MY TRIBUTE TO WILLIE SUTTON

By The Hindmost

When I was twenty-one, I robbed a bank. It was the middle of winter, and the cold Wisconsin climate had been punishing; that year there were a scant four sunny days from early November through late January. The sky was consistently cloudy and grey, for months which seemed endless and cheerlessly bleak. You know what they say about Seasonal Affective Disorder, how a lack of sunlight can affect a person's moods? That's how it was, a penetrating feeling of despair, a chilling blanket of tiresome depression which was there when I awoke and covered me when I went to sleep.

My situation was economically grim in the early eighties. I was living hand to mouth, spending money as quickly as it came in. The idea struck me as I was walking by a bank on my way home from work one afternoon. It was as simple as that. Normally most people don't consider such things on a daily basis, and some not even on a conscious level. But almost everyone has thought about it. Here was this financial institution, a tiny credit union, I passed it by nearly every day; and suddenly there was a new source of full-on wonder waking in my mind. "What would it take…?"

That was how it began, in an innocuous way, without criminal intent. A few days afterwards, I was skulking around the local library, and I recalled something I'd read on the subject. It was a quote attributed to a man named Willie Sutton. Willie had been called the "gentleman bank-robber", apparently because his manners were impeccable and peaceful whilst doing the deed. Later in his career, when he'd been captured (living on the same block as the local precinct), a reporter supposedly asked him, "Hey Willie, why did you rob banks?" and Sutton quipped, "Because that's where the money is". It turns out he never said this, but legends have a way of spreading regardless of the truth.

Anyway, I began reading about old Willie, and studying his methods, which he divulged in great detail in books written after his incarceration. His overall opinion seemed to be that doing a bank was easy, provided enough meticulous planning, and that luck was with you. Pursuing the details, I became convinced that what others had done, I could do ~~and get away with.

The particulars took shape in my mind, and I justified it in the classic manner: bank robbery was simply redistributing wealth from those who had money in abundance to those who could really use it. There would be no victim, because banks have insurance which protects the institution and the investor! Before long I had reasoned away any apprehensions that what I was contemplating might be wrong or immoral, and concentrated my thoughts on how best to get the job done.

A means of disguising my appearance was necessary, as there would be cameras pointed at me, snapping photos of the crime. I grew a beard, to be shaven off when it was over. As Sutton had done on some occasions, I used hollowed-out corks to widen my nostrils. I wore some loose clothing to hide my shape, and of course the obligatory stocking-pulled-over-the-face to further obscure and distort my features. When everything was prepared, and after watching bank activity for a few weeks to take notice of employee habits, it was time to nerve myself up for the task. This was nothing to be half-assed about. I would either succeed, or go to prison. This train of thought led me to do some research into what the penalties would be for failure. That was an ugly subject, and might've brought a wiser man to a halt. Sentencing goes worse for those who get caught using a gun, so I left it behind, and instead pasted together a crude note which instructed the teller, "Put the money in the bag. Don't set off any alarms. My friend outside the door has a shotgun." Fear would be my solitary weapon

The big day arrived with a foot of snow. This vexed me greatly, and the bank very nearly kept its money, because I almost balked. But I had psyched myself up, screwed up my courage to the point where snow seemed of little concern. In retrospect, there were so many little mistakes I committed it's a wonder I'm not wearing a number…

I walked in through the double doors as calmly as possible, pulling the stocking over my face. I can clearly remember the head teller say, "Okay everyone, stay cool." There were no other customers, and only myself to make a withdrawal. I approached a teller who was obviously frightened and passed the note I'd prepared across the desk to her. I don't think she even read it. In all fairness, she was sharp and alert: she stuffed wads of bills into the bag I'd given her, keeping her eyes on my face, trying to commit it to memory. The whole thing was over in forty seconds, from entry to escape. I charged from the building, through the back lot of a department store, throwing off the stocking. (This was one of my blunders. I realized I'd left investigators a likely hair sample.). I raced down to the cross street, sprinted to the corner, and immediately slowed to a leisurely walk. A running man attracts attention. That was the worst part of it all, with a bag of money burning through my coat pocket, forcing myself to be calm and proceed with a casual gait. And as I turned that corner, I had a scare that nearly caused me to faint dead away. I looked ahead, and there was a squad car parked in the street, my street, not thirty yards in front of me. The blood drained out of my face, and I came dangerously close to soiling myself. The cops turned on their lights and siren, obviously just getting the call from dispatch, ~~ and took off down the road out of sight. I've never believed in god, but I said a quick prayer of thanks just then.

Arriving home, I separated the money out into stacks of thousands, and hid them in different locations throughout the house. I'm not sure what I thought this would accomplish, but my thinking wasn't in a state of clarity at the time. The take for forty seconds' work was almost twelve thousand dollars all told. Five hours later, under cover of darkness, I slipped out of the house and took a bus out of town for a few weeks. How I found the courage to show my face on the street I'll never know. In a little diner along the way, I heard a police report over the radio about the incident, and the description of the perpetrator was wrong in so many ways I thrill of relief shoot through my body.

There is no statute of limitations on federal crimes, so it's conceivable that I may yet be caught. But it seems pretty unlikely. The money, I wasted frivolously and not too conspicuously. With it I made a few girls smile, and made myself smile, and the folks I love received better gifts for a little while on special occasions. I sometimes wonder if I learned anything from the experience; "crime sometimes pays" doesn't seem a fitting conclusion to draw from it at all. But when I examine my feelings and thoughts, there is nothing concrete to be found, with one exception.

I know how to beat the winter blues.