JOHN BLISS
Keep the Change
“Want of money and the distress of a thief can never be alleged as the cause of his thieving, for many honest people endure greater hardships with fortitude. We must therefore seek the cause elsewhere than in want of money, for that is the miser's passion, not the thief’s.” William Blake
Joe, Richie, and I were about to cut open a Mosler safe the size of a commercial refrigerator. The safe was in a second floor office at a Sears store in Peekskill, NY. The year was 1976, the time 12:30 AM, a sweltering Sunday in late August. The store opened at 8 AM. Enthusiastic employees often got to work early. We had until 5 AM to finish the job.
Richie had worked at Sears and told me about all the cash they kept in the safe. There was a work area where there were lifts to raise cars, change tires, and space for the technicians to put in new batteries that jolted old automobiles to life. The garage held a loading platform where merchandise could be put onto trucks. A side door no longer in use had been welded shut. I used a hydraulic jack the size of a shoebox that I had attached to a chain with hooks at two ends to easily pry open the door.
It always amazed me how powerful my little tool was, I was very proud of it. Steel cracks when it’s compressed, it strengthens when stretched. Father Martin’s high school physics class turned out to be helpful. He had emphasized that we had to apply theories practically: you’d remember them that way. The hydraulic force on the door split the welded seam easily. The door remained intact and looked secure after we entered. The outside of the entryway was covered with bushes and weeds and was adjacent to a wooded area. It wasn’t visible from the parking lot next to the garage. There was no alarm on the door and that side of the building wasn’t lit.
Once inside the garage we walked up a few stairs to the loading dock and through two double doors into the store. The alarms were on the entrances, exits, and garage doors to the loading dock. The security system was bypassed and we now felt protected by it. An alarm would have gone off if some nosy cop, enthusiastic employee, or villainous competition broke in.
The day before, Joe, Diane (Joe’s wife), and I went to Sears to check out the store's layout. The building was comprised of two stories built on a slope so the loading dock in the back of the building wasn’t visible from the street. The basement was next to the loading area and the offices were up a separate stairwell from the cellar. I bought Joe a battery for his car. While they installed the battery “free of charge” we checked out the area and discover the door where we entered.
The purchase was a token of my appreciation of the internship he had provided me over the last couple of years. Joe had helped me graduate to an advanced level of stealing. Before meeting him, I had learned some neat tricks, mostly from acquaintances and a magazine called Popular Mechanics but was ignorant about bypassing alarms and opening safes. I was also lonely and we became very close friends. In his unique way, Joe was protective and concerned about my future. He wanted me to succeed.
The safe was in an office with two desks. I was concerned about the sprinkler system in the ceiling. I put a small stepladder on a desk and covered the sprinkler heads with Liquid Nails. This kept the torch's heat and smoke from inadvertently setting off the sprayers. I had remembered this kid in high school who had a hobby of setting off sprinkler systems by burning paper towels he wrapped around a broomstick and holding the fire up to a sprinkler head. I had been a Boy Scout and our motto (once you’re a Boy Scout, you’re a scout for life!) was “be prepared.” Those lessons proved to be very helpful. Details were important; simple things like don’t turn any lights on or off, get a ride to and from the job, parked cars could easily be used to identify the owner, any of those oversights could decidedly ruin an evening.
Desperation made you careless which increased your chances of being arrested. It was unusual, probably near impossible to be patient while using heroin. That night in late August, I had my act together.
The bookkeeper had closed out the day’s receipts and had written the cash denominations neatly on a green ledger with red lines and boxes outlined in blue. It was easy to imagine the manager, probably two managers (to keep each other honest), counting the money then logging it with a Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil before locking it in the safe.
The total was $137,487.86; there was $2,400.87 in change. Richie told us that the money was picked up on Monday and Thursday by a Brinks Armored car. This was a lot of money to split three ways in 1976. My share, $45,829.29, would have been enough to start a new life. After this score, I would have achieved greatness and had a great story to tell my grandchildren one day. There was no doubt that I had to stop the drugs. This was my way out.
I had been using heroin daily for the past three years. I was 22 and it was ruining me. Initially, stealing was a way to get money for drugs. Early on I showed an aptitude for larceny and demonstrated potential as a bandit. Acquaintances noticed my creative enthusiasm towards illegal wizardry. The adrenalin surge generated when the threat of getting caught combined with the elation of getting away with a crime was by far my favorite drug. Eventually being a good thief had become the antidote to being a pathetic junkie.
The money on the other side of this metal door was essential to escape the misery I was shackled in. My plan was to buy a good car and head to Mexico for a few months (I had a group of friends in Mazatlan), stop the drugs, just drink and smoke some weed. Afterwards, I’d settle in California, go back to school. Education was free in California after you lived there a year, maybe I’d learn to surf. Heroin no longer made me high it only stopped me from feeling ill. I donated everything to it, money, dignity and self-respect. Finally, I’d have enough money to leave and clean up my act.
Joe was my muse and a collaborator with dedication that is rarely experienced. He was tough, handsome with jet-black silk-like hair and verbally eloquent. In addition to being a celebrated thief, he wrote poems. I remember one he wrote about twins so indistinguishable they couldn’t tell themselves apart. Joe was famous among thieves and infamous amidst the law abiding. The New York Times, NY Daily News, Time, and Newsweek magazines had covered his accomplishments. At that time, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was honored to have been his apprentice. In sad reflection, I had become competent and confident working with him.
Ironically, it was Joe that gave me the simple advice and encouragement to get out of this miserable way of living. I survived it, he did not fair so well. In hindsight, Joe was consistently encouraging and suggesting that I could do anything. He was always clear that regardless how competent a thief was an inevitable part of the career path was prison. He often teased me that underneath it all he knew I was a square and would eventually become an upstanding citizen. I would promise to have him over for holidays if that ever happened.
I met Joe for the first time buying heroin in Harlem. He took an immediate liking to me and found me refreshingly sincere, humorous, and ambitious. Our relationship deepened when I came to him with a plan to burglarize a Saks Fifth Avenue store in White Plains, NY. He was impressed with the research I had done.
In 1976 blue laws were in effect which prohibited stores from being open on Sundays and holidays. We went in on a Saturday, took a lot of merchandise and then again on Sunday to open the safe. The store was closed on Sunday and Monday, the 4th of July. I kept an eye on the place to make sure our burglary from the previous night wasn’t detected. My cash share of the score was double my yearly salary. We also got over $500,000 in “fine” jewelry. I was appalled at Saks’ mark up on our treasure; we sold it to a reputable fence for a pittance of the retail value. After Saks, Joe and I worked together regularly.
Joe brought out the best in people. I was done with shameful cozening of milk money, stealing siblings’ bicycles, and promised myself to only commit dignified knaveries. I was a thief and wanted to be proud of it. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Joe, even though capable of it, thought violence was crass and lacked sophistication.
On the streets, there were numerous stories about Joe’s skill as a pugilist. He had once had a fight with a detective named Baker. Baker was a bully and was harassing Joe, constantly pulling him over in his car. Joe challenged him to a fight and if he won Baker had to back off; if Baker won, Joe would leave town. Baker foolishly agreed. Joe left Baker whining in pain sitting on the curb trying to catch his breath. Joe barely broke a sweat. He was rumored to have taken Baker’s gun and thrown it down the sewer. I never asked him about that. It was too good a story to be ruined by zealous fact checking.
Stealing from stores wouldn’t hurt anyone. Insurance covered the company’s losses. When the Saks job was reported in the paper the stolen loot was inflated by at least a hundred thousand dollars. I was appalled at the management’s exploitation of our hard work. Bob Dylan had penned, “to live outside the law you must be honest.” There was legitimacy to being a skilled burglar.
Most people built stature and self-confidence in sports, debating teams, or academic achievements. My character was developed on these late night felonious magic acts. Humiliation and remorse were exchanged for respectability and status.
I had started out stealing from my family, friends, and co-workers, and was ashamed of it. I worked hard developing techniques in breaking and entering stores. There was a romantic lineage to the legendary cat burglars that outsmarted alarms and locks. Finally, I was excelling at something and doing scores I was proud of. I had built a reputation as an inventive and trustworthy thief.
Essential to growth was access to someone you aspire to be like. Joe was one of my heroes. Our relationship and my dependency on him gave birth to my creative autonomy.
“Fuck! It’s has to be one fucking hundred and fucking forty fucking degrees in there.”
Richie was incapable of speaking without cursing. Unlike Joe, his use of language was limited to grunts of discomfort, he cursed in between syllables. Unprofessional would become un-fucking-professional. There was no refinement to his thought or expression. He had a rodent-like appearance and regardless of the weather, always wore a leather jacket with a denim vest, and an oversized black wallet void of cash that attached to his garrison belt by a fat chain that held up his blue jeans. He stomped around in black engineer boots. He dressed as if he was in a motorcycle gang. (Richie never owned a motorcycle).
He was holding open the flap of the tent that Joe and I had put around the safe to block any light that might escape from the torch we had ignited from the oxygen and acetylene tanks. Richie was annoyed it was taking so long.
Burglary was scary at times and it was disrespectful to not be afraid. Richie was not a thief. His fear had converted to irritability. He was cranky and his skills were as limited as his lexicon of communication. Other than the information about this job, he was useless.
When someone had courage we used to say they had “balls" or “heart.” I was known to have heart. Fear was poisonous to me. I couldn’t let it exist without confronting it. Trouble was I was afraid all the time and if I acted that way I was proving to myself that I was pathetic. The wrath of my own damnation and conviction of cowardice was more terrifying than any cop or foe I ever encountered. Fear gave me my balls.
“Do you have to curse so much? You’re too loud! You tired, you need a nap?” I enjoyed teasing Richie.
My comments provided him a more precise outlet for his annoyance. He responded with a verbal barrage directed at me. He was on a methadone maintenance program. No one remembered him ever using heroin. Maybe the methadone program was his way to belong to a community; we all needed to be a part of something. We lived in White Plains, NY. We all knew him but when we went home, no one was sure where he went.
Like the horse flies at the beach, Richie could subtly ruin your day.
Joe was growing impatient and turned off the gas. “Stop bickering you two. You’re right Richie, John shouldn’t talk to you like that. I’ll talk to him. Try to keep your voice down; go take a walk and cool off. Hey! Go get us some sodas. Get me a coke.”
“Get me a root beer.” I wanted to get the last word in.
Richie shouted at the air. Fucking this, fucking that, where was he supposed to find fucking soda. I wish he would just fucking leave.
Joe was gentle with him. “Richie, you worked here remember? The soda machines are right downstairs by the pay phones, try to relax, take your time, try on some jeans.”
Sears had their own brand of jeans called “Toughskins.” The children’s pants were guaranteed that a kid would grow out of them before they got damaged. If they did Sears would replace them free of charge. They made a trampoline out of the material to demonstrate how tough they were.
Richie walked off. We were making progress; it was a little after 1 AM.
Breaking in and leaving were the most precarious times. Once inside after quiet was reestablished, you felt like you owned the joint. When we robbed Saks, Joe asked me to get a bag to put the cash and jewelry in. When I got back, he asked what had taken me so long. I had tried on a suit, gotten a shirt and shoes, but was having trouble picking out a tie. He laughed when he saw the suitcase; it was so big. I went and got a practical leather gym-type bag. Adrenalin gave me a sense of invincible euphoria.
I adjusted the tanks, and one spark from the striker and the cutting gun was spitting fire. I tinkered with the gas until the white flame was the shape of a fine chandelier bulb.
As Joe took the torch, I said to him, “You’re really sweet sometimes. He really gets on my nerves, I’m glad he’s gone.”
Joe continued cutting the doors to the safe. He was able to talk while he worked. “You should be more patient. He did find out about this and told you about it. It wouldn’t hurt to show him some gratitude.”
I still had a lot to learn and didn’t understand the philosophy behind Joe’s perspective.
“We could of just thrown him a few dollars, without having him come and he would have been thrilled. He did tell me but he isn’t capable of doing something like this.”
Joe was standing now holding the lit touch; he raised the welding helmet. “John, to not include him wouldn’t have been right. He may be annoying. He has no skill set to help him feel useful. It’s safer to have him here. He’d be entitled to his third regardless if he were here or not. If something goes awry and he is responsible I can kill him with a clear conscience.” He slightly shrugged his shoulders, put the helmet down, and went back to cutting.
His comments congealed in the air. I had been around violence, had been robbed at gunpoint buying drugs in Harlem one night. My friend Charlie Williams was shot in the forearm after arguing with some “stick up kids” intent on taking our money. They subsequently got our cash and then gave us enough to get home. Charlie laughed while he withered in pain after I thanked them for giving us carfare. It was considerate.
The real tough guys never had to tell you they were tough, you just knew. Joe was one of those men. I never heard him raise his voice and he either answered truthfully or not at all. There were things I was better off not knowing. Joe trusted me and as long as I kept my mouth shut about what we did I had no reason to fear him.
He added with less conviction, “Plus who would we send to get the soda?”
Our tent was roomy enough for Joe to work and for me to stand and regulate the gas flow from the tanks if necessary. I had a tendency to talk when I got excited, this time I couldn’t shut up.
“Hey Joe, I bet it’s that DieHard battery that’s bringing in all this cash, that and their tires. Sears does make very good hand tools, Craftsman; they are as good as anything Stanley makes. It’s so close to Labor Day. Everyone is fixing stuff around their house. Did you notice the barbecues are on sale? Their electric tools are mediocre. They don’t hold up the way the DeWALTS or Mikita’s do. I think Black & Decker owns DeWALT now. You are going to love that battery.”
He responded as he was re-positioning himself. “Thank you, by the way.” He continued to cut through the steel doors.
I wasn’t sure if he was even listening to me; his presence was enough. That night was the culmination of our growing relationship. It was a crook’s debutante ball and my date Joe was the prom king. There was this sense of congruency where any fear or anxiety melds into your body and moments where the only thing that existed in the world was the immediate task, a moment of omnipotence. Cutting through this Mosler was one of those times. Our crew was mocking the legendary manufacturer known for the strongest safes in the world that were revered by security experts and thieves. There was no place on earth I’d have rather been.
I rambled on. “They did say a money back guarantee, not sure if this is what they meant. This Mosler must have been one of the original ones. How long has this Sears been here? The guy that started all these stores, his name was Sears. He worked for the railroad and got a shipment of gold watches by mistake. He might have stolen them? I guess you’d call that Karma. It was in the 1890’s. He gets these watches and sells them to all his railroad buddies and Sears was born. You have to admire entrepreneurial spirit like that. I wonder if they all have Moslers? This is a beautiful safe. Did you know Mosler had two safes in a bank in Hiroshima that survived the nuclear attack?”
“We haven’t opened it yet. What about Roebuck?” Joe asked as he realigned his body to move with the cut he was making in the door.
His question worked like an alarm clock. It was 2 AM. We were on schedule. I felt we had everything covered. I had found a fire extinguisher in the event our flame ignited the cash. I was about to learn that there is nothing more precarious than a sure thing.
I was puzzled.
“Who?”
“You know Sears and Roebuck. When did Roebuck come into it?”
“Joe, how should I know?”
“John, I’m messing with you.”
“Oh! Roebuck, right, very funny. “
Everyone referred to it as Sears. I wondered if that bothered Roebuck. I had taken cushions off a lawn chair (part of an end of the season sale display) to put under our knees as we knelt down to work. I thought this was a very good idea. Joe adjusted my cushion when he moved with the torch. We were cutting a square through the steel, removing the concrete behind the metal to create a window where we could watch the lock mechanism fall into place as we turned the dial.
We were drinking water to replenish ourselves. It was hot. We were sweating profusely and smelled of hard work.
“Hey Joe, I used to love it when I was a kid and the Sears Christmas catalogue would come, Sears and Roebuck. My brothers and I would run and make these lists, never got anything on the list but it didn’t seem to matter. Christmas was pretty cool, I was usually pretty happy. Did you know Sears used to sell houses?
“They were kits, called Sears Modern Homes. The houses came in pieces, you just had to pour a concrete slab foundation and assemble it. Sears owned lumber mills so they made money starting with the trees all the way to the doorbell ringing. Not sure why they stopped. Hey, maybe we can buy a house.”
I was surprised Joe was listening to me. “Yeah we’ll just grab one on our way out. I’m kidding, no house, OK? God, you never shut up, where do you come up with this stuff? It’s rhetorical. Don’t answer it. Don’t talk. You can talk all you want on the way home.”
Richie returned. Joe and I came out of the tent. It was 2:30; we had time for a break. It felt like we were in some kind of union.
“I got fucking chips, fucking coke and a fucking Dr. Pepper!”
“Dr. Pepper? I asked for a root beer, you did this on purpose!”
I was angry. Dr. Pepper tasted like cough syrup.
Richie was physically provocative. He got very close, his face was inches away from mine then he started yelling.
“Don’t fucking like it then fucking go fucking get it your fucking self.”
He actually poked me in the chest and added, “I am fucking sick of your fucking bull-fucking-shit, fucking stuck up, fucking ass-fucking-hole.”
Out of some vague sense of obligation, more than any malicious intent, I punched Richie in the face. My fist slid off the side of his cheek, and knocked him into the oxygen tank, which dominoed into the acetylene tank. The tanks toppled over. The pressure regulator on the oxygen tank broke off, emitting a loud hiss. The oxygen was rendered as useless as the air we were breathing. No oxygen, no fire.
“You dipshits just cost us a hundred grand, over a soda,” Joe barked. He was angry.
I shut the tank. I was ashamed of my amateurish behavior. Joe and I looked at one another. I mumbled, “I’m sorry.” Joe’s disappointment in me doused any desire to continue fighting with Richie. Hitting him was blatantly unprofessional. My behavior jeopardized and possibly ruined what was up until then a perfect night. That thought disgusted me.
I lit a cigarette and watched the match die as it swallowed the cardboard stem and led itself to its smoky finale. I let the match burn my fingers, opened the Dr. Pepper, and took a swig. The three of us sat there. No one wanted to break the icy silence.
A solution struck me like lightning cracking a dark sky. “We’re in Sears. ‘This is where America shops.’ I know they don’t carry welding supplies, but they have everything else, grinders and drills. We’re almost through. We can cut through the rest, we’re inches away from finishing. We need a four and half inch grinder and seven-eighth’s grinding wheel, get two wheels, they can shatter, an extension cord, and clear plastic goggles, get two grinders, a hammer drill and several steel bits any high speed or cobalt, they’ll say 'for drilling through steel' on the package.”
My humiliating behavior and the challenge to finish the job created a perfect opportunity to vindicate myself as well as utilize everything I had learned up until that moment. Joe and Richie allowed me to tell them what to do. Joe’s quiet deference to me acknowledged that I had come into my own. He just nodded and we went to work. The clarity in how to proceed was now in charge.
It was 3:15 AM. This was the Super Bowl of scores; we had possession of the ball, no time outs left, with 90 minutes on the clock. We had to be precise. I drilled several holes in a square to create lips for the grinder blade to catch. The deeper the cut, the more secure the grinder blade became.
A rooster tail of sparks followed the grinder, leaving in its wake a canal that neatly separated the steel and concrete. I wondered aloud why we bothered with those cumbersome torches. I could hear sparrows chirping and the dark night cover began to give way to the day. It was 3:45 AM.
“We probably have an hour at most, should be enough time,” I said, while grinding through the safe door.
Joe sent Richie to keep an eye out downstairs, in case any early birds wanted to get a jump on the day. The hole was cut. I could now see the drive cam gate, as I turned the dial, the three wheel gates lined up and the fence fell in. The safe was now unlocked. I lifted the handle up before pushing it down to open the crypt of my salvation. Joe went to the pay phone down by the soda machines. He called Diane to tell her to meet us in ten minutes. We had to use pay phones and Diane had to be waiting by the phone booth that Joe had designated. You could call a pay phone the way you did a house phone.
I opened the door to the safe and looked inside.
Joe returned. “What are you doing? Fill the bag we have to go.”
I was speechless. I wanted to stay and wait for everyone to come to work and ask how they could do such a thing. I wanted to know who was responsible for such perverted foulness. I even wondered if there were grounds for a lawsuit.
Joe saw the source of my quiet. Inside the Mosler, the beautiful safe that we spent hours opening, laid another safe. “Did you try to open it?“
“Of course I did. There’s no time. It’s locked and I can’t budge it. There are no wheels. It’s too heavy to bring with us. We have to get out of here.”
Joe’s summation, “Obsessive motherfuckers! I never heard of some shit like this let alone see it.”
The change sat on top of the second safe, two thousand and four hundred dollars and eighty-seven cents. The cash was safely cradled inside the second safe. We took the torches and the change and went to meet Diane. No one said a word.
This happened over 40 years ago. Human beings inexplicably attach to loss much more powerfully than to gains. Failure is more imbedded in memory than success and often more useful. I remembered and learned more from Sears than any other job. It always felt like it happened yesterday.
I ran into Joe a couple of weeks later. I was out on bail for an arrest for possession of stolen property and possession of burglary tools unrelated to the Sears debacle. We talked and I told him I was ready to just take a plea and go to jail and get off the streets for a while. I felt like I was going to die if I kept using heroin. Joe gave me the name and phone number to someone he knew who worked at Daytop Village; it was some type of rehabilitation program. He explained that you go there, “clean up” and “go straight.” I didn’t think that was possible.
We hugged. I started crying and he rubbed my head kind of the way he did Richie’s in Sears. I realized he wouldn’t be coming with me and was sad.
I eventually called Daytop. I went into the rehab in September 1976 and stayed there for two years. Joe was a predicate felon that meant another arrest and a prison sentence was mandatory. He did get arrested. He had opened another safe and tripped an alarm on his way out. He was caught in the parking lot behind a department store in Elmsford, NY with over $125,000. Rehab wasn’t an option for him. He had to go to jail. I don’t know what happened to him after that. Once, I signed up for an Internet service to find people but I couldn’t locate him.
I learned a few things since then. Competency is acquired by hard work. Taking well-planned risks is reward in itself. Ability and courage are transferable. If you got good at one thing you could get good at other things and you could always be better. Most importantly we all need help and should help others. All worthwhile accomplishments are motivation distilled with commitment, dedication, and love.
I think about Joe every day. I wonder if in his wisdom he knew that we had to go our separate ways. He was like a parent that wanted his kids to have a better life than he had. I was so close to a point where I would not have been able to change direction, rescue myself, and become that square he teased me about. He didn’t want to share his doom with me. To me he was an angel. The pain of losing him cradled my happiness and has been a crucial part of everything I’ve accomplished since then.
Joe, Richie, and I were about to cut open a Mosler safe the size of a commercial refrigerator. The safe was in a second floor office at a Sears store in Peekskill, NY. The year was 1976, the time 12:30 AM, a sweltering Sunday in late August. The store opened at 8 AM. Enthusiastic employees often got to work early. We had until 5 AM to finish the job.
Richie had worked at Sears and told me about all the cash they kept in the safe. There was a work area where there were lifts to raise cars, change tires, and space for the technicians to put in new batteries that jolted old automobiles to life. The garage held a loading platform where merchandise could be put onto trucks. A side door no longer in use had been welded shut. I used a hydraulic jack the size of a shoebox that I had attached to a chain with hooks at two ends to easily pry open the door.
It always amazed me how powerful my little tool was, I was very proud of it. Steel cracks when it’s compressed, it strengthens when stretched. Father Martin’s high school physics class turned out to be helpful. He had emphasized that we had to apply theories practically: you’d remember them that way. The hydraulic force on the door split the welded seam easily. The door remained intact and looked secure after we entered. The outside of the entryway was covered with bushes and weeds and was adjacent to a wooded area. It wasn’t visible from the parking lot next to the garage. There was no alarm on the door and that side of the building wasn’t lit.
Once inside the garage we walked up a few stairs to the loading dock and through two double doors into the store. The alarms were on the entrances, exits, and garage doors to the loading dock. The security system was bypassed and we now felt protected by it. An alarm would have gone off if some nosy cop, enthusiastic employee, or villainous competition broke in.
The day before, Joe, Diane (Joe’s wife), and I went to Sears to check out the store's layout. The building was comprised of two stories built on a slope so the loading dock in the back of the building wasn’t visible from the street. The basement was next to the loading area and the offices were up a separate stairwell from the cellar. I bought Joe a battery for his car. While they installed the battery “free of charge” we checked out the area and discover the door where we entered.
The purchase was a token of my appreciation of the internship he had provided me over the last couple of years. Joe had helped me graduate to an advanced level of stealing. Before meeting him, I had learned some neat tricks, mostly from acquaintances and a magazine called Popular Mechanics but was ignorant about bypassing alarms and opening safes. I was also lonely and we became very close friends. In his unique way, Joe was protective and concerned about my future. He wanted me to succeed.
The safe was in an office with two desks. I was concerned about the sprinkler system in the ceiling. I put a small stepladder on a desk and covered the sprinkler heads with Liquid Nails. This kept the torch's heat and smoke from inadvertently setting off the sprayers. I had remembered this kid in high school who had a hobby of setting off sprinkler systems by burning paper towels he wrapped around a broomstick and holding the fire up to a sprinkler head. I had been a Boy Scout and our motto (once you’re a Boy Scout, you’re a scout for life!) was “be prepared.” Those lessons proved to be very helpful. Details were important; simple things like don’t turn any lights on or off, get a ride to and from the job, parked cars could easily be used to identify the owner, any of those oversights could decidedly ruin an evening.
Desperation made you careless which increased your chances of being arrested. It was unusual, probably near impossible to be patient while using heroin. That night in late August, I had my act together.
The bookkeeper had closed out the day’s receipts and had written the cash denominations neatly on a green ledger with red lines and boxes outlined in blue. It was easy to imagine the manager, probably two managers (to keep each other honest), counting the money then logging it with a Dixon Ticonderoga #2 pencil before locking it in the safe.
The total was $137,487.86; there was $2,400.87 in change. Richie told us that the money was picked up on Monday and Thursday by a Brinks Armored car. This was a lot of money to split three ways in 1976. My share, $45,829.29, would have been enough to start a new life. After this score, I would have achieved greatness and had a great story to tell my grandchildren one day. There was no doubt that I had to stop the drugs. This was my way out.
I had been using heroin daily for the past three years. I was 22 and it was ruining me. Initially, stealing was a way to get money for drugs. Early on I showed an aptitude for larceny and demonstrated potential as a bandit. Acquaintances noticed my creative enthusiasm towards illegal wizardry. The adrenalin surge generated when the threat of getting caught combined with the elation of getting away with a crime was by far my favorite drug. Eventually being a good thief had become the antidote to being a pathetic junkie.
The money on the other side of this metal door was essential to escape the misery I was shackled in. My plan was to buy a good car and head to Mexico for a few months (I had a group of friends in Mazatlan), stop the drugs, just drink and smoke some weed. Afterwards, I’d settle in California, go back to school. Education was free in California after you lived there a year, maybe I’d learn to surf. Heroin no longer made me high it only stopped me from feeling ill. I donated everything to it, money, dignity and self-respect. Finally, I’d have enough money to leave and clean up my act.
Joe was my muse and a collaborator with dedication that is rarely experienced. He was tough, handsome with jet-black silk-like hair and verbally eloquent. In addition to being a celebrated thief, he wrote poems. I remember one he wrote about twins so indistinguishable they couldn’t tell themselves apart. Joe was famous among thieves and infamous amidst the law abiding. The New York Times, NY Daily News, Time, and Newsweek magazines had covered his accomplishments. At that time, I couldn’t imagine life without him. I was honored to have been his apprentice. In sad reflection, I had become competent and confident working with him.
Ironically, it was Joe that gave me the simple advice and encouragement to get out of this miserable way of living. I survived it, he did not fair so well. In hindsight, Joe was consistently encouraging and suggesting that I could do anything. He was always clear that regardless how competent a thief was an inevitable part of the career path was prison. He often teased me that underneath it all he knew I was a square and would eventually become an upstanding citizen. I would promise to have him over for holidays if that ever happened.
I met Joe for the first time buying heroin in Harlem. He took an immediate liking to me and found me refreshingly sincere, humorous, and ambitious. Our relationship deepened when I came to him with a plan to burglarize a Saks Fifth Avenue store in White Plains, NY. He was impressed with the research I had done.
In 1976 blue laws were in effect which prohibited stores from being open on Sundays and holidays. We went in on a Saturday, took a lot of merchandise and then again on Sunday to open the safe. The store was closed on Sunday and Monday, the 4th of July. I kept an eye on the place to make sure our burglary from the previous night wasn’t detected. My cash share of the score was double my yearly salary. We also got over $500,000 in “fine” jewelry. I was appalled at Saks’ mark up on our treasure; we sold it to a reputable fence for a pittance of the retail value. After Saks, Joe and I worked together regularly.
Joe brought out the best in people. I was done with shameful cozening of milk money, stealing siblings’ bicycles, and promised myself to only commit dignified knaveries. I was a thief and wanted to be proud of it. I never wanted to hurt anyone. Joe, even though capable of it, thought violence was crass and lacked sophistication.
On the streets, there were numerous stories about Joe’s skill as a pugilist. He had once had a fight with a detective named Baker. Baker was a bully and was harassing Joe, constantly pulling him over in his car. Joe challenged him to a fight and if he won Baker had to back off; if Baker won, Joe would leave town. Baker foolishly agreed. Joe left Baker whining in pain sitting on the curb trying to catch his breath. Joe barely broke a sweat. He was rumored to have taken Baker’s gun and thrown it down the sewer. I never asked him about that. It was too good a story to be ruined by zealous fact checking.
Stealing from stores wouldn’t hurt anyone. Insurance covered the company’s losses. When the Saks job was reported in the paper the stolen loot was inflated by at least a hundred thousand dollars. I was appalled at the management’s exploitation of our hard work. Bob Dylan had penned, “to live outside the law you must be honest.” There was legitimacy to being a skilled burglar.
Most people built stature and self-confidence in sports, debating teams, or academic achievements. My character was developed on these late night felonious magic acts. Humiliation and remorse were exchanged for respectability and status.
I had started out stealing from my family, friends, and co-workers, and was ashamed of it. I worked hard developing techniques in breaking and entering stores. There was a romantic lineage to the legendary cat burglars that outsmarted alarms and locks. Finally, I was excelling at something and doing scores I was proud of. I had built a reputation as an inventive and trustworthy thief.
Essential to growth was access to someone you aspire to be like. Joe was one of my heroes. Our relationship and my dependency on him gave birth to my creative autonomy.
“Fuck! It’s has to be one fucking hundred and fucking forty fucking degrees in there.”
Richie was incapable of speaking without cursing. Unlike Joe, his use of language was limited to grunts of discomfort, he cursed in between syllables. Unprofessional would become un-fucking-professional. There was no refinement to his thought or expression. He had a rodent-like appearance and regardless of the weather, always wore a leather jacket with a denim vest, and an oversized black wallet void of cash that attached to his garrison belt by a fat chain that held up his blue jeans. He stomped around in black engineer boots. He dressed as if he was in a motorcycle gang. (Richie never owned a motorcycle).
He was holding open the flap of the tent that Joe and I had put around the safe to block any light that might escape from the torch we had ignited from the oxygen and acetylene tanks. Richie was annoyed it was taking so long.
Burglary was scary at times and it was disrespectful to not be afraid. Richie was not a thief. His fear had converted to irritability. He was cranky and his skills were as limited as his lexicon of communication. Other than the information about this job, he was useless.
When someone had courage we used to say they had “balls" or “heart.” I was known to have heart. Fear was poisonous to me. I couldn’t let it exist without confronting it. Trouble was I was afraid all the time and if I acted that way I was proving to myself that I was pathetic. The wrath of my own damnation and conviction of cowardice was more terrifying than any cop or foe I ever encountered. Fear gave me my balls.
“Do you have to curse so much? You’re too loud! You tired, you need a nap?” I enjoyed teasing Richie.
My comments provided him a more precise outlet for his annoyance. He responded with a verbal barrage directed at me. He was on a methadone maintenance program. No one remembered him ever using heroin. Maybe the methadone program was his way to belong to a community; we all needed to be a part of something. We lived in White Plains, NY. We all knew him but when we went home, no one was sure where he went.
Like the horse flies at the beach, Richie could subtly ruin your day.
Joe was growing impatient and turned off the gas. “Stop bickering you two. You’re right Richie, John shouldn’t talk to you like that. I’ll talk to him. Try to keep your voice down; go take a walk and cool off. Hey! Go get us some sodas. Get me a coke.”
“Get me a root beer.” I wanted to get the last word in.
Richie shouted at the air. Fucking this, fucking that, where was he supposed to find fucking soda. I wish he would just fucking leave.
Joe was gentle with him. “Richie, you worked here remember? The soda machines are right downstairs by the pay phones, try to relax, take your time, try on some jeans.”
Sears had their own brand of jeans called “Toughskins.” The children’s pants were guaranteed that a kid would grow out of them before they got damaged. If they did Sears would replace them free of charge. They made a trampoline out of the material to demonstrate how tough they were.
Richie walked off. We were making progress; it was a little after 1 AM.
Breaking in and leaving were the most precarious times. Once inside after quiet was reestablished, you felt like you owned the joint. When we robbed Saks, Joe asked me to get a bag to put the cash and jewelry in. When I got back, he asked what had taken me so long. I had tried on a suit, gotten a shirt and shoes, but was having trouble picking out a tie. He laughed when he saw the suitcase; it was so big. I went and got a practical leather gym-type bag. Adrenalin gave me a sense of invincible euphoria.
I adjusted the tanks, and one spark from the striker and the cutting gun was spitting fire. I tinkered with the gas until the white flame was the shape of a fine chandelier bulb.
As Joe took the torch, I said to him, “You’re really sweet sometimes. He really gets on my nerves, I’m glad he’s gone.”
Joe continued cutting the doors to the safe. He was able to talk while he worked. “You should be more patient. He did find out about this and told you about it. It wouldn’t hurt to show him some gratitude.”
I still had a lot to learn and didn’t understand the philosophy behind Joe’s perspective.
“We could of just thrown him a few dollars, without having him come and he would have been thrilled. He did tell me but he isn’t capable of doing something like this.”
Joe was standing now holding the lit touch; he raised the welding helmet. “John, to not include him wouldn’t have been right. He may be annoying. He has no skill set to help him feel useful. It’s safer to have him here. He’d be entitled to his third regardless if he were here or not. If something goes awry and he is responsible I can kill him with a clear conscience.” He slightly shrugged his shoulders, put the helmet down, and went back to cutting.
His comments congealed in the air. I had been around violence, had been robbed at gunpoint buying drugs in Harlem one night. My friend Charlie Williams was shot in the forearm after arguing with some “stick up kids” intent on taking our money. They subsequently got our cash and then gave us enough to get home. Charlie laughed while he withered in pain after I thanked them for giving us carfare. It was considerate.
The real tough guys never had to tell you they were tough, you just knew. Joe was one of those men. I never heard him raise his voice and he either answered truthfully or not at all. There were things I was better off not knowing. Joe trusted me and as long as I kept my mouth shut about what we did I had no reason to fear him.
He added with less conviction, “Plus who would we send to get the soda?”
Our tent was roomy enough for Joe to work and for me to stand and regulate the gas flow from the tanks if necessary. I had a tendency to talk when I got excited, this time I couldn’t shut up.
“Hey Joe, I bet it’s that DieHard battery that’s bringing in all this cash, that and their tires. Sears does make very good hand tools, Craftsman; they are as good as anything Stanley makes. It’s so close to Labor Day. Everyone is fixing stuff around their house. Did you notice the barbecues are on sale? Their electric tools are mediocre. They don’t hold up the way the DeWALTS or Mikita’s do. I think Black & Decker owns DeWALT now. You are going to love that battery.”
He responded as he was re-positioning himself. “Thank you, by the way.” He continued to cut through the steel doors.
I wasn’t sure if he was even listening to me; his presence was enough. That night was the culmination of our growing relationship. It was a crook’s debutante ball and my date Joe was the prom king. There was this sense of congruency where any fear or anxiety melds into your body and moments where the only thing that existed in the world was the immediate task, a moment of omnipotence. Cutting through this Mosler was one of those times. Our crew was mocking the legendary manufacturer known for the strongest safes in the world that were revered by security experts and thieves. There was no place on earth I’d have rather been.
I rambled on. “They did say a money back guarantee, not sure if this is what they meant. This Mosler must have been one of the original ones. How long has this Sears been here? The guy that started all these stores, his name was Sears. He worked for the railroad and got a shipment of gold watches by mistake. He might have stolen them? I guess you’d call that Karma. It was in the 1890’s. He gets these watches and sells them to all his railroad buddies and Sears was born. You have to admire entrepreneurial spirit like that. I wonder if they all have Moslers? This is a beautiful safe. Did you know Mosler had two safes in a bank in Hiroshima that survived the nuclear attack?”
“We haven’t opened it yet. What about Roebuck?” Joe asked as he realigned his body to move with the cut he was making in the door.
His question worked like an alarm clock. It was 2 AM. We were on schedule. I felt we had everything covered. I had found a fire extinguisher in the event our flame ignited the cash. I was about to learn that there is nothing more precarious than a sure thing.
I was puzzled.
“Who?”
“You know Sears and Roebuck. When did Roebuck come into it?”
“Joe, how should I know?”
“John, I’m messing with you.”
“Oh! Roebuck, right, very funny. “
Everyone referred to it as Sears. I wondered if that bothered Roebuck. I had taken cushions off a lawn chair (part of an end of the season sale display) to put under our knees as we knelt down to work. I thought this was a very good idea. Joe adjusted my cushion when he moved with the torch. We were cutting a square through the steel, removing the concrete behind the metal to create a window where we could watch the lock mechanism fall into place as we turned the dial.
We were drinking water to replenish ourselves. It was hot. We were sweating profusely and smelled of hard work.
“Hey Joe, I used to love it when I was a kid and the Sears Christmas catalogue would come, Sears and Roebuck. My brothers and I would run and make these lists, never got anything on the list but it didn’t seem to matter. Christmas was pretty cool, I was usually pretty happy. Did you know Sears used to sell houses?
“They were kits, called Sears Modern Homes. The houses came in pieces, you just had to pour a concrete slab foundation and assemble it. Sears owned lumber mills so they made money starting with the trees all the way to the doorbell ringing. Not sure why they stopped. Hey, maybe we can buy a house.”
I was surprised Joe was listening to me. “Yeah we’ll just grab one on our way out. I’m kidding, no house, OK? God, you never shut up, where do you come up with this stuff? It’s rhetorical. Don’t answer it. Don’t talk. You can talk all you want on the way home.”
Richie returned. Joe and I came out of the tent. It was 2:30; we had time for a break. It felt like we were in some kind of union.
“I got fucking chips, fucking coke and a fucking Dr. Pepper!”
“Dr. Pepper? I asked for a root beer, you did this on purpose!”
I was angry. Dr. Pepper tasted like cough syrup.
Richie was physically provocative. He got very close, his face was inches away from mine then he started yelling.
“Don’t fucking like it then fucking go fucking get it your fucking self.”
He actually poked me in the chest and added, “I am fucking sick of your fucking bull-fucking-shit, fucking stuck up, fucking ass-fucking-hole.”
Out of some vague sense of obligation, more than any malicious intent, I punched Richie in the face. My fist slid off the side of his cheek, and knocked him into the oxygen tank, which dominoed into the acetylene tank. The tanks toppled over. The pressure regulator on the oxygen tank broke off, emitting a loud hiss. The oxygen was rendered as useless as the air we were breathing. No oxygen, no fire.
“You dipshits just cost us a hundred grand, over a soda,” Joe barked. He was angry.
I shut the tank. I was ashamed of my amateurish behavior. Joe and I looked at one another. I mumbled, “I’m sorry.” Joe’s disappointment in me doused any desire to continue fighting with Richie. Hitting him was blatantly unprofessional. My behavior jeopardized and possibly ruined what was up until then a perfect night. That thought disgusted me.
I lit a cigarette and watched the match die as it swallowed the cardboard stem and led itself to its smoky finale. I let the match burn my fingers, opened the Dr. Pepper, and took a swig. The three of us sat there. No one wanted to break the icy silence.
A solution struck me like lightning cracking a dark sky. “We’re in Sears. ‘This is where America shops.’ I know they don’t carry welding supplies, but they have everything else, grinders and drills. We’re almost through. We can cut through the rest, we’re inches away from finishing. We need a four and half inch grinder and seven-eighth’s grinding wheel, get two wheels, they can shatter, an extension cord, and clear plastic goggles, get two grinders, a hammer drill and several steel bits any high speed or cobalt, they’ll say 'for drilling through steel' on the package.”
My humiliating behavior and the challenge to finish the job created a perfect opportunity to vindicate myself as well as utilize everything I had learned up until that moment. Joe and Richie allowed me to tell them what to do. Joe’s quiet deference to me acknowledged that I had come into my own. He just nodded and we went to work. The clarity in how to proceed was now in charge.
It was 3:15 AM. This was the Super Bowl of scores; we had possession of the ball, no time outs left, with 90 minutes on the clock. We had to be precise. I drilled several holes in a square to create lips for the grinder blade to catch. The deeper the cut, the more secure the grinder blade became.
A rooster tail of sparks followed the grinder, leaving in its wake a canal that neatly separated the steel and concrete. I wondered aloud why we bothered with those cumbersome torches. I could hear sparrows chirping and the dark night cover began to give way to the day. It was 3:45 AM.
“We probably have an hour at most, should be enough time,” I said, while grinding through the safe door.
Joe sent Richie to keep an eye out downstairs, in case any early birds wanted to get a jump on the day. The hole was cut. I could now see the drive cam gate, as I turned the dial, the three wheel gates lined up and the fence fell in. The safe was now unlocked. I lifted the handle up before pushing it down to open the crypt of my salvation. Joe went to the pay phone down by the soda machines. He called Diane to tell her to meet us in ten minutes. We had to use pay phones and Diane had to be waiting by the phone booth that Joe had designated. You could call a pay phone the way you did a house phone.
I opened the door to the safe and looked inside.
Joe returned. “What are you doing? Fill the bag we have to go.”
I was speechless. I wanted to stay and wait for everyone to come to work and ask how they could do such a thing. I wanted to know who was responsible for such perverted foulness. I even wondered if there were grounds for a lawsuit.
Joe saw the source of my quiet. Inside the Mosler, the beautiful safe that we spent hours opening, laid another safe. “Did you try to open it?“
“Of course I did. There’s no time. It’s locked and I can’t budge it. There are no wheels. It’s too heavy to bring with us. We have to get out of here.”
Joe’s summation, “Obsessive motherfuckers! I never heard of some shit like this let alone see it.”
The change sat on top of the second safe, two thousand and four hundred dollars and eighty-seven cents. The cash was safely cradled inside the second safe. We took the torches and the change and went to meet Diane. No one said a word.
This happened over 40 years ago. Human beings inexplicably attach to loss much more powerfully than to gains. Failure is more imbedded in memory than success and often more useful. I remembered and learned more from Sears than any other job. It always felt like it happened yesterday.
I ran into Joe a couple of weeks later. I was out on bail for an arrest for possession of stolen property and possession of burglary tools unrelated to the Sears debacle. We talked and I told him I was ready to just take a plea and go to jail and get off the streets for a while. I felt like I was going to die if I kept using heroin. Joe gave me the name and phone number to someone he knew who worked at Daytop Village; it was some type of rehabilitation program. He explained that you go there, “clean up” and “go straight.” I didn’t think that was possible.
We hugged. I started crying and he rubbed my head kind of the way he did Richie’s in Sears. I realized he wouldn’t be coming with me and was sad.
I eventually called Daytop. I went into the rehab in September 1976 and stayed there for two years. Joe was a predicate felon that meant another arrest and a prison sentence was mandatory. He did get arrested. He had opened another safe and tripped an alarm on his way out. He was caught in the parking lot behind a department store in Elmsford, NY with over $125,000. Rehab wasn’t an option for him. He had to go to jail. I don’t know what happened to him after that. Once, I signed up for an Internet service to find people but I couldn’t locate him.
I learned a few things since then. Competency is acquired by hard work. Taking well-planned risks is reward in itself. Ability and courage are transferable. If you got good at one thing you could get good at other things and you could always be better. Most importantly we all need help and should help others. All worthwhile accomplishments are motivation distilled with commitment, dedication, and love.
I think about Joe every day. I wonder if in his wisdom he knew that we had to go our separate ways. He was like a parent that wanted his kids to have a better life than he had. I was so close to a point where I would not have been able to change direction, rescue myself, and become that square he teased me about. He didn’t want to share his doom with me. To me he was an angel. The pain of losing him cradled my happiness and has been a crucial part of everything I’ve accomplished since then.
Copyright © March 2019 John Bliss
John Bliss lives with his wife Leslie in New York City. He is a psychoanalyst and clinical social worker that co-founded an outpatient licensed substance abuse clinic thirty years ago where he continues to work. He has focused on writing about personal experiences at the encouragement of his wife, daughters Jenna and Jillian, and musician friends, and now his writing buddies. The process of developing narratives in his therapy practice, playing saxophone, and writing, is exhilarating to him. Writing has a special appeal, he can do it anytime and it doesn’t wake up the neighbors the way the horn does.
