The Curious Case of the Incontinent Couch Surfer
A couch, poop and a night shadowed in mystery.
Illustration by Katie Parrish
I stumbled down the steps into my parents’ basement in an alcohol-induced fog.
This was back in a former life, when my sister and I threw massive parties at our parents’ house when they went out of town. The previous night’s was arguably the largest, with about 100 people attending. I was home from college for the summer, and my sister was about to graduate high school. As the ever-benevolent brother, I had commissioned a friend with a fake ID to procure a keg of the finest domestic light beer our local grocery store offered.
I navigated the final step into the basement and took a deep breath, afraid of what I might find. I knew the party’s detritus would likely compound my hangover and, to make matters worse, my parents were due home in just hours.
I turned the corner from the staircase into the basement, and was momentarily paralyzed by the site and smell of what sat in a pile at the foot of my parents’ couch.
It was poop, and lots of it.
I shot back up the s…