In late 1968, my plan was to teach English literature and writing to convicted murderers, sexual attackers of either women or barnyard animals, bank robbers, holdup artists, car thieves, child molesters, window peepers, bad check writers, burglars, and second-story men among other law breaking felons at the Wisconsin State Prison in Waupun until I’d quit the job and start Ph.D. studies at the University of Wisconsin in Madison in September, 1969.
As I wrote the words, "second-story men," the fellow who popped into mind was an inmate barber, one of three, who plied their trade in the correctional officers’ barber shop, his name, Gary Pontow. One of many perks back then for male staff was a nearly free of charge haircut.
A likeable, soft spoken, tall and large fellow, Gary cut and shaped hair exactly the way each staff member wanted it clipped and fashioned. I’d never met such a skillful barber in all my days, except for the barber of my youth, Earl Young who owned the one-chair Tip Top Barber Shop on Baker Street in Wisconsin Rapids.
Constantly chattering in a pleasant voice while restructuring prison staff’s hair into the way they wanted it to look, Gary was definitely an intelligent, interesting talker.
In time, he told me as I sat in his chair that he was a highly skilled criminal in his chosen craft.
"What’s that?" I asked.
"Cat burglar."
Naturally, I laughed. This muscular big guy wasn’t sentenced to prison for second story burglaries. He and some other fellows took part in a botched high-dollar holdup at an air show near Milwaukee. That’s what put him in prison.
"A big guy like you—a second story man? I don’t believe you."
"Believe whatever you want," he replied.
"Why a cat burglar? Why not just a burglar?"
"Because people don’t lock second story windows but they do lock ground floor windows most of the time." Interesting observation that.
I thought about what he next told me. Seen in the proper light—or lack thereof—Gary could be a threatening, menacing figure in the darkness of somebody else’s bedroom.
Fully focused in his criminal line of work, he told me he searched society sections of either the afternoon Milwaukee Journal or morning Milwaukee Sentinel. Attending high society functions, rich folks gladly posed for a newspaper photographer’s camera and had no problems with giving the photographer their names.
Gary used mostly suburban phone books in order to find where the smiling, rich folks lived. After that, he’d methodically case their homes a number of times both during daylight and evening hours, writing notes to himself about this and that. He then made detailed written plans of approach and entry for each and every home burglary.
After the couples attended yet another social function of some type and returned to their residence, appearing to be inebriated or nearly so, Gary was ready for them.
"I’d wait in my car a few blocks away until all the lights went out. That’s when I checked my watch. After that, I’d wait for an additional hour."
"Why?"
"Because they’d most likely be sound asleep by then. The last light to be turned off was usually the bedroom light. If a nearby home still had its lights still on, I’d forget about it and go home, but with everything pointing to ‘Go,’ I’d get out of the car and get an extension ladder I found while casing their place. Ladders are usually inside their multi-car garages or in back of it. I already had put on my surgical rubber gloves."
"Why?"
"Fingerprints."
"What if they didn’t have a ladder?"
"Rich people usually own ladders for their hired help to use," he explained.
He made his entry into the house through a second-story window, or in the summer he simply passed through the space of the opened French doors of a second story balcony, adjacent to the bedroom where the husband and wife slept.
Just standing there inside that bedroom and waiting, Gary controlled his breathing and gave his eyes time in order to get used to the darkness. Then he tiptoed to the end of the couple’s bed and very, very, very slowly lifted the foot end of the bed to a height of about three, three and a half, feet.
A second later, he let go. Down the bed went. As it crashed to the floor, the couple normally screamed. At once, Gary directed his flashlight’s bright light to each person’s eyes and then placed the light under his chin.
"Be quiet," he warned them. "Stay where you are and do what I tell you, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand?"
They understood all right. Then, he asked where they kept the cash. Without hesitation, they told Gary everything he wanted to know.
Gary told me wall or floor safes were nearly always located in master bedrooms or master bedroom closets. He found most already opened. If not, either the man or woman, or both, hurriedly gave Gary the combination numbers that would allow him to open the safe and remove all of its contents.
After he asked for a pillow, each hurriedly, nervously pushed her or his pillow at him. "Take mine," they urged.
Accepting one, he separated the pillow case from the pillow and handed the pillow back to its owner. In an instant, Gary emptied the safe’s contents into the pillow case so that he could later at his home figure out their value.
Additionally, he took the man’s wallet, wristwatch, and ring, all of the lady’s jewelry, including the diamond on her left ring finger, and any other small item of value he could fit in that pillow case. "I’d fence most of what I found for about an eighth of its value, but I made a good living. I wasn’t rich by any means but I lived well. When I get out of here, that’s what I’m going to return to. No more will I pull bullshit robberies with other people who get me put in prison."
"Why don’t you go straight?"
Gary grinned. "You gotta be kidding."
After Gary did his time for the air show holdup and was released from incarceration, I never heard about him or from him ever again, but I’ll never forget the two hundred fifty pound, over six foot tall, cat burglar who lifted one end of the bed on which folks slept and let it fall, fully waking and scaring the hell out of them.
His standing at the end of the bed, confronting their eyes with a bright light, nearly blinding them, had to be far more frightening than any nightmare they could have been dreaming moments before they were so rudely awakened and robbed.
As I wrote the words, "second-story men," the fellow who popped into mind was an inmate barber, one of three, who plied their trade in the correctional officers’ barber shop, his name, Gary Pontow. One of many perks back then for male staff was a nearly free of charge haircut.
A likeable, soft spoken, tall and large fellow, Gary cut and shaped hair exactly the way each staff member wanted it clipped and fashioned. I’d never met such a skillful barber in all my days, except for the barber of my youth, Earl Young who owned the one-chair Tip Top Barber Shop on Baker Street in Wisconsin Rapids.
Constantly chattering in a pleasant voice while restructuring prison staff’s hair into the way they wanted it to look, Gary was definitely an intelligent, interesting talker.
In time, he told me as I sat in his chair that he was a highly skilled criminal in his chosen craft.
"What’s that?" I asked.
"Cat burglar."
Naturally, I laughed. This muscular big guy wasn’t sentenced to prison for second story burglaries. He and some other fellows took part in a botched high-dollar holdup at an air show near Milwaukee. That’s what put him in prison.
"A big guy like you—a second story man? I don’t believe you."
"Believe whatever you want," he replied.
"Why a cat burglar? Why not just a burglar?"
"Because people don’t lock second story windows but they do lock ground floor windows most of the time." Interesting observation that.
I thought about what he next told me. Seen in the proper light—or lack thereof—Gary could be a threatening, menacing figure in the darkness of somebody else’s bedroom.
Fully focused in his criminal line of work, he told me he searched society sections of either the afternoon Milwaukee Journal or morning Milwaukee Sentinel. Attending high society functions, rich folks gladly posed for a newspaper photographer’s camera and had no problems with giving the photographer their names.
Gary used mostly suburban phone books in order to find where the smiling, rich folks lived. After that, he’d methodically case their homes a number of times both during daylight and evening hours, writing notes to himself about this and that. He then made detailed written plans of approach and entry for each and every home burglary.
After the couples attended yet another social function of some type and returned to their residence, appearing to be inebriated or nearly so, Gary was ready for them.
"I’d wait in my car a few blocks away until all the lights went out. That’s when I checked my watch. After that, I’d wait for an additional hour."
"Why?"
"Because they’d most likely be sound asleep by then. The last light to be turned off was usually the bedroom light. If a nearby home still had its lights still on, I’d forget about it and go home, but with everything pointing to ‘Go,’ I’d get out of the car and get an extension ladder I found while casing their place. Ladders are usually inside their multi-car garages or in back of it. I already had put on my surgical rubber gloves."
"Why?"
"Fingerprints."
"What if they didn’t have a ladder?"
"Rich people usually own ladders for their hired help to use," he explained.
He made his entry into the house through a second-story window, or in the summer he simply passed through the space of the opened French doors of a second story balcony, adjacent to the bedroom where the husband and wife slept.
Just standing there inside that bedroom and waiting, Gary controlled his breathing and gave his eyes time in order to get used to the darkness. Then he tiptoed to the end of the couple’s bed and very, very, very slowly lifted the foot end of the bed to a height of about three, three and a half, feet.
A second later, he let go. Down the bed went. As it crashed to the floor, the couple normally screamed. At once, Gary directed his flashlight’s bright light to each person’s eyes and then placed the light under his chin.
"Be quiet," he warned them. "Stay where you are and do what I tell you, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand?"
They understood all right. Then, he asked where they kept the cash. Without hesitation, they told Gary everything he wanted to know.
Gary told me wall or floor safes were nearly always located in master bedrooms or master bedroom closets. He found most already opened. If not, either the man or woman, or both, hurriedly gave Gary the combination numbers that would allow him to open the safe and remove all of its contents.
After he asked for a pillow, each hurriedly, nervously pushed her or his pillow at him. "Take mine," they urged.
Accepting one, he separated the pillow case from the pillow and handed the pillow back to its owner. In an instant, Gary emptied the safe’s contents into the pillow case so that he could later at his home figure out their value.
Additionally, he took the man’s wallet, wristwatch, and ring, all of the lady’s jewelry, including the diamond on her left ring finger, and any other small item of value he could fit in that pillow case. "I’d fence most of what I found for about an eighth of its value, but I made a good living. I wasn’t rich by any means but I lived well. When I get out of here, that’s what I’m going to return to. No more will I pull bullshit robberies with other people who get me put in prison."
"Why don’t you go straight?"
Gary grinned. "You gotta be kidding."
After Gary did his time for the air show holdup and was released from incarceration, I never heard about him or from him ever again, but I’ll never forget the two hundred fifty pound, over six foot tall, cat burglar who lifted one end of the bed on which folks slept and let it fall, fully waking and scaring the hell out of them.
His standing at the end of the bed, confronting their eyes with a bright light, nearly blinding them, had to be far more frightening than any nightmare they could have been dreaming moments before they were so rudely awakened and robbed.
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