Cold Case By Sean O’Brien
“And I'm feeling so, so excrementable.” — Quicksand
“And when I cry, I wear dark glasses, I wreck my silver false eyelashes” — Fur
I can’t be one hundred percent sure as I never got to know him too well, but I believe Stu was a film major. Although he could have gone to the New School, I’m pretty sure Stu was a student at Pratt University in Brooklyn. I met Stu one night at a Velocity Girl/Alice Donut show at Pratt. He and a few other students were filming the show as some sort of school project. Although I was a fan of both bands, and a huge fan of all the cute college girls at the show, I really went as I was interested in its turn out. A band I was playing in at the time, Giving Tree, was supposed to have gotten on that show, which was a highly touted College Music Journal (CMJ) show. It was supposed to be that or the Quicksand/Therapy! show. I would have been stoked with getting on either of them, but as it turned out, we got on neither. Giving Tree did release a couple of singles and were talking to a few record labels about releasing a full-length album, but we ended up breaking up shortly after our second release. Sad really, but pretty routine for the music business and the changing landscape of what was then considered New York Hardcore and post-hardcore music.
Stu, or Stugatz, as he was also known, and I had a few things in common which laid the groundwork for our brief friendship; one being we were both artists. Stu, film and video, and me, music and writing. We complimented each other and were strong where the other was weak. When we could, as we were both busy, he and I would get together and discuss different ideas for shooting a music video for another band I was in, Killing Time. Stu would buy a cold case of Tsing Tao beer and we’d meet up at my loft in Chinatown, located at 84 Forsyth Street. We’d snort blow, take bong hits and listen to Nas or Black Train Jack for inspiration. After hours of brainstorming, mind mapping and partying, we’d either head over to Don Hill’s Thursday night dance party ‘Beaver’, Jesse Malin’s club, Coney Island High on St. Mark’s, Peter Gatien’s Limelight if it were a Sunday, or simply sit on one of my fabulous vintage couches and admire how awesome my Chinatown loft truly was. It was by far the illest place I’ve ever lived, and I’ve lived in some pretty bad-ass spots.
I’ve never been very good at estimating the square footage of any area, but if I had to guess, I’d say our loft was at least 6,000 square feet. It was huge, especially for New York City. It had three bedrooms, a sprawling living room with six large bay windows, ceilings that went past the clouds, a smaller but still decent sized kitchen, a long hallway that was more of a second living area (we eventually installed a basketball hoop in that area), and a bonus area where we stored music equipment and sport equipment. All on a third-floor walk-up, which gratefully deterred disingenuous visitors. It had these rustic red wooden floors that had faded into a handsome colored Merlot. It was like walking on wine. Some nights I’d sit in our loft alone reading Voltaire, Camus or Hugo by candle light and imagine this was what living in Paris was like. Yeah, I was pretty full of shit back then. However, despite all of my FOS tendencies, and all of the loft’s glory, what separated our loft from others was our bathroom. I considered it the main attraction. It was what dreams are made of. Particularly, the tub and it’s extended respite area.
Godly.
To enter the bathroom, it required the extra effort of climbing two steps, and the use of a sliding door which glided from left to right. When you entered the bathroom, you would hear its rapacious nature roar: luxurious, spacious, adventurous and mysterious. It was like the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe for adults. We had a modest but charming vanity with a detached sink. To the left of the vanity was a washer. Our dryer was kept separately out in the foyer, but easily accessible to the bathroom. To the sinks right was an open-faced closet in which was stocked a plethora of high-quality salon style blow dryers, flat irons, hair coloring necessities, shears, clippers and trimmers. You name it, dream about it, or envy it — we had it. To the right of that glorious sight was an American Standard toilet. There was a second, less girthy closest to the right of that where we stored towels and toiletries. Finally, to the right of all that in a cove all by itself, like an island off the coast of Spain, was an oversized porcelain bear claw footed tub, practically the size of a jacuzzi. Even better was the four-foot-deep lip it sat flush against which freely housed hundreds of beauty products and accessories. I had been working at Ray Beauty Supply in between any schooling, touring and recording I did, and as a result we were plush with everything beauty related.
The bathroom, the loft, the location, the views, my roommates, were all out of this world, much like the lofts and situations you see in reality-based sitcoms today. However, aside from the beauty products, basketball hoop, my music equipment and various other unimportant touches, I wasn’t responsible for any of its angelic and divine qualities. Much like a Prince who is born into royalty, I walked into it. I didn’t do much but show up one day with two months’ rent in my hand. Cash. The loft was my friend and bandmate, Carl’s place. He lived there first. When I moved in, Blackout Records! was renting one of the bedrooms as an office space. Then Carl’s girlfriend, Seana, moved in. We did see a few other roommates over the years, but nothing and no one steady. Some friends would rent a room in-between tour. Others would stay for a few months but only required a cot. It was a low maintenance situation. Plus, we didn’t need it, our rent was already cheap. Carl and I could afford it by ourselves, add Seana’s contribution and we had it made.
Carl, Seana and I would throw holiday parties. Its not that we were into having party-goers rifling through our medicine cabinet on a Saturday night, but simply because our loft was too incredible not to host parties. It was undeniably the place to be on New Year’s Eve. Living in Chinatown, the Chinese celebrated our New Year (as they have their own) with fireworks. When midnight hit, in addition to the ball dropping a few miles away in Times Square, we had the added excitement and noise of local firework shows. It was magical.
It must have been an hour or so after midnight when Carl came running up to me. He was sweating with a confused and somewhat deranged look on his face.
“Carl, what’s wrong?” I asked with a quickness.
“Sean, someone shit in our tub.”
I thought I heard him say that someone shit in our tub, but how could that be? That’s ridiculous I thought. I was high, a little drunk and the deejay was loud.
“What’s that,” I asked, “I don’t think I heard you right, Carl.”
“Oh, you fucking heard me right,” he replied. “Someone took a shit in our tub,” he repeated with earnestness and an urgency.
His statement, a sobering one, quickly sunk in. Carl grabbed my arm and instructed me to follow him. Like I didn’t know how to get to the bathroom in our own apartment.
Panic set in as we passed others. My mind started to race and obsessed as we walked. What kind of shit was it I thought? Was it a hot, steamy pile of shit, or a leaky and loose diarrhea style shit? Was it coiled like an ancient Egyptian king cobra near the tub’s drain or was it messy and smeared around the edges of the tub? Was it heaping, or just a bunch of tiny rabbit pellets? And why? Forget the who, why would anyone in their right mind take a shit in our tub? It just didn’t make any sense and I struggled to grasp the reality of it. Most people knew how much that bathroom meant to me. This was mean. Fucking mean. I took both bathroom steps in one hurdle like I was back on the track and field team at Iona prep. Suddenly, there I was, face to face with an enormous, smelly, evening gown black colored shit in our beautiful bathroom tub. Defiled. The horror.
My imagination humored me as I imagined a black bear absconding from the Bronx Zoo earlier that evening, eating everything in sight, and somehow ending up in our loft and taking a shit in our tub. Why, though? I don’t know, maybe it recognized the tub’s feet? Doubtful, I thought. Plus, the Bronx Zoo was pretty far away, how would it have gotten here? I’ve seen some strange and fucked up shit on the subway, but I’ve never seen a bear riding one. Get real.
I immediately checked to see if the toilet was stopped up. Nope, clear. Damnit, I thought. I then frantically inspected the plunger. My anxiety was skyrocketing. There was no indication of use on the plunger. I took a deep breath in through my nose in an effort to collect and calm myself. Big mistake. How could I so quickly forget the awful stench? I almost hurled. I was unravelling. Get it together, Sean, I thought. I turned and ran back toward the tub and stared at it as it mocked me, telepathically laughing at me. “Who’s the piece of shit now,” it asked.
“Carl, who found it,” I asked.
“Justine.”
“Has anyone else seen it, who else knows?”
“You, me, Justin, Seana and Bill.”
“Why does Bill know?” I asked.
“I have no fucking idea why or how he knows, Sean. Bill has a sixth sense for things like this.”
I nodded my head in agreement. I couldn’t argue with that statement.
Fuck, I thought, but at least it was contained. All five of us knew how to keep our mouths shut. Old neighborhood rules.
My Irish Catholic cop instincts kicked in. You don’t need a story like this getting out. It has the capacity to grow and takes on a life of its own. Sensationalism, hyper-bole and mean-spirited people would eat this up. It could ruin you. We needed damage control, just in case.
I could hear them already, “Oh hell no” one slightly inebriated shit talker would say as the burgundy wine stains on her teeth glistened, “Carl and Sean’s loft? No way,” she’d add with disgust. “Did you know someone took a shit in their tub last New Year’s Eve? In their bathtub, yep, it’s a disgrace. I won’t even go below Delancey street these days due to that.” Her little hangers-on, her minions, would be swayed despite not knowing the entire story and we would be the talk of the town. Our Scarlet Letter.
I requested Carl stand sentry while I took on the arduous, but necessary task, of removing the defilement and then bleaching the tub. I wanted to hose and bleach the entire bathroom down, do a proper job, but we still had guests, some outside waiting to use the bathroom. Upon the excrement’s removal and proper disposal, I stepped back outside where I scanned the crowd looking for a suspect. But exactly what does a person who shits in a tub look like? I could probably work up a psychological profile quicker than I could a physical one. Damnit, I thought again. What clues could there be? Dammit, I thought for a third time. How do you investigate this event?
Carl, Seana, Justine, Bill and I huddled up and came up with four suspects: Ziggy, Stu, Hamza, and Martin. But this speculation was moot really. How does one approach, interview, and basically accuse someone of shitting in their tub? What evidence did we have? Like an idiot, I had just flushed it.
After some more discussion, some arguments and some interruptions, we decided to say nothing, just let it go. No harm, no foul. Nobody was none the wiser was the thinking. But I knew, and it irked me. It has caused me many sleepless nights and has haunted me for decades. It just didn’t, and still doesn’t make any sense.
Questions lingered.
Two plus decades later, here I am still grappling with it. Who took a shit in our tub, and why? The motive more than the unsub still puzzles me. Why shit in a tub when there’s a perfectly good toilet right there? I continuously re-enact multiple scenarios in my mind, all playing out the same — someone shitting in our beautiful and innocent tub. How dare they.
Did the perp bust into the bathroom, butt cheeks clenched, sweat collecting on his mushed and contorted brow, only to find the toilet occupied by a drunken female vomiting into it? As she’d scream “don’t watch me you fucking pervert!” the perp would slyly retreat into our tub where he’d quietly pull his already sagged pants down, squat, and take a dump. But then what would he have wiped with? The toilet paper was clear across the room and out of reach. Perhaps a shawl of some sorts? A towel? But there were no towels or personal items missing. I had conducted a thorough inventory that same night.
Perhaps the perp did it on a dare?
“Hey Brian, I dare you to take a shit in Carl’s and Sean’s tub.”
“I can’t do that,” Brian would retort, “they’re my friends.”
“Pussy,” his friend would fire back.
They’d both laugh and Brian would reply “you’re on,” while undoing his belt.
Maybe the perp got extremely drunk, climbed into or fell into the tub, passed out, and accidentally shit himself while sleeping it off. Then upon coming to, he simply stood up not realizing he shit himself, the shit slid down his leg and slipped out of his pant leg unbeknownst to him. It’s not a totally unreasonable theory, none of them were. I had to explore every possibility no matter how far-fetched it seemed. Then I thought what if it were a girl. My presupposition that it was a male was limiting my search by 50%. That evening’s party attendance percentage was easily two girls per guy. We had it like that. Still do. No sausage fests at our spot. We ain’t doing that.
Why not shit on the floor though? Climbing into a tub takes effort, it’s intentional, like shitting in someone’s sink. They could have shit in our washing machine, it was a top loading model. That would have made more sense. Or how about the dryer. The dryer wasn’t top loading, but front loading. Sure, it was outside of the bathroom, but it was easy to get to. There’s a good chance if they had put it in the dryer, I would not have noticed it. I would have missed a loaf lounging in there, until I unloaded it and proceeded to fold shit smeared clothes. That’s why I was having a hard time buying the malicious motive. If it were malicious, the dryer was the spot.
I thought of hiring a sketch artist, like the police have. But soon realized I’d have to describe what this piece of shit looked like, and that might prove to be confusing as I’d be describing an actual piece of shit, not the person. Plus, those types of identifications aren’t reliable, not to mention it had no identifying marks I saw. No corn, no blood, nada.
I also strongly entertained either hiring, or more likely, impersonating a hypnotherapist to interview a handful of party-goers who without realizing it, might have seen the shit taker.
“Okay, sit back and relax, focus on my watch as it swings back and forth, left to right, as your eyes get heavy. This is a safe place. You’re safe here.”
She’d nod in compliance.
I’d take a long drag off of my tobacco pipe, fix my Irish peaky hat, and put away my great grandfather’s pocket watch. I’d take off my vest, walk over to my library to adjust an original copy of Goethe’s “The Sorrows of Young Werther” and Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights” then saunter back to my vintage academic chair where’d I’d sit, cross my legs and continue. “Let’s go back to the New Year’s Eve party of 1995, in Carl’s and Sean’s Chinatown loft. Don’t be afraid, I’m right here with you,” I’d reassure her. “As you entered the bathroom around one am that morning you stated ‘you really had to go’, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir,” she’d reply.
“Dr. O’Brien is fine young lady.”
“Yes, Dr. O’Brien.”
“You also stated that as a result of really ‘having to go ‘you walked directly into the bathroom. But as we, you and I, walk there together, I ask you to slow down and turn your head to the right, towards the tub. Are you still with me?”
“Yes, Dr. O’Brien.”
“Now, slowly turn your head and focus on the tub. Is there anyone there?”
She’d begin to stiffen and start breathing quicker. “Yes.” she’d say frightened.
“Wonderful,” I’d reply, “stay calm, I’m right here with you. The person you see, is it a male or a female? Are they white, black, brown, yellow” I’d ask.
Struck with horror her body would begin to shake and she’d gasp.
“It’s a male, isn’t it?” I’d ask as I’d rise from my chair and slowly approach her.
She’d nod yes.
“Is he squatting, sweating, maybe grunting?” I’d ask as I’d kneel down beside her with my line of questioning quickening. “Can you see his eyes? Is there shame in his eyes? For the love of God women, tell me, is there shame in his eyes!!??”
Her head would begin swiveling back and forth, her body rocking in a self-soothing capacity and she’d begin to mumble, “no, no, no.”
I’d put my hand reassuringly on her shoulder and plead, “can you describe him, dear? Do you know who it is?”
She’d beg for mercy.
I, being infinitely compassionate, would grant her request. I’d walk back to my chair, turn and snap my fingers. She’d come out of her trance, jump up from the recliner as if she’d seen a ghost and run out of my Victorian home in sheer terror. I’d give chase in an effort to comfort and console her, as I’d have a legal responsibility to ensure her safety as her hypnotherapist. As I’d console her holding her in a fraternal manner I’d whisper, “Was it Stu, Ziggy? Maybe Nick from Sweet Diesel? I saw that little bastard sneaking out of there a little after midnight,” I’d say in disgust.
Damnit.
I even entertained the idea of it being a conspiracy. What if two people had gone into the bathroom that night, say, to sniff blow. It was a New Year’s Eve party; it wouldn’t have been surprising. Cocaine cut with too much laxative can often make you need to take a dump. As they’d cut up a few rails and sniff them, they’d both have to instantly take a shit. One would race and secure the toilet, while the other, not wanting to shit their pants, decided to shit in the tub. Is it possible that there could have been a second shitter behind the tub’s mossy tiles? It’s a stretch, but it’s plausible.
Damnit!
Years later, while in prison, I’d lie wide awake stirring with an unquenchable thirst to know who shit in our tub, and why. It’s the bane of my fluctuating sanity. Periodically other inmates who I was friendly with would stop by and ask, “New York, whatcha so deep in thought for, so serious for?”
I’d just laugh and tell them it’s nothing, I’m just spacing out. How could I begin to explain I was stuck twenty plus years in the past, still grieving the fact I still don’t know who or why someone shit in our tub on New Year’s Eve. They’d think I was a lunatic.
However, if I had to hazard a guess, give you a gut feeling, I’d say it was Stu who shit in our tub.
Fucking Stu.
