#27: Kenny & Dave's Excellent Bank Job #2.

Click to read Bank Job #1.

Kenny and my second bank job had a little more urgency than the first because he had to return the money he’d fished out of the collection jar at the Catholic Church, where he goes at all hours to worship at the feet of his celestial crush—the Virgin Mary. 

He was just borrowing the money, he explained to the priest who was watching this fishing expedition, and, not to worry, because he was going to give $1000 to the soup kitchen across the street.

It was time for us to do another bank job.

A few days later, he knocked on my door at 8:30 and, when I let him in, announced he was a half hour early (something I was aware of) but since he could see I was working (something I was also aware of) he’d be quiet (something I doubted). 

After making and breaking his promise to be quiet a half dozen times, he decided to make himself a cup of coffee. I immediately decided to make it for him instead, because I was pretty sure that if I let him into the kitchen he’d decide, instead, to make us a multi-ingredient omelet (he’s a good cook), using up all the pots and pans and spatulas and whisks in the kitchen and significantly delaying our departure. (I, unlike him, had to get back by a certain time, or at least before dark.)

When I brought his coffee back, he took one sip, closed his eyes, and said that he would now meditate quietly. For Kenny, this involves muttering words in guttural sing-song Tibetan—which he knows since he studied in college with one of the most well-known Buddhist scholars in the West—someone whom he now considers a total fraud. After college, he did do some serious time with true Tibetan Buddhist teachers, including the Dalai Lama himself, while working as a pot-smoking Buddhist house painter. Eventually, he owned his own painting business, of which he was frequently the sole employee.

As in our previous trip, on the way over, Kenny regaled me with his usual mishmash of social and political commentary, spiritual and psychiatric insights, and personal anecdotes featuring random lewd language which he insists embarrasses me.

He also frequently told me to speak up more loudly—when I tried to get a word in edgewise—because both his hearing and cognitive abilities were severely damaged when a dealer/sexual predator he turned in sent three people to kill him. 

I’ve heard multiple versions of this story—including one in which he uses a long stick to dissuade three assailants (I picture one of Robin Hood’s men wielding a club.) Unfortunately, a day or two later, Kenny was approached by a guy whose intent he didn’t recognize (because he neglected to look in his eyes.) When they started to exchange fist bumps, the other’s fist kept going, which ended up with Kenny getting slugged twice on the side of the head hard enough to cause a concussion and then, after falling to the ground, being kicked for what was, or at least felt to him like, a half hour. In addition to doing a number on his hearing, it made mincemeat of his short-term memory, and added a few more DSM numbers to his diagnosis. [Frankly, he’s still a lot smarter and saner than most people I know.]

While psychologically challenging, the ride was visually transcendent. It had snowed a few days before and a coating of snow had crystallized on the trees. It was a fairy-tale-like scenery that was a perfect accompaniment to Kenny’s stories.

We got to the bank quicker this time because he decided not to take us on a series of alleged shortcuts which involved driving by his former girlfriend’s house whose name he frequently took in vain while insisting that we shouldn’t, under any circumstances, utter her name.   

Getting Kenny’s money out of the bank was disappointingly easier than our first trip because, instead of having to wait for a private audience with Mr. Bank Executive, he walked right up to a young teller with an incongruous handlebar mustache who barely batted an eye before starting to count out hundred dollar bills. I wanted to take a picture of Kenny at the teller window. But, of course, you can’t take pictures in a bank, lest you be casing the joint. Which we were in our own way, but for literary instead of illegal reasons. 

When we got to the car, Kenny offered to give me one of the hundred dollar bills, but I told him to give me five since we were both going to be giving the money away and I trusted my judgment better than his. 

We went to lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner which, he promised me, had fabulous soup. It was indeed the kind of diner that doesn’t exist anymore. Just one long aisle with small booths on the left and stools on the right. They were, of course, out of soup. 

He wanted a hamburger with all the fixings and onion rings. Since I wasn't hungry, I just had an amazingly thick vanilla milkshake. Kenny paid. 

Back on the road, we made a quick stop at a vape shop, so Kenny could load up on pot paraphernalia. Passing his favorite gun shop he rattled off the specifications of all the guns that he had allegedly owned, wanted to own, or, well, existed. Fortunately, it didn’t sound like he had used any in the commission of a felony.

 A few miles further along, we reached his real destination: a well-stocked Goodwill store. There, he proceeded to spend about two hundred and fifty dollars on an assortment of items random enough to stock, well, a Goodwill store. As he unloaded them at the checkout he proudly told me what they cost and their real value at a flea market. (My short-term memory isn’t good enough to remember the exact amounts but this will give you the idea.) 

• Collection of drill bits. Cost $5. Value $30.

• A little pewter sugar pot and matching creamer. Cost $5. Value $25

• Electric upholstery staple gun. Cost $10. Value $35. 

• Two plastic dinosaur puppets, one of which could chomp its teeth in a way only a child or Howdy Doody could truly appreciate. These, he was going to put in a shipment of toys going to Haiti.  Cost: Frankly, I can’t remember. Value: Priceless.

He also bought several things he desperately needed including: 

• Two loose Hawaiin-type shirts for his forthcoming local radio show and stints as a party DJ. 

• Two pairs of long underwear that would have cost ten times as much at L.L. Bean, he assured me.

• A CD player that cost virtually nothing, although the cashier sadly told him there was no guarantee it worked. 

But his real find was an Ecuadorian stone mortar and pestle that he explained was traditionally used to grind seeds of the Cojóbana tree for the sacred Cohoba ceremony. He proceeded to describe this ayahuasca-type ritual in anthropological, pharmacological, and psychotropic detail along with a Kerouac-worthy story that lasted a good half hour and included dissertations on channelers, power objects, firekeepers, balls of light, Mayan temples, evil fairies, stone arch bridges, and, most importantly, a 1000-year-old artifact that he bought for $2000 and was worth $8000 at Christie’s. All related in some way to his former girlfriend, a.k.a. she who shall not be named.

Over the next couple of days, he bought himself a few things he needed badly, including a new pair of boots, a cell phone, and a beautiful new knife. But he also gave a lot of money away, in his role as a street minister. Since Kenny’s more than aware that just about everyone on the street lies, he doesn’t spend a whole lot of time worrying how it’s spent, although he was remorseful about the $100 he gave to a friend, which he feared had tempted the guy to use it to buy fentanyl after months of sobriety. 

I keep forgetting to ask him if he paid back the church. I hope so because later in the week he borrowed back $150 and told me we needed to make another trip to the bank really soon.  

While Kenny doesn’t need money, most of my other friends on the street do. Because, while there are many social safety nets, people still fall through them. That’s what most of these stories are about. So I (and they) thank you for paying for subscriptions (which is totally voluntary). I’m not sure how long I’ll keep making this the focus of my Substack, but rest assured the money goes right out to the street. And, you can cancel anytime.