July 4th The Fireworks Day

News of yet another killer bomb, filled the office. Lately, it seemed that’s all people talked about, at water coolers and cafeterias all over the greater Boston area. “Probably another postal guy, pissed off for some lame reason” said Richie Reinold, my friend and fellow buyer here at Oakhill Foodservices. Others chipped in their two cents worth, and as the mundane daily reports of outs and inventory levels found each person’s desk, all went separate ways to conquer the demons of their day.

In my case, fighting demons was easy, as I bought General Mills and Pillsbury products, of which both manufactured a Devil’s Food Cake mix. Additionally, if you didn’t want to bake a cake, you could buy a frozen one from Sara Lee, or Drescher, or Sweet Street, just a few of the edible demons offered.

There were 8 buyers, and 4 assistants, responsible for all purchases at Oakhill Foodservices, and we worked with our 48 salesmen and women, to keep schools and nursing homes and restaurants stocked with dry, frozen and non-food goods.

This day, my appointments included our Solo Cup representative, Jason Keeline, who I called Keylime, at 10:00 AM. My afternoon appointment, as broker, Dewitt Parsons the III, who I called D, though he had several nicknames, too many to name now. The morning call went smoothly, and we completed the off invoice Solo items (plastic red, white and blue cups and plates) that would be for our fourth of July flyer, in a couple of months. Jason was a young man, just out of college. He was clean cut, with a hairdo that included that stuff to make hair stand up straight. He was Californian born and raised, Richie called him “Callie”, and extremely polite. He had played some baseball, in college, and had no children, but had just gotten married. In his spare time, he helped run a school for young baseball prospects, and his specialty was in the batting cages. I thought it fit him perfectly, I liked him, thought he’d go far. One of those sales folk who really did not waste your time, but got both our jobs done.

D, my afternoon appointment, in no way approached Jason’s style, especially the wasting my time part. Though this would usually make me angry, D was that horse of a different color. D’s dad, Dewitt Parsons the II (I guess), called on me years ago, when our warehouse was in Brockton, MA. Less noisily, he would come in and sell me one of the many lines that his company, Eastern Sales, sold. He was quick witted, which he genetically passed to D, and would genuinely seem excited about a promo that Boyle-Midway had on “Pam food spray or “Easy Off” oven cleaner. I would say OK, give him an order, and he’d be gone, saying “your confirmation is in the mail sir”. D always took the longest route, but his sense of humor and of self, made us friends from the day we met. This bombing thing was the first and only topic, discussed. Richie, from behind his cubicle, chimed in various scenarios, blaming gays, ragheads, and every non- politically correct racist name one could think of, and was immediately barraged by pencils and pens and even a stapler. Jokes were made, and the discussion ended with everyone adopting the “tick tick”, sound, representing the last sound one heard prior to the bomb going off.

For days, the theories of who and why someone would send a brown paper box to apparent strangers, filled the hallways, and even in the warehouse. “Tick tick” could be heard everywhere.

Business for Oakhill went on, as we received and shipped thousands of boxes every day of the week. The last bombing, had been the week before, in Brockton, at a car dealership, on Manley Street, which could be heard all the way over to Cirelli Foods on West Chestnut Street. I had spoken to both Jack Nee and John Cirelli, both were as baffled as the rest of us.

The FBI had been involved from the first blast, finding only explosive residue, and burnt cardboard and ashes from brown paper. Never any fingerprints or notes from the sender, which perplexed folks from Boston down to the south shore. These seemingly random acts of violence began just before Christmas, and now numbered six. Richie would kiddingly say “tick tick” whenever there was a break in office conversation. Benny Kuongo, our produce buyer, would say, “you better check your mail carefully Richie Rich”, “tick tick”. In a convoluted way, Benny made sense to me, as Richie single handedly offended more people in a day than most folks did in a lifetime.

Summer would be upon us soon, and it was my job to ramp up the inventory of paper bags, paper napkins and paper towels, all things paper were at the top of the list. Answering the phone, for the (what seemed like) hundredth time today, Kathy one of our assistants, whispered “the FBI is here, and they want to speak to you.” I said I’d be right out, to the reception area to greet them, and with the biggest frog in my throat, I got up, and made my way down the hall, hearing “tick tick”, as I passed Richie’s desk.

Oakhill’s president, John Dundee, and Vice President of Procurement, Bob San Mateo, were standing and chatting with two very tall FBI guys, and I stuck out my hand for the obligatory shake, and was met with nothing but air. Sheepishly retracting my arm, I asked what I could do to help. Agent Spooner asked if I did the purchasing for paper products and I said yes. The other agent, last name Winter, asked if I could put together all the vendors and their addresses and telephone numbers for them. I said sure, and they came back to my cubicle, and I began tearing the vendors involved in paper goods, from aging thirteen bar paper logs, cluttering the top of the file cabinet behind me.

By now, the fact that FBI guys were in my office, had everyone whispering and doing drive-by walks to see them; as I quickly as I could, put what they wanted together. I tried making small talk, but agents Spooner and Winter, were the souls of silence as an occasional and very muffled “tick tick” made its way to our ears. Finished I put some plastic clamps to bind the assorted reports together, and handed them over to the agents. They thanked me and walked away, just as D came down the hall, and in a loud voice he asked “did you tell them where you hid the dynamite”? They were not amused and left the building, while my small office filled with fellow Oakhill workers, all wanting to know what happened and why the G-Men had visited or to ask if I had gotten Mulder and Scully’s autographs. As the last “tick tick” of the day, trailed from my ears, I wondered who or what group would anonymously send unexpected death in a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper?

In West Bridgewater, as a school kid, we had to make sure our books were covered, so as to protect the knowledge they contained; from what I observed it worked. You could buy some really glossy ones at the office, but it cost money. My dad, ever the penny pincher, instructed us to use paper bags to do the trick, so for my years in school, my siblings too, we used inside out Trucchi’s (Your true key to savings) paper bags, to swaddle our books. All the years as a kid, my parents used paper to wrap and send gifts, even using paper bags on unimportant non present items, mailed to people they knew.

On Saturday morning, the news came on and shared the story of another explosion, this time in Quincy, it killed another unsuspecting recipient. Work on Monday, would be agog, with questions and emotional “what ifs”, as well as renewal of “tick tick”, the emblematic unsanctioned sound of these horrific bombings.

Boggled was the word that the news media and papers used over and over and some folks wondered if there was an end anywhere in sight. The FBI would only say they were working on it, when pressed for answers, but deeper, in Washington D.C., they were closer than anyone knew. Their scientists were confident, that the paper and cardboard were manufactured in the south, likely South Carolina. Already in the works were record searches of southern paper companies, looking for orders of paper and cardboard being shipped to New England companies, specifically Massachusetts. So, although the public was still in the dark, it could be the FBI was beginning close in on the answer.

Strangers in the office on Monday, especially accounts receivable could only mean more G-men and women this time. Everything was to be hush hush, per Mr. Dundee, the “Feds” meant they would not tolerate any loose lips. My immediate thought was to figure out a way to send Richie on vacation. I speculated to myself, that the bomber(s) either bought the goods from a vendor or from one of their customers. Summertime in New England, meant there were literally thousands of possibilities. This was more work in canvasing alone, than a hundred Mulder and Scully’s could ever do. Salespeople were to innocently ask their customers if they knew anyone who bought paper or cardboard boxes from them. The responses would come from distributors all over New England, and that gave way to a feeling that closure might be soon, rather than later. I dared to think there would be an end to “tick tick” and breathing out slowly, thought it would be nice to get back to what passed for foodservice normal.

The news broke on the Thursday before July fourth, a Saturday, this year, and the office chatter was as loud as a Pat’s game. A giant sigh of relief seemed to echo through New England, and peace with red white and blue cups and plates to contain it, was ingested with gusto. The Devil’s food cake was eaten and the demons of this tragic period, defeated once again.

Friday morning 9:00 AM, our daily UPS truck pulls in and the driver stands there chatting with our receiver, Storky, about all the events of the past few months, deeper in the truck “tic tick tick tick tick tick tick”…