Book Freak 160: You Can't Win
The Autobiography of 19th Century Burglar Jack Black
William S. Burroughs’ introduction to this autobiography of 19th century hobo and career burglar Jack Black (1871–1932) begins:
I first read You Can’t Win in 1926, in an edition bound in red cardboard. Stultified and confined by middle-class St. Louis mores, I was fascinated by this glimpse of an underworld of seedy rooming-houses, pool parlors, cat houses and opium dens, of bull pens and cat burglars and hobo jungles.
I share Burroughs’ fascination with Jack Black’s You Can’t Win and have read it twice.
Black’s insider’s account of the criminal underworld reveals the mindset, codes of conduct, and daily struggles of a seasoned burglar. Even though the book was published 100 years ago, the writing is accessible and an inspiration to me on how to write clearly.
Apart from the beautiful writing style, here are four lessons I took away from You Can’t Win:
Failures of Harsh Punishment: Black's experiences with brutal prison conditions, beatings, and straitjacket punishment show how cruel, dehumanizing tactics often lead to more resentment and violence instead of reform.
Power of Empathy and Compassion: A judge who showed leniency and gave Black a chance to turn his life around, as well as friends who supported his transition, show how a little trust and kindness can make a big difference in changing a criminal's life.
Complexity of the Criminal Mindset: Black's account reveals how criminals are not always just "bad people," but often products of their environment and circumstances. Poverty and lack of opportunities shape their perspective and actions.
Flaws and Inequities of the Legal System: Black's experiences show how complicated, inconsistently enforced laws, along with corruption among law enforcement and the courts, foster contempt for the justice system, leading some to view the "underworld code" as a more legitimate moral framework.
Excerpts:
And last of all I hunted up old Beverly Shannon, the bad man. He was a hook nosed old man with hard eyes and a long chin whisker dripping tobacco juice. He had worn the Northern blue, and drew a small pension for a "bad leg." Times when he was half drunk, limping around town in search of more drinks, some one would say: "Look out, 'Bev.' You're limpin' on the wrong leg." This always brought a string of eloquent curses from him, and a warning that they had "better be keerful. I hain't stopped killin' jest 'cause Abe Lincoln says the war's over."
***
My cell was furnished with an iron bed, a small table, a bookshelf, a three-legged wooden stool, and a galvanized iron bucket. On the bed, folded, were a heavy, clean pair of blankets and two sheets. On top of the folded blankets was a straw pillow in a clean slip. Later on a trusty brought me a gallon bucket of water, a tin cup, a small wooden vessel to wash in, and a clean towel. Every movable article in the cell had my prison number on it, and I kept them till the day of my discharge. On the wall was a card of "Rules and Regulations for the Guidance of Prisoners." My first act was to read the rules. This was prompted by curiosity to learn just what I was up against, rather than a desire to learn and obey.
I sat on my stool and tried to read, but my mind was on the morning. Every hour of the long night I woke up with the sting of the lash on my back.
***
"No wonder," you think, "they hang men in some parts of the world for this kind of burglary-going into a man's sleeping room with a gun and taking his property from under his head while he sleeps. No wonder your hair is graying above your ears, and wrinkles showing up in your forehead."
You make up your mind to quit this racket—it's too tough —but your hand goes further under the pillow. Careful as you are, the slight movement beneath his head seems to disturb this catlike sleeper. His breathing catches, halts, and no longer reaches your ear. You become petrified, your mind on the gun beside you. With a jerky movement he turns over, and you wait till he goes sound asleep again.
His back is to you now, and his head on the farther end of his pillow. This makes it easier. You explore and explore, but feel nothing. Slowly you withdraw your arm. You must look farther; in his shoes, his hat, the dresser drawers, the clothes closet, and, that failing, you will put the gun on him, wake him, and make him dig it up. You have been there almost two hours. It will soon be dawn; you must hurry. You search everywhere, but no bankroll. You go around the bed and your arm is quickly thrust under the other pillow in the last hope of finding it. It's not there; no use looking farther. You decide to wake him and demand it.
Having made up your mind to stick him up, you must now transform yourself from the silent, stealthy prowler into the rough, confident, dominating stick-up man. You walk around to the back of the bed and stop to plan your new move. Now you have it all straight in your mind. You will go to the side of his bed where you first started in on him. That puts you between him and the door and leaves him no chance to get out into the hall. You will touch him gently on the shoulder. He will wake up in alarm.
"Eh, what? What is it? Who is it? Turn on the light."
Then you will say to him in a firm, kindly tone: "Listen to me and don't get excited." You will put the cold muzzle of the gun against his neck and now your voice will be cold, hard, threatening. "Do you feel that? That's a gun. If you move I'll let it go. You just keep cool and don't get yourself killed over a few lousy dollars. I want that bankroll of yours; I know it's here. Tell me where it is and make it easy on yourself- and be quick about it."
Black wrote You Can’t Win in his 50s, while working as the librarian for the San Francisco Call newspaper. The book was a tremendous success. Black disappeared in 1932 at the age of 61 and was never seen again.
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This was engrossing and insightful. Wow.
Fascinating, I need to read this! It gives me a similar vibe as a book I read about Titanic Thompson, the infamous hustler.