In part one, Billy and the neighborhood children visited Tubby and invited him out to Trick-or-Treat. Unfortunately, Billy had an eventful Wednesday and got locked in the Kincade Juvenile Detention Center. In jail on Thursday, Halloween morning, likely with no way out and trapped until his court date the following week.

Desperate as a caged animal—Billy paced the corridors—his mind racing for answers on how to escape.

A spikey blonde and purple haired clownish-clone of about 15-years-old, sat on a bench seat, stoned, staring off into space. Billy had walked by five or six times, unnoticed as far as he could tell, until he plopped down with a thud.

The boy grasped the bench, white knuckled with both hands, throat whistling as he gasped for air, sitting straight up snapped to attention, and said, “Yo, man, what’s up? I’m just chillin’ here.” He weaved, glassy eyed. “You got a problem?”

“Naw man, it’s all good.” Billy certainly didn’t want trouble. The punk kid looked scary, bodybuilder muscles and tats at his age. “I’m just hanging out. Easy tiger . . . mellow a bit. Sorry, I startled you.” Billy tried to rap in this character’s own language, as best he could.

Woozy and struggling to focus, the stoner said, “It’s all good, cuz. I’m just baked . . . you know, feeling the euphoria.”

Billy gave him a thumbs up, and replied, “I got cha, man.” He wanted to pick the guy’s brain if it wasn’t too fried to respond. “How long you been in here, brother? And when you getting out?”

“Um, don’t know, man . . . months. Got a bullet and a half to start (an 18-month sentence). But been sanctioned twice for disciplinary . . . so, who knows now.”

“That’s too bad, man.” Billy kept to cautious . . . asking harmless questions and not saying too much. “Hang tough, you’ll make it.”

“I either will or won’t. It’s not so bad in here. The food ain’t terrible. The junk’s dope. (Junk: meaning heroin. Dope: meaning, excellent, awesome, or cool). And I’ve got a warm place to sleep. If I wasn’t in here, I’d be sleeping on the streets or with another crapshoot, never know what you’ll get, foster home, my ninth.”

“So, what’s your name?” Billy kept waiting, without an answer from the ‘Pennywise’ lookalike (Stephen King’s clown’s name). “Listen, man, I need to blow this place in a hurry. Is there any way out?”

“Name’s Buddy . . . after George (Buddy) Guy, the famous jazz musician my father played with,” he finally replied. “And the answer to your question is, it’s easy. Local building codes follow ICC (International Code Council) and IBC (International Building Code) that set the consensus on building code standards. Two separate staircases are required, placed close together, giving people a fair shot at escaping fire.”

“Slick, how do you know all that?” Billy had to be somewhat amazed how smart this junkie freak seemed. 

“Simple . . . lots of spare time to read and learn.”

“But how would anyone get to the staircases . . . and then get out without getting caught?”

“Wait until lunch . . . if you’re sure that’s what you want, we’ll get it done.”

___________________________

At noon, guards and workers entered and exited changing shifts, doors swinging like Oriental fans. Buddy motioned Billy over and whispered, “Meet in the pisser, pronto.”

In the restroom, Buddy waved Billy into the last stall where a cook’s uniform awaited, including a slouchy toque hat. Billy changed quicky and stepped out. Buddy slipped a lanyard clipped keycard in this hand, and said, “It’s all you . . . safe trip, and get gone.”

Billy knew he didn’t look old enough, but he was tall for his age. He pulled the crumpled hat low and tilted it over his inside eye, covering as much of his face as possible from passerby’s line of vision.

Almost automatic, the keycard around his neck reached the slot perfectly. Inserted, it clicked, the reader buzzed, and the red light switched to green as the door popped open.

Billy’s feet shuffled down the steps, dancing along more graceful than the “Jungle Book” monkey. Halfway to freedom, drenched in sweat, moisture bleeding through as giant wet spots, front and back. He wiped his blurred eyes and dripping nose on his sleeve. A dead giveaway to anyone suspicious or paying attention.

But as luck would have it, he made the ground floor and outside undetected, cut through the park, and reached the storage-shed supplies to spring Tubby.

Unaware of Billy’s jail break, the neighborhood kids showed-up right on time. An old-time Red Flyer wagon ready and set to go, full of pre-loaded equipment and tools. The kiddos headed off laughing, joking, and jumping like buggy fleas on a rug. Only children can’t jump like fleas. Those pesky bloodthirsty parasites can jump 100 times the length of their bodies.   

__________________________

A burlap sack of pulley parts in his left hand and one end of the longest rope tied to his waist; Billy climbed the giant oak.

He inched out onto the crooked-armed bough above Tubby’s bedroom window, hooked and secured the cable sheave around it, and threaded the braided cordage through the wheel and axle, completing the block and tackle assembly.

Billy referred to his clan as the stooges. His crew all too young to remember Curly, Larry, or Moe, lucky for him. Set and ready to execute the maneuver practiced many times. The rope twisted around the tree’s base allowed the three biggest and strongest boys to raise or lower massive amounts of weight easily.

Tubby’s electric wheelchair too large for the window, Billy tied the rope to his small, lightweight portable, and his crew quickly lowered it to the ground.

Billy strapped and adjusted Tubby into a borrowed lightweight K9 Pro Series Rappel Harness system, designed for rapid setup and release. He tied a quick clip connector on the rope and clicked it into the harness’s back D-ring.

Afraid, Tubby had griped and grumbled since Billy arrived. But Billy tuned him out and never hesitated. Safety check complete, Billy shoved Tubby headfirst through the window. Dangling from the rope, staring at the ground, Tubby cried and yelled hysterically, “Please, Please, I can’t do this.”  

“Calm down—don’t panic—you’re already doing it,” Billy said in a chuckle, “Come on, T, they got you. We are never gonna do anything to hurt you.” The stooges eased Tubby down slowly, butt first to the awaiting wheelchair. A quick and almost effortless transition.

No sooner than the stooges re-raised the rope, Billy wrapped it in his right arm, clasped with both hands, and rode it to the grass.

High-fives everywhere, celebrating, they walked the curvy and dangerous mile and a half back to town. A moderately paced trek taking 40-minutes.

__________________________

The children had never seemed closer, fist bumps, hugs, and radiant smiles. Lorelei’s beautiful German folklore name—meaning, alluring enchantress—the curly tressed belle kissed Tubby’s cheeks until chapped. She had missed him most.

Billy wheeled Tubby up the walk to the bottom of eight half-circle porch risers, then stepped up, rang the bell, and eased back down. No sooner had he eased away, than a yapping perineal fistula (pain in the butt dog) raced out the door and dove barking and growling, straight for Tubby’s legs.

The little meat grinder attacked with the ferocity of a piranha. Ripping and tearing, Tubby’s pant legs shredded faster than document day at the mall. And the goofy owner waved his arms and pleaded, never making any physical effort to curtail the fiasco.

Finally, a true pet lover, out of options, Billy drop kicked the little gremlin into the side yard. Fear, the greatest deterrent in the world for man or beast. The gut-punched pooch slinked away yelping, hiding under the shrubs, and all hostilities ceased.

But not for long, the crazed owner gave chase, swinging a broom, spouting vulgar profanities. Billy latched onto the wheelchair running down the sidewalk, predictably waiting for the old man to run out of air, which happened three doors down (sounds like a song).

The pant material appeared far worse than Tubby’s leg, but a few seeping bloody holes would likely fester soon without treatment, and a tetanus shot.

The night spent on the lookout for Tubby’s parents and his younger sister. The stooge crew tried to canvass outlying areas and avoid the busiest paths where they might collide.

Bags bulged with heaping helpings of goodies, two hours in. Once lost, cheerful friends cherished the newly discovered. They laughed, joked, and enjoyed the most delightful Halloween ever. Almost as if they’d never been apart.  

Afraid he’d overdo it, for Tubby’s energy-waning sake, Billy announced, “One last street and let’s call it a night.”

Goblins, ghosts, and super-heroes thinned out. Heavy storm clouds gave witness, hiding the moon and stars, turning the night inky. Thunder rumbled and lightening flashed across the sky.

The stooge crew’s curfews had come and gone. So, Billy, sent them home. He and Tubby trailed off toward the lonesome roadway.

Within minutes, a torrent thrummed. A real gully washer. The cold wind whipped, and goosebumps dimpled the boys’ skin. Tubby shivered and shook.

Billy jogged along splashing in the puddles, the gusts and rain hindering his vision. And as he swiped to clear his eyes, the wheelchair’s right front wheel edged off the asphalt, sank in the mud, and flipped forward.

Catapulted headfirst, Tubby’s head smacked the blacktop with a dull thud. Billy shot with the force of a flying projectile, crashlanding like a blimp on a favorite orchid. An ugly mangled mess of arms, legs, and damaged aluminum alloy.

Tubby had a nasty gash over the orbital bone’s roof above his right-eye and, a bruised and scraped road-rash cheek. The severities and extent of his injuries wouldn’t be known before x-rays or disrobement since he couldn’t feel from waist to toes. Excess blood made the seriousness hard to assess.

Automobile lights flashed coming around the curve. Billy stood waving frantically, hoping to be seen before smushed like sail rabbits (sail rabbits: dead meat, run over for days or weeks, pressed paper thin, often scooped up with a shovel and, flown like Frisbees.)

At the last second the speeding Mercedes screeched to a miraculous halt, mere inches from the boys’ catastrophic deaths.

A second fluorescence beamed instantaneously, another vehicle made the curve, and nearly got stopped, but not quite. No injuries or major auto-body component impairments; besides, a broken taillight and dinged bumper.

The Benz driver helped Billy load the demolished chair into the trunk and Tubby in the backseat. And the other driver pulled his car in behind and followed to thwart another accident.

At the driveway gravel’s crunch, Tubby’s parents flung the front-door open and descended upon the two-car caravan. Doors opened. Tears welled in Mrs. Tuttle’s eyes, and first sight of her battered son, bloody, muddy, and tattered, a waterfall cascaded down her face.

Billy stepped out and the onslaught began. Furious, Valerie Tuttle rattled off more mean words than found in Roget’s International third edition thesaurus. She called Billy disgusting names and told him he was a dead-end street at the edge of a cliff. An inbred drunkard’s son, out of a two-bit tramp, destined for failure and disappointment. Billy dropped his chin to his chest and never looked up; then, turned, and walked back toward town.

The drivers carried Tubby to the house, up the stairs to his room, and seated him in his electric wheelchair.

Positioned on the bed beside, Mrs. Tuttle scrubbed Tubby with soap and water for Doctor Drake’s arrival. She lit in again with another barrage of malicious remarks and derogatory names for Billy.

Tubby spoke up this time, and said, “Mother, I love you . . . and father. You have both done your darndest to be good parents and protect your unfortunate child. But you are wrong about Billy. He is my friend, my best and only true friend. He fought my battles, looked after, and has always been there for me. I’ve missed him terribly.

“There is more to being alive than sitting as a fixture in a dark, dingy room, no matter how seemingly safe. And despite the dog bite, the cut over my eye, the close-call wreck, and the pneumonia I’ll likely get from being cold and wet, this has been a wonderful night. One of the best of my life. Tonight, I was living.”