Snack Boxes

It’s the last week of the quarter here at Snack Box Industries. It’s Christmas time, windowsills are piled with snow and bellies are full of hot chocolate. Everything is peaceful in the office. Then that clown we have to call our boss comes rolling in to crap in our Christmas stockings (or Hanukkah Menorah, or Kwanzaa Kinara, or Jehovah’s Witness corn flakes, we don’t discriminate here at Snack Box Industries). Bobby Bossman tells us we are way behind on our quarterly figures which, like, duh. This was the guy who gave us the last month off so he would have no distractions while trying to make the world’s largest quilt, halting all snack box delivery. Of course we’re behind. But what we don’t realize is just how far behind we are. Apparently we haven’t even reached 50% of last quarter’s sales. Numbers this low warrant immediate investigation and, most likely in our case, termination of the branch. Everyone here knows we are a bunch of phonies, only in it for the discounted snack boxes. I grab my stress ball and get to squeezing, because boy I am stressing. Bobby says, “Look, I can’t lose this job. If I do…they’ll take me away.” When I ask who he is referring to, and where he would be taken, he just walks over to a window and looks up into the sky with tears streaking down his face. “Never mind all that,” he says. “We’re going to have to get old-school. Guerrilla sales strategy. Take to the streets and don’t let up until you’ve sold every snack box gift we’ve got.” He ducks into his office. We all wait as he prints something out, then he steps back out and clears his throat, “Do not go gentle into that good night…”

“Okay,” Bobby said after his rousing speech. “Start with the customizable snacks, the customizable international snack box should be the easiest sell.” A pound on the door shocks the bustling office into silence. In walks a trio of little demons in ponytails. The Girl Scouts. Bobby has had several encounters with the Scouts, all of them unpleasant. Lines are drawn on maps, boundaries are marked, and Snack Box Industries keeps out of the Scouts territory. But it seems that today they knew what was coming. Bobby looks around in disbelief. Could there be a rat in the office? Linda stands and crosses the room to stand with the Scouts. Of course! The Scouts pervade everything in this town, their resources are inexhaustible, of course they would have a loyal ear here. “Did I hear something about a customizable snack box?” says Trixie, their leader. Bobby puffs his chest, “You’ve heard no such thing. And Linda you’re fired, why would you reveal you’re the rat? Dumb rat. Bad spy.” Linda looks to Trixie but it is too obvious: Linda has outlasted her usefulness. The other two Scouts drag her away. “Why don’t you go customize your own snack box,” Bobby says.

“I don’t need to,” Trixie says. “If you want to sell on our turf, you better cough up 60% of your profit.” Bobby nearly choked hearing that. “These are healthy snack boxes for adults. You don’t get a monopoly on snack boxes for adults.” Trixie gets in Bobby’s face, scuffing his shoes. “It ain’t about the snack boxes, Bobby,” she cracks open a cold pack of smarties, “It’s about the land.” She blows smarties dust in Bobby’s face. Now he does choke. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to divvy up your supply of snack boxes for employees to come to the streets and sell for me. Adapt or die, Robert. Sink or swim.” Bobby is sprawled out on the carpet, every word a battle to get out of his constricted throat, “You’ll…never get…my…healthy snack boxes for work.” Then he goes unconscious. Trixie snaps her fingers and her two Scouts pick up a potted plant, rip the plant out, and dump the water over Bobby. He jolts back to life. Trixie plants a boot hard on his chest, “I saved your life. You owe me now. And you definitely do not want to owe me.”

So we all split up into groups. The veteran’s take the best snack boxes and head downtown in company vans while the younger crowd fills wagons and wheelbarrows with the individual snack boxes and start to walk the streets. I am in that group. But first I am tasked with getting snack boxes for remote employees delivered, so that they may also contribute to sales. It doesn’t make much sense to me but Bobby says gift boxes for remote employees is crucial. Once I deliver these boxes me and my group take to the streets. The snow that had added a pleasant, mystical tint on my morning is now slushing around in my boots. I never thought I would see the organization be so humiliated, brought so low. And by the Scouts no less, our sworn rivals. Something has to change, and that means someone has to step up and be a difference maker. Why not me? So I decide to split the group up. One half will continue to sell these boxes while the other half, led by me, will infiltrate the Scouts. The Scouts got to Linda…how hard would it be for us to do the same?

In my group there are five who have daughters of eligible Girl Scout age. Four are currently in school and one, Ben’s daughter Sara, is home sick. We pick her up and immediately fill her in on the situation. She’s going to sign up for the Scouts, act all excited with her head full of kids snack box ideas. None of us have ever seen the inside of the Girl Scout compound, so Sara will be our eyes and ears via walkie talkie, letting us know just where all the snack boxes for kids are stockpiled. So we enact the plan. Sara is in an interview room with her thumb on the walkie talkie, and she is being interrogated on kids snack ideas and history’s best snack box for kids. She sniffles out knowledge she had just studied via flashcard minutes ago. She is showing more diligence than I’ve ever seen from our company. She is so convincing that they instantly promote her to a lieutenant, whatever that means. We hear her enter the compound. There are sounds of heavy machinery, shouting, dogs barking, gunshots. Someone asks Sara if she wants a cigarette. We hear the flick of a lighter.

We are still in the back of the surveillance van listening in when we hear Sara enter what was referred to as “The Wonka Room.” Candy from around the world, snacks from around the world piled high to the ceiling. The supposed best snack box from around the world named the “Comet Pack.” Sara asks if she may be alone with the Wonka Room for a moment, to revel in it’s beauty. Her guide obliges, of course. “Okay, what should I do,” Sara asks us. “Use all those pockets in your winter jacket. Take a snack box from around the world, one from every country. Then sneak out and try to jam the door so we can come back later.” Then there is silence for a very long time, ten minutes or so. We begin to grow anxious. Then we get a knock on the van door. Two Scouts stand with slingshots aimed at us. “You are trespassing on government grounds. Turn back or be dealt with as traitors of the state.” Ben starts to say something but is pelted with a rock right in the temple. He is knocked out cold. We start the van and peel out immediately.

We get back to the office tired, soaked through with melted snow and without a single solution to our problem. The others have managed to sell of most of the boxes by way of: begging, pleading, barking, biting, robbing and selling the boxes off to family members and/or themselves. As for the veterans all of the best snack subscription boxes were sold without a hitch, as well as all of the international snack box no subscription deals. I don’t really know how to broach the topic of us abandoning Sara in the Scout compound. Ben is wallowing in a corner of the office eating the supply we haven’t sold. Then he gets a phone call. After a series of nodding and, “Okay. Yes. Okay. I understand,” he hangs up. “It seems Sara has turned cloak. I’ve lost my daughter to the Scouts.” We gather around and comfort Ben, as we all know this story that has gone on for as long as any story we know. The story of betrayal and sharkish dealing. The snack business is as cutthroat as it gets, but we knew that when we signed up. Today it was Sara, who will it be tomorrow?