Slice-o-Life: The Good, The Bad and the Ugly

Slice-o-Life: The Good, The Bad and the Ugly
by Mike Madias, Clinical Sociologist and Columnist

September 17, 2002

Columnist Mike Madias "They were young, in love, and they robbed banks."

- movie promotion for "Bonnie and Clyde"

I am most honest when I admit that I do not know what is right and what is wrong. I am most successful as a writer when I can infect a reader with moral uncertainty.

Recently I was hospitalized for a leg and back injury. I am recovering well. But I am still a bit unsteady on my feet. I have also been afraid of falling.

On one morning this week I went to my neighborhood bank to deposit some money. I was extra cautious as I entered the bank. I walked slowly, steadying myself with my cane.

There was one person in line for service ahead of me. He was about 35 years old, dressed in a T-shirt, jacket and brown slacks. He was an African American male, had a medium complexion, no glasses, no scars or identifying marks. He did not speak with any accent or unusual dialect.

He looked at me with some concern and asked if I was alright, did I need some help. He offered me his place in line and asked if I wanted to go ahead of him. He was a real gentleman.

"No, it’s alright," I said. "You can go on ahead. See? There’s a teller free over there. Go ahead, I will be fine." The gentleman went and did his business. Ordinarily the story would have ended there.

I did not have a long wait before another bank teller looked like she might have been free for me too. And so I went to her station and started my transaction.

While I was filling out the deposit slip, the first guy-the one who showed such concern for my well being, the gentleman-well, this guy held up the teller. Yes, the gentleman robbed the bank, and he escaped with the loot.

It was all so swift, all so quiet, that none of the eight customers knew that anything unusual had happened until the bank manager stepped out and said, "I am sorry but you must all stay here until you can be interrogated by the Detroit Police Department and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This bank has just been robbed."

In the same way that the alleged bank robber had been a gentleman (remember all the people in this story are innocent until convicted in a court of law), the bank manager was considerate and well mannered. She such a good hostess that she brought out light refreshments: coffee; lemonade; cookies and hard peppermint candies individually wrapped in festive colored paper.

Within a matter of what seemed like seconds, two Detroit Police officers were at the bank branch. They started wrapping the place with yellow tape so that there was no question in any of our minds. We were now in an official crime scene. Two other police cruisers pulled into the parking lot. The door was opened so four more officers - one of them a police Sergeant -could enter and support the two that were already there.

Perhaps they saw me, a real big man, in my middle fifties, dressed in a navy blue T-shirt and green slacks-a Caucasian Mediterranean type with a swarthy complexion, glasses, scars, a white beard in need of a trim, carrying a heavy cane (Bring on the sword sniffing clowns!). The authorities might have profiled me as a pretty tough and hard boiled kind of guy. For the sake of their safety and the safety of the other customers, they called back to the precinct for back up.

The police were well mannered, soft spoken and apologized to all us for the inconvenience on this beautiful late summer’s day. And in a few minutes, four FBI agents came in to question us. The FBI agents were efficient, friendly, and made us feel at ease.

Within fifteen minutes of the caper, the small bank branch had six staff behind bullet proof glass, six Detroit police (one of them a Sergeant), four FBI agents, seven innocent civilians and me, a journalist quickly taking notes for this story. The only person missing from this official crime scene was the well mannered bank robber.

I was impressed by the police and the FBI and I appreciated the fact that they had taken the time from the war on terrorism to detain and interrogate bank customers like us. What a country!

It occurred to me that this was not what I expected from the experience of being witness to a bank robbery. No one threatened me or ordered me and the other customers to lie face down on the floor (which was fortunate, because I would have had one hell of a hard time getting up). No criminals held me hostage. In fact, if I was detained against my will it was by the friendly cops and the FBI. This was not my father’s dog day afternoon.

I thought of one of my old friends, a 'Nam vet who happens to be one of the best poets in the city of Detroit. This sensitive and sometimes drunk and disorderly kind of guy is now doing time in federal prison for having robbed a bank.

Just before he was sent to the "big house", his lines were published in a major poetry anthology from the Wayne State University Press. He was supposed to read at the public library for the book introduction party, but he could not be there, because he was in federal prison at the time. I read his poetry to the audience.

Back in my days as a minister, I took confession from a farm veterinarian. This guy told me that between the times when he delivered newborn cows and healed chickens, he would get into his car, drive across the state line and rob banks. He did this form of tax-sheltered income enhancement for a number of years. I guess rural veterinary medicine does not pay that well. But, it was not just the money that motivated him. This guy just loved to rob banks.

When the G-men finally caught up to him, and the courts sent him to federal prison, he became the resident health care professional in his particular penitentiary. He told me how he had saved lives of prisoners. He told me that once he removed a guard’s ruptured appendix. What he never said was that he regretted robbing banks.

Also he had kind words about the FBI. He did not like the warden or the screws all that much. But the G-men were just doing their jobs.

What is the moral here? Hell if I know. Then, what is the point of telling this story?

When someone breaks the law, then they risk going to jail. If I were to rob a bank myself, or even just boost a pack of baseball cards from a Farmer Jack; I too would be taking that risk - that thrilling risk.

I am still friends with the poet in prison. I still admire the veterinarian who like to play at being Pretty Boy Floyd. I liked today’s bank robber, the bank manager, the local cops and the agents from the FBI.

I have no particular sympathy for the bank robbers. Bank robbers are criminals who should be caught and sent to prison. I feel no animosity to the representatives of the law; in fact I was grateful for the quick response of the Detroit Police, the efficiency of the FBI. And I appreciated their efforts to make us comfortable while we waited to be questioned. I like cookies and lemonade. It was getting to be lunch time, and so I ate and drank my share of the light refreshments.

I trust due process of law, and consider it a suitable proxy for actual justice. I believe that evidence and logical deduction are reasonable substitutes for the truth.

It is my opinion that the rule of law is a lousy way to do business; because bad folks go free and poets go to jail. But, I don’t have a better idea. As long as I recognize that due process is not justice, and evidence is not truth; I will remain troubled but at least . . . I will what? Be even more troubled, I guess.

I try to get my readers troubled as well. Perhaps I can get them to tolerate the good, the bad and the ugly, especially when they coexist in one location. I want them to move carefully, deliberately and uncomfortably into the ethical void, always ready to beat a hasty retreat.

Jack Kerouac, once read a manuscript by William Burroughs; about things good, bad and ugly. Kerouac called it the "Naked Lunch." This is because it contained the unvarnished truth, and because we all have to eat it.

But, if we are lucky, sometimes the naked lunch is served with lemonade and cookies.

Shalom,

Mike ***

"And goodnight Mr. Barrow, wherever you are."

Photo of Mike Madias courtesy of the author

A clinical sociologist living in the Metropolitan Detroit area, Mike's work has appeared in The Detroit News. He may be reached by e-mail at DetroitHardball@aol.com.