A Summertime Journey

by Jerome Sitko

Brian slowly looks me over from head to toe. He stops at my waist and says, “Lift your shirt, Lance. I want to see how empty your stomach is.”

  I feel the blood rush to my face. I know Brian doesn’t give a shit about my stomach; he wants to embarrass me in front of the girls. You can tell by looking at me that my pants are several sizes too big, and I use a belt to keep them up. The waist is scrunched-up and folded over to make them look as normal as possible, hidden under my untucked shirt.

  “No, he won’t. Now move, Brian, or I’m going to call Mom.”

  Brian pretends not to hear Jeremy as he reaches over and forcefully grabs my shirt and pulls it up. He immediately begins laughing, and points at my folded-up pants held up by an old, brown leather belt. One of the girls starts laughing with him, pointing at my white Velcro sneakers, I guess to emphasize how pitiful I am, but the other one is not amused.

  “Brian, put that little kid’s shirt down now and leave him alone—you’re such a dick,” she says with a genuine look of disgust. Brian looks at her, surprised, and drops my shirt.

  “You two get the hell outta here—now,” she says.

  That’s our cue—Jeremy kicks Brian’s leg out of the way and swings the door open, leaps off the steps, clearing the oscillating sprinkler, and is in a dead run down the yard, with me on his heels.

  Once we’re far enough away and sure Brian won’t follow us or try to shoot us with his BB gun, we stop to catch our breath. Last year Brian and Jeremy got into a fight for the ages, and Jeremy got the better of Brian. He punched him so hard Brian had a black eye for a month. During the battle, Brian chased Jeremy outside and treed him in the oak tree. Jeremy climbed as high as he could and was perched on a thick branch, his legs and arms wrapped around the limb for stability. He thought he was up high enough that he was safe and unleashed a string of cuss words so weighty that if the words were raindrops, it would have been a tsunami. Brian looked up at Jeremy and said, “You’re dead, motherfucker!” and marched back into the house. Two minutes later, he reappears with a pump BB rifle. Standing on the porch, he slowly begins pumping the handle—one, two, three, four, with each pump increasing the velocity of the BB. Earlier in the year, Brian killed a stray cat in the same tree with a single shot after twenty pumps.

  “TWENTY-FIVE!” he yells with satisfaction at Jeremy as he levels the rifle and takes aim. Jeremy told me later that he didn’t believe Brian was going to shoot him. A searing pain instantly turns Jeremy’s left leg into mush as the BB penetrates his skin and settles in his meaty thigh. Jeremy nearly fell out of the tree but was able to hold on with his other three extremities. He lay there, hugging the tree for an eternity, ignoring his brother’s pleas to come down and not tell Mom. His mom came home hours later, scolding them both and eventually grounding them—Jeremy for a week and Brian a month. Jeremy still has a small bump on his thigh from the BB just under his skin.

  “Your brother’s such a dick. Why does he pick on me?” I ask.

  Jeremy, bewildered, looks up at me, still holding both his hands on his knees, breathing heavily, and says, “The same reason everyone picks on you: you don’t defend yourself.”

  Fair enough. From that point forward, I decided that even if it means I get my ass kicked every day, I’m going to fight back.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ◊

  WE’RE AT OUR FORT—the cabana—getting ready to go to Larry’s party. Jeremy, Ryan, Joey, and I are sitting in the living room on folded pieces of cardboard, so we don’t get our clothes dirty from the soot and ash. Joey has stolen some skunk bud from his older brother, so we’re starting the party early. As soon as Joey pulled the sandwich bag out of his front pocket, we all immediately got a whiff of the telltale odor of the potent bud, and Ryan reacted like Pavlov’s dogs hearing a bell: he immediately began salivating. Ryan jumped up and raced to the bathroom to fetch our makeshift marijuana pipe. He secured the paraphernalia from the toilet holding tank once he was in the disgusting little bathroom. Ryan took a quick glance at the moldy, scaly, blackened shower tiles and pursed his lips together and shriveled his nose in disgust. He’s been very vocal to all of us that he believes a serial killer was murdering unsuspecting victims in that bathroom. A couple of weeks ago, while we were all high, Ryan told us an elaborate story of what he believed happened, and that it was the killer’s last victim who set the trailer on fire. Through our gut-wrenching laughter, he insisted that one day he would be proven right.

  He said, “One day you’ll all see. We’re gonna come rollin’ up to the cabana like pimps to get our party on, and it will be surrounded by cop cars, and yellow cop tape will be everywhere. A little five-foot-tall police chief will be standing on a milk crate in front of this very trailer”— he pounded his open hand on the floor—“with a bullhorn telling everyone exactly what I’m saying to you dickheads.” We started laughing harder, and all of us were asking Ryan to “please stop,” but he kept on going for another ten minutes. He eventually stopped but not until he gave each of us a charley horse in our legs. Every time we’re at the cabana, I think of Ryan’s story that night, and I laugh, and tonight was no different. Ryan came running down the narrow hallway from the bathroom, pipe in hand, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Killer Clown, Killer Clown is coming for all of you dicks!” his feet kicking up little clouds of black soot.

  “Pass that over here, you dick,” I say to Jeremy as he passes our homemade pipe to Ryan, smoke swirling around his head and shooting out of his nose like a raging bull. Our pipe is a well-used Pepsi can crushed in the middle to make the “bowl,” the holes masterfully poked out by the tip of Joey’s knife. None of us are experienced stoners, so we didn’t know you have to poke a hole at the end of the can to get a big hit.

  The cabana has no electricity, so we don’t have any tunes to listen to while we get high. Joey does, though; I can hear the music from his Walkman earphones hanging around his neck. “Is that Madonna, ‘Like a Virgin’?” I ask through my laughter.

  “Shut up, dick, it’s the radio. I didn’t pick the song,” he says as he turns off his Walkman. Too late. We are all laughing and making fun of him, refusing to pass the “little preppie” the pipe.

  We had power once, about two months ago. Ryan stole one of his dad’s extension cords, and we plugged it into one of the outlets from the trailer next to us. But the owner found it a couple of days later and kept the cord. What were we to do? We could not knock on his door and ask for it back. So here we sit in semi-darkness, puffing on a Pepsi can, excitedly talking about the party we’re going to in less than an hour. Ryan and Joey debate about life—Ryan’s going to join the Army and be a sniper, and Joey’s going to be the biggest pot dealer in Los Angeles, even though he lives in Idaho.

  We leave the cabana, but not until we’ve smoked every bit of the weed—stems, seeds, and all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ◊

  WE BEGIN WALKING TO Larry’s house down the same road we take to school every day, but this time stoned, everything seems the same… but different. It’s like walking down a street of a movie set—all of the houses brightly painted, and the trees appear overgrown and loom overhead, blocking what little light is left from the setting sun. Everything is funny to all four of us, and we’re laughing at nothing and everything. I keep thinking, Is this real? Am I really walking down a street right now? Paranoia creeps in. Can any adults tell I’m high? What if a cop stops us? We really shouldn’t be this loud. I know I won’t be able to fool anyone. My paranoid mind turns back to the houses. I can see lights on as we pass house by house, and they remind me of pictures I’ve seen in magazines of mansions—in truth, they were probably middle-income homes.

  At one house we pass, the red and black curtains are open, and a huge picture window facing the street gives us a glimpse of a family sitting at a long dinner table. One adolescent boy and one girl sit across from each other, and on two Queen Anne chairs at either end sit the parents. An elegant matching hutch proudly di
splays all the fine China only used for special occasions. The father, facing the window, is sipping a glass of red wine, his Freddie Mercury mustache obediently staying above the rim of the glass, his blue silk tie loosely hanging around his neck as he relaxes after another hard day’s work. The two kids are kicking each other under the table, barely able to reach without alerting the parents. Mom is dutifully dishing another helping of peas onto the boy’s plate. All of them are laughing and talking in between bites.

  I think can they see me? Am I stumbling or doing something funny? Are they laughing at me? Once I realize they’re not laughing at me, I suddenly feel sad—they seem so happy, so stable, and they’re eating what looks like an amazing meal. I yearn for that at this moment. We don’t even have a real kitchen table in our trailer, and we rarely sit together to eat. Plus, I have no dad—at least not one that’s in my life—and I’m hungry. All I had to eat today was school lunch: chicken nuggets, greasy fries, fruit cocktail, and a carton of milk. Oh, I did have two Snickers bars and a can of Pepsi from the A&W—I forgot.

  We turn right down a busy, two-lane road called State Street, jeering at each other and heckling the passing cars. A red Mitsubishi Starion drives by, and Joey frantically points, catching the attention of the driver who gives us a thumbs-up with a huge grin. There are scattered businesses every so often, a Dairy Queen, an old bar, and a gas station, and there, in all of its unfinished glory, is a Thriftway Building Store. It’s going to be big.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ◊

  THE EXTERIOR IS ALMOST complete, and I think they’re beginning work on the inside. None of the workers are here now; they went home hours ago, so it’s empty. We round the north side of the building and make our way to the back. We pass loose stacks of two-by-fours, two-by-tens, and four-by-fours on one side of the dirt lot and massive amounts of gray cinder blocks on the other side. Heaps of scrap metal and a big yellow CAT front-end loader that has seen better days finish out the side of the building, and we finally arrive at the door to the back of the building. I reach the door first and expect it to be locked. I’m shocked when I turn the handle, and the door swings open. Joey looks at me and says, “You shitting me, they didn’t even lock the fucking door! Let’s go in!”

  There’s no power in the building, so it’s dark and cold. We fumble around, and Joey finds the stairs to the rooftop by accident. He trips on the bottom step and scrapes his shin, cussing the rest of the way up. Paint buckets and loose nails pepper the bare stairs and obstruct our way. Once on top, we can see all around us, and it’s incredible. State Street is directly in front of us, and cars now have their headlights on in the dusk. We split up and go in different directions on the roof, checking out everything. When I come back to the center of the roof overlooking the street, Ryan is lying face down in the prone position. I almost trip over him.

  “What are you doing?” I ask as I lie down next to him.

  “Shhhh! We’re gonna ambush the enemy,” he says.

  Joey and Jeremy are now lying with us in silence. All four of us pretend we’re in Vietnam, waiting to ambush the Viet Cong traveling down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. I find a rock in front of me about the size of a silver dollar, with a smooth notch that perfectly fits my index finger and I pull the pin on my grenade and start counting—“Six, five, four...”—and I heave the rock as hard as I can toward the road below. It lands short, but I pretend it hit its mark and destroyed a tank.

  “BOOM,” I yell. “I killed that fucking asshole!” We search for more rocks, but there’s none worthy of a grenade, they’re all too small. That’s why mine landed short; it wasn’t big or heavy enough.

  “Joey, go down and get us some grenades,” Jeremy yells from the darkness.

  “Fuck you, twats, I’m not going down by myself,” Joey retorts.

  “I’ll go,” I say. I want to redeem my weak throw.

  Once outside, Joey goes left toward a field of small trees in an abandoned lot next to the building. I go around to the front, remembering a whole pile of rocks when we first arrived. As I scoop about a dozen grenades into my gray shirt, I hear what I think is a yell from where Joey was just a moment ago. Fucking Joey better not be playing games, I think. I’m a wimp when it comes to scary shit.

  “Joey, you little bitch, you done?”

  No answer from the darkness. I don’t know if it’s possible for pitch black to get blacker, but when I look over, that’s what it seems like, and there’s no way I’m going into that lot. I get shivers just looking over there.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ◊

  AS JOEY BENDS OVER at the waist to pick up a rock, he feels lightheaded, and his knees buckle under him. He’s now in a crouching position, his hand inches from a small round boulder. He looks up and locks eyes with a petite pretty blonde wearing bell-bottom jeans and a white tube top with red stitching. Her nipples are pushing against the material, implying she’s not wearing a bra. Joey is too confused to notice.

  “Who are you? Where did you come from?” Joey asks, still crouching. He’s no longer in the dark, vacant lot; he looks around, and he’s in a small room void of any furniture except a bare twin mattress on the floor, A white sheet with yellowing around the edges covers a lonely window. He’s in a small studio apartment with purple painted walls that are chipped, exposing the sheetrock. There are no sounds—no TV, radio, or other people talking. He thinks to himself that he should at least hear people walking upstairs or some noise from the other apartments on the other side of these paper-thin walls.

  “Hi, I’m Wendy,” she says in a bubbly teenage voice. Wendy turns and walks into the small kitchen and opens the refrigerator. She bends over and reappears, holding two cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. The image of her bent over in the fridge keeps playing over and over in Joey’s head, and he doesn’t hear her the first time.

  “Ya want something to drink, kiddo,” she repeats, holding a can in each hand, her hips out to one side. Images are twirling in Joey’s head of Wendy wearing a pair of white roller skates and her hair in pigtails, skating down the center of the Venice Beach boardwalk, back to her bending over in the refrigerator, back to Venice Beach. He’s infatuated.

  “He’ll be here very soon to talk to ya,” she says, releasing him from his daydream.

  “Who?” he says, staring at her.

  “Our master, of course, silly.”

  Confused, Joey reaches for one of the cans of beer and pulls the tab. He takes a healthy swig, and beer shoots out of his mouth and nostrils. His face turns red, and he can’t stop coughing, air refusing to escape his body. Wendy glides over to him and starts rubbing his back. His coughing fit is over, but he continues savoring her hands on his back and shoulders. Joey drops to his knees, and Wendy follows him down, still rubbing his back. Her head off to the right side of his, almost touching now.

  “There, ya feel better now, kiddo?” she says.

  Joey draws in a deep breath, hoping to savor the sweet smell of her perfume. Instead, he smells the most noxious odor of his life. She reeks like the rancid, deceased raccoon Joey discovered a few weeks ago under his backyard deck. His mom demanded he remove it and throw it away. It had been fermenting under there in the hot summer heat for at least two weeks. At first, the raccoon let off an odor, but not too bad, so Joey figured he could grab a leg and yank it out and put it in a garbage bag. With no gloves on, he reached under the deck and corralled the two back legs and gave it a firm tug. What he pulled out was half a raccoon—the other half remained pinned under the deck. Horrified, he looked at his hand, and it was crawling with white maggots and bloody slime. Then the smell from the rotting flesh hit him, and he threw up on his hands and shoes. He wasn’t able to finish the task and rarely went out to the deck after that. Somehow, this smell was worse! He jumped to his feet, gagging, and when he turned around, there was someone else in the apartment, an oddly dressed man, Erebus’s conscripted soul.

  “Master, I brought Jo-Jo like you aske
d,” Wendy says, oblivious to what just happened.

  Ignoring her, the man placidly looks at Joey and sneers, “She’s dead, what do you expect?”

  The man explains to Joey that Wendy is one of his “grouplings” and serves him, bouncing between Adamah and Sheol. He continues detailing an elaborate plan and needs Joey and his friends to help. He flicks his hand, and Joey slips into deep, unconscious rest and does not even realize that the man never opened his mouth once to talk.

  Seconds later, Joey emerges from between the trees and bushes, smiling, his skinny frame sweating from the head down. He’s now back in his world, Adamah.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ◊

  “TWAT, WHY DIDN’T YOU answer me when I yelled for you?” I exclaim.

  “I don’t know, I bent over to pick up a rock, and I think I passed out,” Joey counters.

  In the darkness, I look him over the best I can. Other than holding a shirt full of rocks and dripping with sweat, he looks fine. In my mind, I rationalize his blackout to the pot, if he even did pass out. We walk back up the stairs, trying not to lose our collection of grenades, Joey in the lead. Something feels odd, off, but again I credit the pot we smoked earlier in the cabana. Damn, I’ll be glad when this “high” is gone, I think, trying to maintain my balance.

  We dump our baseball-size ammo on the rooftop, and everyone starts juggling through them, looking for the “right one.” Once we’re all satisfied, we again assume the prone position, face toward the enemy—the street and cars below.

  “Soldiers, on my count. Prepare your mind and body to destroy the enemy,” Ryan commands. “We won’t be returning home to our babes—this is a suicide mission that we must not fail. This is for God and Country!” he continues.

  Inspiring? No. But, then again, we’re all stoned, so it sounds great to us. At that moment, we’re back in the Vietnam jungle, sticky, sweltering heat, mosquitos kamikaze-ing our heads and arms, the jungle canopy providing our only cover from the moon, stars, and our enemies. We’re lying in our sniper positions, getting ready to sacrifice our lives for love of Country.