The Unsolved Mystery of the Sewing Box Poop

Not even sure if he could crack the case.

Life is full of unsolved mysteries.  I’m referring to those events in your life that are missing essential pieces of the story as it pertains to you.  Who egged my house that Halloween? What happened to that cool dude with the blonde hair who dropped out of school?  Why was my boss really fired? 

They can be benign and sweet, like the unknown person who recommended me for a job as a projectionist at the art-farty movie theater in Orlando.  I got a call one day, around 1992, and the manager said I was referred to him as a candidate.  I had a job already and declined, but I never knew who did me the solid.  Conversely, in 1987, we lived outside the district of my junior high school.  My brother and I had the option of going to school an hour before it started and getting picked up nearly three hours after it was over by my very tired mother, or going to the shittiest school in the district. We opted for the former. One day, some unknown student squealed on us. It caused an entire maelstrom of crap for my mother, who had to talk to the county and adjust custody with my dad, and I don’t know what.  We eventually got to stay in that same school, no thanks to some unknown middle school prick.  Thanks for that, by the way.

But nothing compares to the biggest mystery of my childhood.  My brother and I discussed this a couple years ago and we were a little fuzzy on the details, but to be honest, I trust my memory and my details.

Sometime in the year 1984, we lived in a rental house on Yates Street in Orlando.  My parents, my brother and I were out for a while, most likely at the beach, but it could have been something else.  That’s not important.  What is important is that we were out for an extended period of time and the house was locked. We came home, my dad opened the door, and we were immediately punched in the face by an intense smell.  It filled the entire house, which only had two bedrooms and stretched only a handful of square feet across.  Holding our noses, we spread out to find the source of the funk.

I did not find it.  My brother says he found it, but I remember it was my mother who received that privilege. On her sewing box, she discovered a turd.  A piece of doody. The box was located in my parents’ bedroom in the corner, on the floor.  It was the size of a shoebox and contained needles and thread and whatever other stuff my mother kept around to sew stuff. But that day, it was adorned with shit.

The first theory was that this gift was from an animal.  We had no pets at the time, but maybe a neighborhood cat found its way in.  However, my father insisted this was not the work of an animal.  He presumed it was manmade. I never saw it myself.  The box was whisked away to an outside trash can.  Candles were lit and Lysol was sprayed.  But we never figured out who or what did it.

Who would do such a thing?  If we had enemies that severe, why would they break in and take a squat on my mother’s sewing box to show their disdain? Why not the living room or the kitchen?  Why not just break a window and steal stuff?

 Later in life I thought about my dad, and his affinity for Busch beer.  Or, perhaps one of his work friends pranked him. But not only would the alcohol required to shit on a sewing box have killed him, he would have had to commit the crime before we left. No dice.  And I think if a friend did that to him, my dad would have been probably been convicted of murder that day.

It wasn’t us, it wasn’t an animal, and we don’t know who it could have been. There are no new developments.  This remains a 31-year-old cold case.

There is no way to summarize or find meaning in this. It will forever boggle our minds and we will never know what exactly happened that day.  It is what it is.  And that day, it was a piece of poop on a sewing box.

Gross.