Lary Bloom photo
It usually takes two days for the docs to dry out after I shower.
I have noticed — perhaps you have as well — that the FBI has lately hunted down confidential documents at the homes of politicians.
As I’ve never run for office, I assumed I was immune from this effort. That is, until yesterday, when fate, as it so often does, intervened.
Someone rang the doorbell. When I opened the door, I said, “You must be a G‑man.” I presumed he was interviewing neighbors to find the identity of a man who tried to sneak a beer into Elena’s on Orange, the new ice cream shop.
He said, “How did you know I’m from the FBI? Did my crewcut and off-the-rack, ill-fitting gray suit and gray tie and gray socks and gray eyeglass frames give me away? Or were you tipped off by that so-called history expert from Yale who wrote that treasonous biography about our great J. Edgar Hoover?”
In this case, ice cream turned into a red herring.
“Uh, yes,” I said tactfully. “I’ll have you know that Professor Beverly Gage won the Pulitzer Prize for that book. And, in case you’re wondering, the clients of Elena’s on Orange seem to be quite happy even without being able to drink any lager, as proscribed by the settlement of the neighbor’s lawsuit.”
“Never mind, sir. I’ll get to why my bosses down on State Street sent me here. We need to know if you are still in possession of certain classified documents.”
“Me?”
“You were a former lieutenant in the United States Army?”
“Yes, I believe I was,” I said.
“And you were stationed in Vietnam?”
“As far as I can recall.”
“That was the place, right, where we stopped the Commies from taking over the world?”
“Oh. Right. Except I read somewhere that we didn’t succeed. And that we actually lost that war. Would you like some coffee?”
“I never touch it on duty,” he said, plopping down in the swivel chair I bought at Fair Haven Furniture.
In my nervousness, I picked up the front page of the New York Times, which, because I am a proud luddite, I still have delivered to the door every day though it costs about $3,456 per copy.
I scanned the headline, which as I recall, said, “Trump Indicted For Being a Truly Terrible Person.” Showing it to the agent, I said, “You surely don’t put me in the same category as that guy?”
“As you know, sir, nobody is above the law. Not you. Not him, though he is right that that Justice Department is weaponized,” he said, as he pulled out a forty-five caliber Smith & Wesson and waved it at me.
This was my secret stash until…
He smiled ruefully, adding, “Nice little piece, this baby, don’t you think?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer, and added, “Now, were you, sir, in possession of highly classified documents while you were in the war?”
“Well, in my defense, I, uh , that is, well, you see. Everybody who wore pants had – ”
“These documents,” he said, interrupting my superb discourse, “were according to my information crucial to the war effort. You were in charge, yes or no, of the food supply depot for the central part of the country, distributing goods to American, Australian and South Korean military units?”
“Yes, I was but – .”
“And you knew very well, according to the evidence, how many pineapples, bananas and watermelon were stored at any specific time in your depot?”
“Yes, but also, among the produce, passion fruits and mangosteens.”
“Mangosteens?”
“Yes, the tastiest fruit in the world. It’s grown on trees in Dalat, in the Central Highlands. You just remove the pits and –.”
“Have you shared this information with anyone who was an enemy of our people?”
“Well, I might have mentioned something to my barber.”
“Aha! And what did you do with all those documents? Are you hiding anything classified in your bathroom, your kitchen, your basement — the innovative and brilliant way our president did?”
“You mean our former president?”
“With all due respect, sir, shut up. I’d like to search the house.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not on your life, which at this point I wouldn’t give you ten cents for.” Then, from the bathroom, he shouted, “What are all these pills in your medicine cabinet?”
“I’m an old man.”
“I’ve noticed.” And then, in the kitchen, he said, “There must be top secret docs about the cans of dehydrated shrimp, dill pickles, tomato sauce, baked beans and frozen ducklings you either distributed or sold on the black market.” He turned and looked at a door.
“Is that the way to the basement?” he said, pointing.
By now aware that I was in some jeopardy, I said, “One might say that, but I can’t confirm it.”
He descended the stairs, and a few minutes later reemerged, holding papers in his hand. “These are clearly stamped Mildly Secret.”
“But I declassified them years ago,” I protested. “I did it in my sleep by dreaming it.”
He interrupted our symposium by pulling out handcuffs. “I’m arresting you, sir, for violating the Pineapple, Banana, and Watermelon Act of 1947. You have the right to remain silent, though, considering your reputation for blabbing everything that gets into your head, at least according to your wife, that’ll never happen.”
A few minutes later, he put me in the back seat of his 1969 Ford Fairlane, pushing my head down the way they always do to perps on “Law & Order.”
I spent the night in jail, terrified of course, but during which I wrote this account. Then, I had to sneak it to the editor of the New Haven Independent. He wrote back right away, proclaiming it “slightly interesting,” but that he passionately pursues a policy of rejecting “slightly interesting” material. However, when I offered to treat him to a scoop of the seasonal salty caramel at Elena’s on Orange, he relented, and imposed it on his readers.
Lary Bloom’s book of essays, “I’ll Take New Haven: Tales of Discovery and Rejuvenation,” is available at local stores and online.