On Sunday afternoon, I got in my car, exchanged my heels for sneakers, and began my drive from Massachusetts back home to Maine. I had just spent four hours in a room full of women – one of only two in the entire restaurant that didn’t have children or have a belly waiting to burst with one – at my best friend’s baby shower. My ears were still ringing from the endless chorus of “oohs” “ahhs” and “hold that one up” and other variations and combinations of gasped enthusiasm and my head hurting from the silent, but still somehow powerful, raised eyebrows piercing into me when I repeatedly said I didn’t have any children.

I figured the worst part of my day was over until I checked my cell phone that I had left in the car. There were missed calls from Ward Peck, editor of the Post and Register newspapers at our company. And, more than one. And, he left a message. No, two messages. Something must be terribly wrong – he is a typical guy and not one for chitchatting on the phone. 

The first message went a bit like this.

Ward: Hey...I’m at the office and I think something’s wrong. I think some things are missing. Something is just not right.

Me (on the Mass Pike attempting to battle Massachusetts drivers who think they are Jeff Gordon – while in the breakdown lane, which for some reason is cleared for regular traffic. When did this become the norm?): WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? I need more details!

Ward: Silence as he is clearly walking through the office while on the phone.

Me: AHHHHHH! Why are you such a guy? Details! I need details! 

Ward: Give me a call when you get this.

Me: (string of obscenities directed at both the drivers and Ward who at this point were on level playing fields): Wait! What is missing? What happened? What things? Which office? When did this happen? Don’t hang up, I need more details!

Ward: Click

I quickly pressed the button to listen to the next message. Thankfully, although short, it contained a least a few of the “who, what, where, when, why and hows” that my brain needs on a constant basis. The office had been broken into and items were missing. The police are investigating. Our bosses had been called. We’ll talk more when the office opens on Monday. My phone is dying, so I have to go (clearly another guy move, who lets their phone die?). Another click. 

I was pretty sure the police were going to stop investigating the burglary and come and arrest me for stalking as I repeatedly called Ward to see if I could find out the whole story.  

When Ward realized the office had in fact been broken into, he made the decision to contact the police. Rather than dialing 911, or walking down the street to the Biddeford Police headquarters, he simply walked outside and stood on the corner in front of our building. 

“I figured I’d see the police within two minutes, so it seemed better than calling 911,” he told me. 

And he was right – only in Biddeford can you just walk outside and plan to see an officer before you are able even to cross the street. 

As the officer walked with Ward through the building, he took note of the missing computers and other damage to the office. He then headed downstairs to where the editorial department is located. 

An unplugged fan lay askew right near the newsroom door. 

“No, that’s normal,” Ward said as the officer questioned whether it had been vandalized. 

Then he walked by my office. Newspapers in multiple stacks thrown on top of my file cabinet. Florescent light bulbs from every room in the office in the corner. The floor covered in letters to the editor, calendar listings and empty envelopes. A lamp broken off from the desk, laying haphazardly by the trash can. 

“This office was definitely hit,” Ward recalled the officer saying. 

“No...that looks about right,” Ward admitted, before having to confess the same thing at the next office – his – which essentially mirrored my own, substituting the lamp for an outdoor Forest Face key holder item he received for Christmas a few years ago – that has yet to make it to any tree or hide any key.

 More of the same came throughout the office. Old non-working computers sit in the center of our vast department. Christmas decorations tangled and thrown in boxes in the corner. A stack of microwaveable meal cardboard boxes overflowing in a “To Be Recycled Box” that has never actually been recycled, hence the overflow. (Don’t all offices look this way?) Judging from the detective’s face, apparently not. 

However, along with what looked like vandalism was mixed in with real vandalism, including theft of equipment, including our server, where all editorial materials are stored. 

“We’ve been burgled!” The message on my cell phone from Staff Writer Gillian Graham came just after 6:30 a.m. Monday morning. In true reporter form, Gillian came to the office, and was down at the police station in a matter of minutes to report the crime. Apparently our phone tree has some kinks…and then she was back at the office to conduct her own investigation of her desk. 

Editor Molly Lovell was soon in her office – and just as quickly out of her office – as she yelled, “My office smells like a drunk hobo!”

The debate then began. Is “hobo” a politically correct term? Can you say it? Can you print it in the newspaper? Technically a hobo is a wandering homeless person who jumps freight trains and is typically associated with the Great Depression. And, our office is near the train tracks and this economy more and more is being compared to that time in American history. 

And in true hobo fashion, the burglars had taken time to eat a can of cold cheesy broccoli soup -– direct from the can with someone else’s spoon – and dumped the remainder in Gillian’s desk. Based on the execution of this crime, we’re pretty sure Ocean’s 11 doesn’t have to come up with an alibi. 

So, continued our Monday, in a string of confusion, anger and frustration as our company banded together in an effort to not only get our papers out on time, but also fill them with relevant information. It seemed a daunting task as all the items we’d had ready to go for this week – and future weeks – went out the door with the thieves. 

For now, we continue to work in offices that look as though they’ve been vandalized – with broken lamps and woodland creatures intact – and continue to yell “We’ve been burgled!” whenever we need to laugh a bit and yes, we continue to blame drunk hobos for the incident. “Smells like broccoli” hobos at that. 

So, we hope you will bear with us in the coming month as we attempt to pull all of our information together. If possible, please resend any press releases you emailed or mailed in within the past month as we do not want to miss any of your important upcoming events. 

And, if you see any intoxicated, smelly hobos with newspaper print stains on their hands and a detailed knowledge of local politics and area happenings, please contact the Biddeford Police Department. 

    –Colleen Marshall