This story has a unique genesis. Read the short explanation here.
i. All Saint’s Eve in Tokyo
Eleven-year-old Big D had four years on me, and I wanted his approval. I joined his trick-or-treat posse in the American housing enclave there in Tokyo.
He and his same-age pals wore cowboy outfits and packed low-slung six-shooters, as did I. Instead of a red bandana, though, Big D sported a flamboyant polka-dot bowtie. I grabbed his shirt and showed him my scrawled hold-up note:
“Give me all you Babby Rooths.”
“It’s ‘your,’ not ‘you,'” he said. “And Babby Rooths make me puke.”
But he let me tag along and later allotted me a generous portion of our Halloween haul.