Spiral is one man’s story of the true cost of greenbacks stolen, the interest accrued and his path to redemption. Born to poor and alcoholic parents, Spiral follows the twists and turns of Troy Bridges’ life from a South Carolina childhood to a sentence of life without parole. In his many bank heists, Troy never used violence or carried a weapon. Instead he would dress in a suit purchased from a local thrift store and hand the bank teller a note asking for money. Fleeing the bank he would quickly discard the suit and fade into a life of leisure for a few weeks or months until the money ran out. If you’ve ever wondered what it is like to rob a bank and get away with a bag of cash and an exploding dye pack, or live life on the run, or spend years in prison, or escape from prison multiple times, you’ll find this book fascinating. If you’ve ever wondered how you could turn your life around, this is Troy’s compelling story of how, through meditation, an epiphany, and service to others, he found peace in the chaotic brutality of America’s prisons. Twenty years in the writing, the first draft of Spiral didn’t survive the penal system. Meanwhile, the younger guard, who hadn’t even been born when I came to prison, had been quietly reading my manuscript. He looked up. “This ain’t legal material. This some kinda book.” “Well, thank you,” I said. “It’s nothin but bullshit! You think you’re so smart! I’ll tell you what, Slick, you can’t have it.” He pushed the manuscript and daily journal to the far side of the counter. Then, as if afraid that I might lunge across the counter for it, he picked it up, turned, then purposely walked around the counter and dumped it all in the large trash barrel. Although at first he doesn’t think he can face the task, Troy starts from scratch and writes his memoir again. Spiral is full of vivid characters and the reality of bad choices and life in prison, and yet, in many ways, it is an uplifting book about a man overcoming himself to make a meaningful life under the most difficult of circumstances.
Read a Sample from SPIRAL
I crossed the street and entered the bank and for some reason did something I’d never done before: I pulled my baseball cap low so that my ears stuck out and shuffled slowly into the bank as if mentally impaired. I walked to the teller closest to the door, but a teller (I would later find out that she was the head teller) three stations away said, “Sir!” I turned. “Sir, I’ll take you here.”
Easing to the counter, I handed her the note. She read it, then asked, “What do you want?”
“I want the money,” I leaned forward and said just above a whisper. “Put it all on the counter and don’t give me no dye packs—or else.”
She opened the top drawer and nervously stacked the cash onto the counter. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out the plastic bag and shook it open. I swept the money into it and turned to leave but changed my mind. “Give me the money in that other drawer too,” I said, having heard that some tellers had two drawers.
To my surprise, she reached down and opened a second drawer and stacked even more cash on the counter, so much that I filled the plastic grocery bag to overflowing. I had to lace the handles to keep the money from falling out, leaving me with just one plastic handle to support the bag’s weight. I turned and, now walking normally, hurried out the door.
About fifty yards from the bank, the handle on the plastic bag, stretched to its limit, broke, and the bag of money hit the pavement, spilling the top layer of cash. When I bent down to pick up the money, I looked over my shoulder and saw two men and three women step out of the bank. One of the men pointed at me. They started in my direction.
Hugging the grocery bag full of money like a baby, with my chin resting on top, I ran toward the pizza restaurant, the two men following but giving me space. When I reached the back of the restaurant and was out of sight, I set the bag of money on the pavement, then ripped off the jacket, top shirt, hat, and sunglasses, leaving them where they fell. Picking up the bag of money, I hurried around to the area where Melinda was parked.
When she saw me she panicked, put the truck in reverse, and stomped down on the accelerator. I tried to get out of the way but the bumper hit me in the hip and knocked me off my feet. The bag of money flew straight up, hit the pavement, and exploded. Money covered the parking lot, swirled in the wind like leaves. I lay on the pavement, surrounded by money, and watched the Datsun drive away.