A Box, A Horse, A Decision

The frustration level at the office was off the charts with missed deadlines and individuals in roles who needed so much hand holding, no work moved forward. Why did it take so long? Well, the new CEO was hiring birthday, bar mitzvah, and BBQ friends on her leadership team and they had no business in an executive position, so projects were taking five times longer to complete as they learned the business. In unison, all of the projects were over budget and that added pressure to the sales teams to produce lost revenue.

The year prior, the sales team of 10, a high producing, tenured and manageable team, accomplished their goal and overachieved their quote by 130%. Since this was a knowledgeable sales team in a new division, the team goal was aggressive, but fair. They drafted off all the best practices required to win the business and succeeded with great fanfare by November. The managers were exhausted and the sales representative well rewarded and tired. So, I ask myself, why did this year start out with such promise only to be one of the worse sales years on record for the last 15 years? One word; leadership.

But wait a minute, I was part of leadership! I had invested 23 years of my professional career to this organization and had wild success managing a sales team. As did Chip and Shelley and Nicole. So, how is it that our deep knowledge of the organization did not account for any project planning sessions? After all, we knew the secret sauce to individual motivation, and the tools and systems needed to achieve success.

The new CEO had an extremely specific goal for the next five years. She was to upgrade legacy systems for a stronger line-of-sight into the franchise units in the states. The current franchise model was not in alignment with this goal and her newly crafted team was built to rock our world.

As I surveyed the other individuals who possessed insight to the legacy upgrade, it was shocking for me to learn that none of our input was requested. Our voice was blocked. Our contributions irrelevant. Don’t-call-me-I’ll-call-you sort of respect. Wait, what?

Suddenly, BOOM… the first attempt at the new launch, and no surprises, a failure so grand, that three key people were fired within two days, the website lost $100k in organic eCommerce business the first week, and within two weeks turnover went from 12% to 48%.

My attempts to talk to anyone who would listen to my ideas and suggestions fell flat. My unsolicited attempts to survey others in the network just caused more personal angst. My interaction with key directors who might provide an in, came upon deaf ears. Feeling useless and defeated, my skin started to break out, my hair lost its luster and my joints started to hurt. I was internalizing an unjust and my body was showing the signs; I needed a vacation.

I took a week off to remove myself from the chaos to rethink my strategy on how to support this blatant irresponsible corporate move.

One thing I do that is medicinal to me, is to clean, organize, and restructure a space in my house to maximize functionality. So, I looked at the four closets going down the main hall and wondered when was there a need for four closets?... two of which, were exceptionally large. At the same time, I have always wanted to expand the kitchen, which was the smallest room in the house.

For me, not being a cook, it was ideal, but at the same time, should I want to sell, others would want a larger space.

One of the large closets was adjacent to the kitchen and would provide a perfect addition. I mean, it had nothing in it that could not have been moved to one of the other three closets, and its doors faced into the kitchen. There was a hall between them, but this space would be seamless to match the kitchen as a wet bar, or coffee and desert station. It was perfect.

The current setup supported shelves, so the demolition was easy. Rip and tear, hammer, and crowbar sort of thing. In this process, my energy was replacing my frustrations of work and my mind would drift toward words like illogically, unprofessional, underhanded, and disrespected. It was a good hour before these thoughts were removed from my consciousness.

The stripping of the shelves was a success. It was a large space with good depth and height and added an additional six feet in width going toward the kitchen. The renovation would increase the kitchen by a solid 35 square feet and since the upgrade would be void of doors, it would seem larger because it had an open feel to the space.

I started to sand the walls and consider paint colors in preparation for the rebuild. I decided on upper and lower cabinets and pull-out drawers, and a countertop to host wine, coffee, water, tea, and deserts. That would be a specific focus during large dinners and free up space in the current kitchen.

In the process of prepping, there was a square box in the lower left-hand corner about a foot high a foot wide and a foot deep. I assumed this was holding up the building as the house was a raised foundation. It carried the flooring theme on top and the wall colors on the side. It even had a metal trim on the corners as a finished look. I remember thinking, wow, they made lemonade out of lemons for sure. This protrusion, this eye sore, was decorated to fit in, albeit an obstacle to now work around.

Two days went by, and in that time, I had a professional come by to measure the space and provide swatches of wood, cabinet ideas, and hardware choices. I also had purchased colored shiplap and trimmed the inside of the soon-to-be Barista Café on three walls so the backsplash would have texture and visual interest. The project was coming along smoothly and would be done within two weeks.

As I was standing in the hall looking into the gutted space and admiring my shiplap work, tired, but satisfied, my visual angle of the box was viewed from the only open side, which was situation inside the closet, where all other sides of the box were flush to the wall.

Something caught my eye. As I squinted and started to get on one knee, what I saw was a thin line the length of the box. The light was ample, but I wanted a flashlight to see what the line was, so I pulled my phone out of my pocket and illuminated the space. The line looked like a crack. And upon better inspection, the crack looked like an opening that had been painted over by which allowing the crack to lay flat resembling a solid wood piece. I remember thinking aloud and saying, “what the hell.” I got up and went to the kitchen and retrieved a thin, sharp knife. I propped my phone against the wall so both hands could be used to push into the crack. Two bangs into the box with my fist and - boom, it was a piece of wood that I forcefully removable.

Removing the door was not so much a challenge as it was a mystery because once the piece of wood was removed, inside was a safe! “A safe! What the hell!” As you can imagine, I sat there and just darted my eyes left to right over and over again at the overall situation. I looked at the outside of the box, decorated with finishes to blend into the rest of the house, and remembered the house was built 55 years ago. Back then, it was probably customary practice to have a safe hidden in a closet.

Shining my light into the box, it was clean, dry, and built with 2x4 construction that was reinforced. I mean, an elephant could stand on this box and not do harm. “But why,” was all I could think. I mean, the entry that I just discovered was a simple piece of wood covering a hole and painted over. The paint acting as a sticky glue to hold it in place once it dried.

I reached in to grab the safe and noticed it was not secured to anything. It was free floating within the wooden box. I also took note that there were zero cobwebs which told me it was well sealed. But the metal safe would not come out of the box. The width was not wide enough. I also noticed someone tried to use a sharp object to open it as there were several scratch lines near the keyhole.

It took two hours to break the box apart starting with, removing the linoleum top and metal trim. Once the top was off, the construction of the box was revealed. This thing was extremely well made. The wood looked brand new and was triple layered in many places. I could only imagine what was inside. Was it a gun, money, or Hoffa’s hand? It was more of a mystery and a bit unsettling than exciting.

I called my realtor, who was a personal friend, and asked if he could find out from the selling agent if they knew anything about it, once pictures were shared and the location of the box was mapped out.

After five hours, an email revealed the previous owners had no clue it was there.

Suddenly mysterious was turning into creepy.

The next day, with the wood box demolished and gone, and the metal safe was free to be lifted. I found the serial number on the back and looked up the manufacturer on-line. A call, a security check, and a day was required to give me a generic code, used for all safes, to open it. I questioned if I wanted to do that at all, but the appeal was too strong.

A day later, I received an email with a code and instructions on which way to turn the combination dial.

I actually printed the instructions then went for a walk, in deep contemplation on what it all meant.

Why didn’t the past owner know it was there when they lived in the house for three years, AND they were the owners who actually built that closet into a pantry with shelves. Did they too think it was a structure that held up the house? Why did they decorate the box to blend in with the décor? And what about the previous owner prior to them? They were in the house for 49 years. Did they put the safe there and why didn’t they take it with them when they moved?

As for me, when the house went through a $300 appraisal inspection, two people looked inside at all the rooms and closets, and under sinks and then crawled underneath the building. Why didn’t they see it and question it in regard to the discrepancy.

After an hour of walking, and asking myself these questions, I came back and decided to open the safe.

Due to the heavy weight, I came to the safe by sitting on the floor in the open space. I spun the dial ever so slowly and it clicked open the first try. At this point, I stood up and grabbed the broom to use the handle, at a distance, to open the safe door. One push and it was open. I dropped the broom and the loud bang it made hitting the floor caused me to jump. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and used the flashlight to see inside. What I found was a box. A cardboard box.

It was thin but as big as the safe. Clenching my fists, I let my legs do a jig with the notion that I am still in a position of the unknown and will now have to decide what to do. With a ‘grrr,’ I turned on my heels and went outside to get a sandwich across the street to think.

I mean, if it was a $20 frame, I get leaving it behind, but the safe was a $500 model when I looked it up online the other day. Why didn’t anyone take that with them or resell it?

Letting this new mystery process in my brain, I ate and returned 30 minutes later.

I was amped up the first time thinking I might find something dramatic that would cause me to call the police, you know, expensive jewelry that needs to find its rightful owner or pictures of a botched crime…or maybe I watch too much tv, but, emotionally, I was exhausted, and it was only noon.

I pulled the large, thin cardboard box out of the safe and needed two hands. It was heavier than I expected it to be. I laid it on the kitchen table and sat down. I found the center secured with tape and used the sharp knife to split it down the middle. I peeled back the cardboard from the two half and laid them flat on the table.

Inside was a mirror and a fancy journal book that had a hook clasp in the front to close. It was red leather and had a burned image of a horse on its back legs rearing in the air.

My first impression was, “Wow, that book is beautiful, and my favorite color; red.” I picked it up and the first thing I did was run my fingers across the front of the journal. Because of the burned image, there was texture and my fingers dipped in and out of the image.

I picked it up and unhooked the clasp to see if anything was written. A quick fanning of the pages showed me only the first page had something written down. I returned the pages to the beginning and read, “Know Your Worth!”

I sat there breathing normally and feeling very calm, but at the same time, a certain level of warmth and energy jolted through me.

I picked up the mirror and of course saw my reflection before turning it over for any clues. There was nothing, and I laid it down on the table.

I am not sure why, but I associated the horse with my birthyear according to the Chinese Zodiac; a “Fire Horse” to be exact.

Then it all came to me.

My dissatisfaction at work, my perception that I am not being respected after 23 years, that my opinions do not matter, and then this mysterious find.

An outer box, a safe box, and a box within that. Inside, a mirror and a journal book with my zodiac sign and favorite color with a message that spoke to me; “Know Your Worth.” Suddenly, it was not a mystery or creepy or confusing. I had clarity.

I went to sleep that night with a renewed feeling of hope for the future and put in my notice at work the next day.