| the blog of human failure
Because jelly bean stand work was seasonal, Henry was forced to pack up his things and move out west from Ohio to California, where his sister owned a vineyard. He had contacted her the night before and she related that she had a job available in grape stomping with his name all over it. Excited to find work, Scolnick booked the first flight he could to California and rushed to the airport. Once there, he was rewarded with a two week wait. As soon as they can and as soon as I can, thought Scolnick. How different these concepts can be. Finally on board, Scolnick looked around nervously, as this was his first time he had ever been on an airplane. Everything had gone relatively smoothly so far as he knew, but he had a bad feeling about the flight. His bad feelings originated when he was about to board the plane and heard the pilot muttering to himself “I’ve got a bad feeling about this flight,” as he passed Scolnick, shuffling towards the cockpit.
Scolnick tried to calm himself and focused his eyes on the man sitting in the aisle seat next to him. He was a tall angular Anglo-looking man with a solid jawbone and a dark blue suit. Probably some Madison Avenue executive type thought Scolnick working himself up. I bet he’s never had to pay for sex before, and if he has, I bet he didn’t have to use rolls of quarters. The suited man looked up from his Newsweek and saw Scolnick staring, scanning his eyes up and down his body.
“Are you one of these homosexuals I’ve heard so much about?” the man asked Scolnick.
“Um ah, no,” said Scolnick, gathering his dignity. “The name is Scolnick. Henry Scolnick. Jelly Bean Counters Union 4604. I’m going out to California to squeeze my sister’s grapes.” Scolnick held out his hand for the suited man to shake. The man looked down at the outstretched hand and then looked back up to Henry’s face.
“Hey, that’s great Scolnick,” the man said. “Do me a favor and don’t talk to me for the rest of the flight?”
Scolnick moved his hand back to the armrest and slouched down into his middle seat, dejected. He had had trouble making friends his entire life. As a boy he spent countless hours alone on the playground dressed as an Indian hoping one of the neighborhood boys would take pity on him, dress up like a cowboy, and force him onto a reservation. After hours sitting in the sandbox alone he wiped the dot off his forehead, bunched up his sari and went home. On his way back to his house he was almost accidentally married off to a 38-year-old man named Kunal, but it fell through at the last second when Scolnick’s parents decided they had no place to put 14 sheep.
Henry Scolnick suffered from a pathological fear of ending his life unsatisfied. He would frequently be found lying exhausted on the ground, attempting to strangle himself with his neck tie after a particularly fulfilling bowel movement. A short, bespectacled, insignificant man, Scolnick would always feel it necessary to explain off his shortcomings. “Aren’t tall people bothersome at the movies?” he would suggest to random people walking down the street. Or, “glasses make me look quite sophisticated,” he would say to distracted school children and zoo animals. Or, “matter cannot occupy the same physical space as me at any given time according to Newton!” he would shout out of his apartment window four or five times each evening. Despite Scolnick’s insecurities he was able to secure himself a job at the “How Many Jelly Beans in the Jar?” stand at his local state fair. It was his job to procure the jelly beans, fill the jar- counting one by one- and take a dollar for every guess. “And how many jelly beans do you think there are little boy?” Scolnick said to a willing participant. “Five!” said the boy, elated. Shit, he’s right thought Scolnick. My heart’s just not in this anymore.
A great way to rob a bank would be to hold everyone inside hostage but then when the police come you set the bank on fire. When the firefighters come you walk out of the bank dresses as a firefighter but you have the money stuffed down your pants.
Five minutes before this though, four accomplices are walking out of banks they have discretely set on fire also dressed as firefighters but two have scented tissues stuffed down their pants and the other two have pants stuffed with venomous cobras. If and when they are stopped by the police exiting the bank, half of the arresting officers sticking their hands down the firefighters’ pants will be befuddled with handfuls of harmless tissues, while the other half will be killed instantly by the bite of a deadly cobra.
This way the police at the bank where you have actually stolen the money will know that there is at best a 50% chance that they shouldn’t put their hands down your pants. Like counting cards at blackjack, this isn’t a foolproof system that will work every time, but it will give you the competitive edge, which is all you can ask for in that sort of situation.
Though I shouldn’t have to mention it, those two firefighters should be wearing some dungarees under their fire pants so they don’t get bitten by cobras. Everyone else can wear pants underneath or not. It’s a matter of personal style. That’s how you make the robbery your own.
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