The Bank Caper

The question wasn't "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" Instead he asked "Are you a chicken or are you gonna throw that egg?"

The story you are about to read is true. Some of names and minor details have been changed to protect the guilty. We all did get busted but it’s just the idea of it, okay? I’ll never tell, unless, of course, someone offers me money to do it.

It was the early fall of 1975 and I was ten years old. The Pittsburgh Steelers had won their first Super Bowl earlier that year, in January, and were sure to be contenders again. It was a big deal in Western Pennsylvania, Yinzer Country. Out there in Little Rughead’s front yard we were all superstar players too, during that game of pick-up football. At least in our little fantasy worlds.

Our version of football looked nothing like real football. It was just a gang of eight, nine, ten year old kids with a football. Unless you got to be the quarterback, you were either a wide receiver or a defensive back. No one could chase the quarterback until after loudly counting 5 Mississippi… One Mississippi... Two Mississippi… Three Mississippi…

Across the street from Little Rughead's yard was an undeveloped field. We couldn’t play over there because of the waist-high grass and weeds. That field never got mowed. The only thing over there was a bank, Merchants Bank, which sat directly across the street from Little Rughead's house.

It wasn’t much of a bank, having been built by a mobile home builder in an attempt at the 1960’s version of modular construction. They just converted a mobile home shell into a bank, paved a parking lot and towed the unit in. After adding in some concrete steps, a drive-up window, and a little landscaping… presto!... instant bank. Some of the older teenagers had fantasies about robbing it by just towing the whole thing away. Yeah, good luck with that!

Now, on one of the many touchdown plays that I’m sure won a championship somewhere, the defender slipped to the ground after stepping on a rotten apple that had fallen from the sorry excuse of an apple tree nearby. He picked up that apple and flung it across the street and we all watched as it bounced along through the bank's parking lot. Not to be outdone, the touchdown scorer picked up his own rotten apple and threw it just a little harder and farther in a display of one-upmanship. His apple bounced across the parking lot and thumped into the side of the bank.

Thus, a bad idea was born.

“Too bad we didn’t have some eggs!” came a voice from somewhere in our midst. Alright, it was me.

“Wait! I’ll go in and get some!” was Little Rughead's response.

Little Rughead went into the house and returned with his mother's freshly bought, complete dozen of eggs. All nine of us took one, one by one, and lined up along the edge of the yard. Then the bombardment began with many Oohs and Awes. A few hesitant participants were chastised and prodded.

“Are you a chicken or are you gonna throw that egg?"

How could any self-respecting 10 year old not accept a dare like that? Of course, we all launched our eggs. Splat… Splat… Splat… We stood there with pride marveling at our dastardly deed. Then we all seemingly turned in unison to find Little Rughead’s older brother, the real Rughead, standing there directly behind us. He had watched the whole thing.

Much to our startled relief he said “Don’t worry guys, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Our pick-up game of football resumed for a bit, with the elder Rughead playing Quarterback. Eventually we all dispersed and went our separate ways.

Now, you need to understand that Little Rughead and his older brother, Rughead, were separated by two grades in school. When the elder Rughead was the leader of the 5th grade playground gang, the younger Rughead had to form and lead his own 3rd grade playground gang just to stay competitive. The two brothers had a very real rivalry and often fought. I was in 4th grade at the time and was accepted in either gang.

The elder Rughead was like a blond-haired version of the neighborhood Fonz. He was cool. He was tough. He was the athlete. All the boys wanted to be like him and all the girls wanted to date him. Everyone looked up to him, everyone except Little Rughead who was intensely jealous.

Little Rughead even earned his nickname because of the elder Rughead. He hated that but anyone who was prepared for a fight called him that. Everyone except my grandmother, who called him Goldilocks due to his long, curly blond hair. He hated that, too.

Later that evening Little Rughead and the elder Rughead got into a fight. Little Rughead accused the elder of a deed he didn’t do just to get him in trouble with his mother. This prompted the elder Rughead to respond with his own accusation. The conversation apparently went like this:

Elder Rughhead: “I didn’t do that! He’s lying. What about him and his buddies throw eggs at the bank?”

Mother Rughead: “What?!? You’d better not be lying to me or you’re really going to get it this time, mister!”

She stormed into the kitchen and opened the ‘frig to inspect her eggs. Almost all of them were gone! With a full head of stream, she then headed across the street to inspect the bank.

Shortly thereafter, our parents all got a phone call from the local Chief of Police. We were all ordered to arrive at the bank one-hour before school started the next morning. Mops, sponges, buckets, ladders and soapy water would be provided. We were going to scrub the bank. The elder Rughead had ratted us all out.

I remember riding up on my bicycle, it was a sight to see. The whole gang was there with their parents; the Chief of Police was there with his marked cop car; amused bank employees arriving for work were milling around; and a green garden hose was stretched across the street from Little Rughead’s house. I’m surprised the local newspaper wasn't invited to snap a few photos. (I was raised by my grandmother, who was excused from attendance due to age. I arrived alone).

We scrubbed that entire bank down under stern parental supervision and then headed off walking to school. Lesson learned. (“Don’t trust Big Rughead. He’ll rat you out.”) That was the end of it. That's the way things were handled back in the day. No arrests, permanent records or anything like that. Just a mop and a bucket of soapy water.

Little Rughead’s house is now gone, replaced by a dentist’s office. The bank is gone too, towed away by some thieves in the night, and replaced by a real bank built on the vacant lot next to it. We still talk about it from time to time. One of the egg-throwers even ended up becoming a State Police Trooper, so we didn't all turn out to be rotten eggs, after all.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it. Splat... Splat... Splat...