips. You can’t reason with people like this.

I didn’t waste my breath and turned to head home.

But when I reached the jar of sauerkraut, the smell overwhelmed me—I staggered, dry-heaved, and then—"bleeaugh"—I vomited right into that godawful jar.

Thank God, neither the floor nor my clothes took a hit.

The bald man, who was about to shut his door, froze. His eyes nearly popped out of his head:

"Dude, what is wrong with you? Are you outta your mind?"

My stomach still twisted, but I managed a small smirk. His face twisted up like he’d just bitten into a lemon—satisfaction bloomed in my chest.

Luckily, my door has a fingerprint lock, so I darted inside and slammed it shut before he could react.

I could hear him shuffling over in his slippers, pounding on my door.

Outside, his voice rose to a howl, cussing and screeching like a pig on a spit.

Then his wife came out, panicked, demanding to know what happened.

Her voice was shrill enough to slice drywall, rising above his. Now the cursing was a duet.

I just kept pretending not to hear a thing, feeling pretty damn good.

That jar of stinky sauerkraut was toast.

Still a little buzzed from the bar, I slept like a log. No idea how long they kept up their cursing.