Each time Michael had shown up must have been after a decent airing out, because pot’s only registered with him as a background scent in the shop, and not one of those musty, stale ones. Thinking back on it, it obviously wasn’t something the customers brought in, with the way it lingered behind the counters. Michael himself won’t go near drugs, even most prescriptions—a couple awful experiences have scared him away for life—but what other people want to put into themselves is, by and large, their business. Stan is the stoner of the millennium and it seems to work fine for him (it makes Michael nervous, but he can’t really argue with living proof of ‘different strokes’).
So he makes no comment about Wolfgang’s vices and focuses on the way they worded another comment: I need it quiet. Not yeah, I love the location or actually, the architecture… Weird. Like it’s quiet only because Wolfgang wants it that way. And what’s up with how when you go inside—oh. Maybe it is because of Wolfgang.
“Do you—wait, you control the sound level, don’t you? With your thing, your power. You shut it out, right at the door. What do you call it, anyway, the stuff you do? Is there a name for that?”