Where There's Will 2

Where there's Will, There's a Way

Where there's Will, There's a Way – Chapter Two - "Out of these mistakes will come wisdom." (H. W. Beecher)

Momma thought, when Will reached his sixth birthday, he should learn to swim since he seemed to love the water so much. When she mentioned it to him, he was excited, not really certain what "swim" meant, but if it was near the water, it just had to be fun. I was more dubious concerning this "learning to swim." I just wasn't certain how the size and appearance of the public swimming pool in the park would affect him; whether he'd view it as a really big bath tub to play in or a large body of water to fear. The pool would certainly look as big as an ocean to him, beyond his frame of reference at this time.

The first day of his lesson, as we walked to the car, Momma gave Will her admonition to "hold Jay's hand, honey, on the way to the car." He held my hand everywhere we went together, but Momma always felt she had to remind him, and me, just in case I'd forget. It was natural for him, giving him the security he desired and needed. I thought nothing of it, but there are those in our society who view a sixteen year-old male holding hands with a six-year-old as bordering on covert, if not overt, pedophilia. I waited while he scrambled up into his car seat, made certain he was buckled in properly, and we were off to the municipal pool. He chattered all the way there, he was just overwhelmed with excitement. Every day was a new adventure for Will and this certainly was a big one.

He scrambled out of his car seat, once we reached the municipal pool, grabbed his towel and swim trunks, secured his hand in mine, and skipped his way down the sidewalk to the entrance. I paid our fees and was given a locker key for us to store our street clothes in while we swam, and went into the locker room. Will was full of questions; "What are those metal things with the doors? Why do we put our clothes in them? Why do we lock it? Can I wear the key around my ankle next time like where you put ours? Where is the pool?"

Changed into our swim togs, taking his hand, we walked out the door to the pool area and our first really good look at that big, big, bathtub stretching out in front of us. Will was hesitant as we neared the pool edge, holding my hand, leaning his head against my hip, uncertain what was going to happen. As apprehensive as he was, I was just the opposite; becoming more than just a little excited as the swim instructor approached us. He was a young, well-built college student who, since it appeared he was not wearing a jock strap under his yellow, nylon, boxer swim trunks, had a very nice cock outlined next to his right inner thigh. Luckily, I was forced to look away, as my own chubby started to manifest itself, when Will tugged my hand and said plaintively, "It's really big, isn't it Jay?"

I knew he wasn't referring the swim instructor, although if he had, I would've agreed.

"Yes, Honey, it is," I responded quietly, "but it's really going to be fun. Let me pick you up and hold you so we can walk in together. That'll really be cool won't it?"

He nodded apprehensively, took a deep breath, held up his arms for me, and I picked him up. Will trusted me and would generally do what I asked; only this time, he made certain I wouldn't release him as he wrapped his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. His little legs cinched around my back tighter than a bull rider on a bucking bull at the rodeo. I wasn't very big myself at the time, standing but five foot eight inches and weighing about one hundred twenty-five pounds so he was able to get a good grip. Luckily, the swim instructor was understanding and very patient, making no effort to discourage my participation in the lesson.

"Here we go," I announced with a big smile.

Will looked at me, looked at the water, and back at me, seeking some reassurance that all would be well and it really would be fun. Kissing him on the forehead, I murmured softly, "It's fine to be a little frightened, but I'm here. Would I let anything hurt you?"

He waggled his head side-to-side, inhaled another deep breath, and held on tightly as I walked into the water. The depth of the water increased as I continued to slowly make my way into the pool until it was above my waist and just about to Will's belly button. Suddenly, his eyes widened, his mouth opened but no sound came out, and I felt a warm, stream ooze across my belly and snake its way south.

Will giggled, saying, "Jay, I peed."

He certainly did! I just smiled and replied, "So did I; cool water sometimes makes us do that," and all was well with Will's world then. Once over the initial concerns over the size of the pool and the newness of a "lesson," he loved the water. As it turned out over the years, swimming was one thing he could do quite well.

One day, after our lesson, we trooped off to the boys locker room to shower and change into our street clothes for our ride home and stop at the ice cream shop. It was a regular occurrence for us and one of the highlights of Will's day. He always asked, while in the locker room, if we could stop, although he knew very well we would, but just to be certain, he'd ask anyway. There was an older gentleman in the locker room when we entered and he cast a spurious glance in my direction, but I paid him no regard.

I lifted Will up on the bench, untied his wet shorts and pulled them down and off. Standing there bare-assed naked, shivering slightly from the cooler air circulating around his wet buns, and as I was stripping to the buff, he asked, "Are we going to do it again, Jay, huh, please?"

Teasing him back, I remonstrated, "Only if we get really, really clean and you don't squeal or shout, then we'll see."

Lifting him off of the bench, he secured my hand in his and we walked into the shower room. Turning on the shower, I proceeded to shampoo his hair and, with a wash cloth, bathed him as I did every day, washing his bits and pieces before giving him the cloth to do the same. It was one way to continue to teach him how important cleanliness was and enable him to do everything himself one day. I didn't notice the older gentleman observing us from the doorway. The locker room was empty when we finished our shower so I dried him off, dressed him and myself, gathered up our wet togs and towels, and left the locker room.

Exiting the pool, walking to my car, I was confronted by two uniformed police officers. I smiled and tried walk around them, but one casually placed a hand on my arm, asking, "Could we ask you a few questions?"

With nothing to hide or fear, I responded simply, "What may I do for you?"

The other officer stepped forward and reached out to Will to take his hand from mine. That was not the right thing to do as far as Will was concerned, since he only gripped mine tighter in an effort to secure himself to me and not to the strange policeman.

I looked at the policeman and said quietly, "Please don't do that; you're frightening him," but the cop persisted. Attempting to force Will away from me brought a scream from Will; not just a scream, but one of pure abject terror!

Angered, I shouted, "Let go of him," and grabbed at the cops' arm. The other officer quickly stepped forward and, intending to release Will's grasp on me and mine on him, physically jerked me and a terrified, screaming Will to the ground, where we landed with a muffled `thump.' Fearful Will was injured, I covered him with my body to prevent any further damage or attempt to separate us, to no avail. The two officers quickly pulled us apart and one of them subdued me with my hands cuffed behind my back. It happened so fast, I had little time to react. I twisted my head to the side and saw the other cop trying to control Will, who, by now, thoroughly frightened pea-green, was kicking, scratching, clawing at the officer, beating a tattoo on the cop's balls with the toes of his shoes while ripping at his face with his fingers. The thought ran through my mind I should've trimmed his fingernails a little closer, but they seemed to be serving Will's purposes the way they were.

I raised my head and shouted, "Leave my little brother alone, for God's sake. He's mentally challenged and doesn't understand what is happening!"

"Yeah, right," muttered the officer with his knee in my back and to his partner, shouted, "the pervert here claims the other one is a retard."

Off in the distance I could hear the `whoop, whoop' of more sirens, evidently one of them had called for backup. I was yanked to my feet by my handcuffed hands, causing my arms to twist up, wrenching my shoulders in excruciating pain. When I complained, the cop just shoved me forward to his waiting squad car, where he thrust me into the back seat and slammed the door. I looked out the window and saw two things; the smiling face of the older gentleman who had observed us in the locker room and the clothing and face of the officer trying to handle Will. His face was bleeding, his shirt was torn, badge hanging all akimbo, hat gone south somewhere, and a little boy's mouth and teeth secured to one of his hands.

Another black and white squad car came to a screeching halt and two more cops leaped out and ran to the aid of the one being manhandled by a little boy. It took three of the cops to pry Will loose from the first one. No sooner loose from one, than he began his attack on another. I could hear him scream my name over and over coupled with a terrified cry for help. It was the worst sound I think I'd ever heard and I vowed someone would pay for this outrage.

Will was placed in the back seat of the other squad and we were transported to the police station. Although they kept us separated, I could hear his muffled, plaintive sobbing and cries for me to help him growling up from some other room in these bowels of the Devil's home. Locked in a cell, denied any access to a phone or attorney, I continued to holler for help for my brother, and was ignored. Finally, a man in a dumpy looking suit appeared, identified himself as a detective, ordered me to turn my back to the cell bars, re-handcuffed me, and led me to a small interrogation room.

Seated, cuffed to the table with a chain attached to my right ankle, the detective asked my name. I countered with, "Why am I here? Where is my little brother?"

He raised his eyebrows briefly, sighed, and responded, "I'm the one who will ask the questions and you are the one who will answer them. Is that understood? Now, my little pervert, you're charged with child molestation and we have a signed statement by a witness that observed you fondling the little boy you claim is your brother, in the shower room, under the pretext of `cleaning' him so you could do something else to him."

"That old son-of-a-bitch," I muttered and answered the detective very clearly and succinctly, "My name is Jason Le Roy Boulton; I'm sixteen years old, and my brother's name is William Andrew Boulton. He's a child with special needs and I demand he be released. I refuse to answer any other questions until I have my attorney and mother present."

"Well, that's going to take some time, so why don't you and I just have a little conversation concerning what happened and then it will be all over with. I'm certain it's just a misunderstanding. So, did the little boy object while you were masturbating him? It could be he enticed you to do it and maybe it wouldn't be your fault."

I looked at him with incredulity! "Perhaps," I said nicely, "you misunderstood what I requested; I requested an attorney and my mother, so why don't you go perform an unnatural sex act upon yourself, Asshole!"

That went over like a turd in the punch bowl. He stood up, looked at me like I was some hardened criminal, and left the room. I sat there, alone in that room, for almost an hour before he returned. Once he sat down, I asked if I could go to the bathroom. He ignored me, opened up a manila folder, and began asking me questions.

"What is your name please?"

"I gave that to you earlier and may I use the bathroom, please?"

"Where did you meet this little boy you were seen with in the shower room?"

"I really have to piss bad, so may I use the restroom please?"

"Have you had contact with this little boy before or did you just seduce him for the first time today at the pool?"

O.K.; this guy is a dunderhead, so drastic action must be taken, I thought. I carefully unzipped my fly and under the cover of the table top, pulled my cock out. I pinched just behind the head with my finger and thumb and when I thought I'd built up sufficient pressure, I pointed it in the general direction of the dumpy detective's crotch on the other side of the table, and let fly. Christ, I pissed enough to put out the Chicago Fire. The minute the hot piss hit him and started to soak through, he jumped up screaming, "you fucking little faggot, you pissed on me."

Well, he got that part of the interview correct. He did miss the part where I pissed my own pants in the process as I tried to dodge his hand when he reached across the table and slapped my face. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I did anyway. Not pissing on him; he deserved that. I mean when I fell on the floor, writhing in pain, and then lying completely still; inert as the proverbial opossum, faking unconsciousness, sending that asshole into a panic.

I could hear doors opening and closing, people rushing about, and it felt (I didn't dare open my eyes to look) as though there were a half dozen people crowding into the room. I did hear a very authoritative voice shout, "What the fucking hell did you do to him, Johnson? You've pissed yourself and he's lying on the floor unconscious, pecker hanging out. Christ, he's nothing but a fucking kid."

Johnson began to whine, "The kid pissed on me, so I hit him."

"You dip-shit," was a response from somewhere in the room.

I thought to myself then, somebody is going to catch hell over that. That wasn't the half of it; if I could get Momma here with our family attorney, there were going to be a whole bunch of folks going to get it in the ass and it wouldn't be with a fat cock I'd be willing to bet.

Someone bent over me, waved some smelly shit under my nose, I opened my eyes and shouted, "Boo!" I bet the cop relegated to reviving me has shit in his pants to this day.

"Now that we're all gathered together," I began and concluded, "somebody better get my attorney here because you are holding a juvenile in custody without the benefit of counsel," and shut my mouth.

I didn't have to wait more than twenty minutes until Momma and Carl Scheller, our attorney, were at the door and the cops were falling over themselves releasing me from custody.

We were ushered into the Chief of Police's office where he couldn't apologize fast enough or long enough. Carl looked at him, staring stonily, saying, "Eddie, shut up and get William out here right now and in the process call the city attorney, because you and your department have some explaining to do. You've held a sixteen year old and his mentally challenged brother without cause and have inflicted great emotional harm to both, not to speak of the fact that one of your officers beat the sixteen year old."

Chief "Eddie" looked up and over at one of the officers who arrested us; the one with scratches on his face and bandage on his hand, ordering, "Get the boy in here, now!"

I don't know what part of the short speech Carl gave that got their attention, but I think it was the "mentally challenged" part. The cop stood quietly, fidgeting on his feet, clearing his throat, until a cop identified as a "Captain," sweat forming on his brow, face turning white to grey, stepped forward and said softly, "We can't Chief, we don't have him."

To be continued.

***

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Nick Hall

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