A Summertime Journey Read online

  1984

  A Summertime Journey

  ◊

  JEROME SITKO

  Copyright © Jerome Sitko 2019

  All rights reserved. The right of Jerome Sitko to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this publication may be altered, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including, but not limited to, scanning, duplicating, uploading, hosting, distributing, or reselling, without the express prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of reasonable quotations in features such as reviews, interviews, and certain other non-commercial uses currently permitted by copyright law.

  Disclaimer:

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations, and businesses are purely products of the author’s imagination and are entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, places, or events is completely coincidental.

  1984: A Summertime Journey by Jerome Sitko

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY- ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  COMING SOON

  I dedicate this book to my best friend and wife- Rene’e. Thank you for always believing in me, with you nothing is impossible.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ◊

  June, 1984

  THANK GOD WE SURVIVED. How did we survive? What did we survive? I think through my confusion. I look over at my two friends, Jeremy and Joey, passed out on Jeremy’s bed with their shoes still on their feet dangling over the edge. Joey’s orange Sony Walkman headphones cemented to his ears with his sweat, and his Old Timer pocket knife firmly secured in his right hand. Both of them are haggard and filthy, even now. It’s a long, complicated story, so to truly understand, I think I need to start from the beginning.

  I live in Boise, Idaho, the “City of Trees,” a quiet, small town with a low crime rate. By ten p.m., the streets are usually empty. Nestled at the base of the sparse Boise foothills sits a school, Hillside Junior High, a one-story brick building. I go to this school, and this is where my summertime journey begins.

  My name is Lance Bergman. I’m a typical fourteen-year-old growing up in a boring town. I’m shy, so it’s hard for me to talk to girls. I’ve never had a real girlfriend. I don’t fit into any of the typical teenage stereotypes: jock, preppie, hoodlum, nerd. My friends and I have flirted with drinking and smoking pot, and recently we’ve been getting invited to parties. I don’t get to wear any of the “cool” clothes unless I borrow them from my friends. Most of my clothes are from Kmart or the Salvation Army. I listen to all kinds of music, but my favorites are Ozzy Osbourne, AC/DC, and Mötley Crüe.

  All through the year, sitting through boring class after boring class while earning those respectable “C” grades, I dreamt about summer vacation: skateboarding, boogie boarding in the canal, sneaking out at night to meet girls, partying, and having the time of my life. My summer vacation is about to take a very dark turn, like nothing I could have imagined. Someone else has another plan for me, and “fun” is not in its vocabulary.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ◊

  AS SOON AS THE RRRRRRRRRRRRing sounds, there’s an uproar of anxious and excited kids kicking their chairs away and heading for the doors. The bustle of students slamming lockers and yelling at friends in the hallways drowns out the anemic objections from the teachers to leave their classrooms in an orderly fashion. I’m among them; in fact, I’m leading the pack out the south double-exit doors. My hands hit the black panic bar and the doors spring open, showing their years’ worth of dirty handprints and kick marks to the world. As soon as I feel the sun warm my face and heat my hair, I know I’m finally free, at least for a little while.

  I subconsciously hook my fingers into the belt loops of my spacious Rustler jeans and give them a hearty tug to keep them from falling. I immediately survey the parking lot, looking for my best friend, Jeremy Jacobson, as I slowly jog down the slight hill of green grass peppered with dandelions toward the parking lot and then freedom—the street. It was a cat-and-mouse game; actually, I’m not the first one out the door because I’m excited summer vacation is starting—although I am excited—I’m the first one out the door because I don’t want to run into Larry.

  Larry is the school hoodlum, and the rumor is this is his third and final year repeating the ninth grade. If Larry and his friends catch me, they will have fun humiliating me in front of the school. My attempt to escape is a daily occurrence, and those of us toward the bottom of the school’s pecking order play this game with Larry. Some days it’s me, and some days it’s one of the other less-fortunate kids. I believe Larry has a personal goal to beat up every seventh-grade boy before the school year ends. I make it to the parking lot and think I’m safe, so I stop and spin around to try to catch a glimpse of Jeremy among the masses pouring out of the school doors. As I turn, my lips go from a smile to a puckered Oh shit, and my heart begins racing, like my legs want to but can’t, won’t. The asphalt parking lot is suddenly a molten tar pit, and my feet sink into the hot bubbling mess, gripping me like a mouse on a glue trap.

  Larry is already partway between the school and his target—me. His long, scraggly, dirty-blond hair and freckles are unmistakable. He’s wearing an Ozzy Osbourne “Bark at the Moon” tour shirt, faded 501 jeans with a tear in the left knee, and black boots. Around his neck is his signature white coral choker, like the ones you see in California. His friends trail behind him, but not too close, as he makes his way toward me. DAMN—RUN! That’s what is racing through my mind. Visions of being punched and knocked to the ground as they stand over me, laughing, swirl in my head. But I can’t. The imaginary tar grips my feet, and no matter how many times my mind tells my legs to move, they won’t. I will stand here in the heat of the summer sun and await my fate.

  Larry saunters up to me and thrusts out his right hand as if to shake. My eyes momentarily catch a glimpse of the skull ring on his middle finger as it glistens from the sun, and I think, That’s going to hurt. I close my eyes and extend my right leg behind me for balance as I prepare for the onslaught of his fists of fury… then… nothing. I’m shocked. Instead of throat punching me, he wants to shake my hand. Why? Maybe Larry is going to congratulate me for surviving a whole school year. Perhaps I’m off the hook, no humiliation, and, more important, no pain. I smile nervously and stick my hand out. Larry envelops it with the stout firmness of a burly truck driver and smiles. I’m okay, and I know I’ve dodged a bullet. Just then, I feel an excruciating, sharp, searing pain. Larry has a thumbtack and runs it down the length of my hand from the wrist to the knuckle. Blood immediately bubbles up between the broken skin and the pain with it. Damn, that hurts. Instinctively, I try to pull my hand away, but Larry still has it trapped in a vice-li
ke grip.

  “What the hell, Larry,” I yelp.

  “What, you little sissy, you gonna cry over a little scratch? Are those tears? Little baby.”

  Yep, those are tears, not sweat from the summer heat, threatening to roll down my cheeks. By this time, all of the rubberneckers have slowed down or stopped to watch, many just glad that it’s not them. Damn, humiliated again. From the back of my eyelids, I hear a calm female voice: “Don’t worry, you are safe. We’re here to help and protect you.” Was that in my head? Or did a teacher walk up to us? I open my tightly shut eyes and, through the blur of my tears, try to catch a glimpse of the teacher—nothing. It must be in my head, I think. I’ve heard the voices most of my life. My mom said they’re guardian angels. I think it’s a nuisance and sometimes wonder if I’m sane.

  “Hey, I said: do you wanna come to a party tonight?” Larry rumbles. I must not have heard him the first time; he is staring directly at me.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you dumb little shit, you wanna come to a party tonight?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ◊

  “… AND HAVE A SAFE summer!” Mr. Richardson, Jeremy’s teacher, yells. At that moment, everyone in Mr. Richardson’s class jumps to their feet and starts heading for the classroom door, Jeremy, among them. “Stupid teacher, keeping us late on the last day of school. Stupid fucker—jus’ cause he has nothing to do doesn’t mean he needs to keep us all late.” Jeremy is swearing under his breath, soft enough that his teacher can’t hear but loud enough that the girl next to him is giggling and nodding her head in agreement. He rounds the door and starts heading south, down a very crowded and loud hall, bobbing and weaving in and out of the traffic to avoid a collision. “Fucking can’t believe it, the nerve of that motherfucker.” Jeremy is still cussing but no longer trying to hide it from anyone as he slams the double doors open with his shoulder and exposes them to the sunlight once again. He immediately begins to look around for me. As he looks down toward the parking lot, he starts swearing again: “Fuck, fuck, fuck, not again,” as he sees me surrounded by Larry and his motley crew.

  When Larry notices Jeremy walking toward us, he loosens his grip on my molested hand, turns his head, and yells, “Wuz up, Jerk-off Jeremy?” He fully let's go so he can give the universal sign of jerking off.

  “Not much, just glad school’s out,” Jeremy says nonchalantly, pretending not to notice Larry’s hand going up and down in front of his pants like a piston pump on a Big Texan.

  “Hey, I just invited this little bitch to my party tonight—you can come too, Jerk-off. What do you say?”

  “Yeah, we’ll be there, Larry. What time?” Jeremy says as his eyes fixed on two ninth-grade girls loudly chatting as they strut out of the overcrowded parking lot onto the street.

  “Why don’t you show up about six a.m. so you can help clean up. I don’t give a shit what time you show up, Jerk-off. Party starts at dark. And bring some alcohol or drugs, bitches—this ride ain’t free.” And then Larry’s friends join in: “Where’s the beef, bitches! Where’s the beef!” That’s their favorite saying now. You can hear them coming down the hallways yelling that out every day. Except they leave off “bitches” in the school. Jeremy nods at Larry, and we turn and walk away, ignoring his buddies.

  “Dude, I can’t believe we got invited to Larry’s party,” I say as we turn to leave, rubbing my molested hand, and we begin walking in the same direction as the two girls. Jeremy looks over at me with a look of disappointment on his face, and his eyes wander back to the two butts stuffed into skintight, faded 501 jeans.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  Jeremy isn’t as naïve as me, and he’s way cooler. He’s a halfback on our football team, and growing up with his older brother taught him how to deal with bullies and fight back if needed. Jeremy always wears the coolest clothes—Vans, 501s, and Ocean Pacific shirts. He also has an array of rock concert shirts his brother handed down to him. His favorite is a worn-out and faded black Metallica “Kill ’Em All” shirt. He realizes why we were invited, but on the other hand, there will be girls, and maybe Larry will be so preoccupied with trying to impress everyone else he won’t notice us. Wishful thinking. Either way, the reward is worth the risk, and there’s no way we’re going to miss that party. We turn east onto Hill Road, which is lined on both sides by Lombardy poplars and cottonwood trees. Areas of the sidewalk twist and bulge from the massive roots below, and we use them for bike jumps when we ride.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ◊

  I FIRST NOTICED THE female voice in my head when I was about nine years old. Back then, we lived in a shabby two-bedroom apartment that had gone through round after round of anemic cleaning as tenants came and went. In my bedroom, I peeled three different layers of paint off my wall; black, mint green, and white. At that time, my mom was in an abusive relationship with a man she met at a bar on State Street during a Saturday night, drunk fest. His name was Darren, and he was much younger than my mom. He said he’d been in the U.S. Navy, but when my mom met him, he was working as a line cook at Denny’s, a thankless job. My mom is strikingly beautiful and could have just about any man she wanted. I don’t know why she always picks such losers. Even worse, she picks abusive men, men who abuse her both physically and mentally. I don’t think she has very much self-esteem. After only one week of dating, Darren moved in with us. Bear, my dog, and I hated him. He tried to pretend to like me, but I could tell it was all for show. He detested Bear and was always threatening to “kill that dog.” Their relationship lasted about a month before my mom finally threw him out.

  I was sleeping in my bed with Bear next to me on a school night when I was suddenly jolted out of my dream by my mom’s desperate pleas for Darren to stop hitting her. Soon her quiet crying and begging turned to a full-throttle scream as Darren was whaling on her. Darren was screaming at the top of his lungs about how he hates her, does everything for her, and she doesn’t love him. He was drunk again. His fists crashed against her body so hard that I could count the number of hits from my room. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. Bear was now growling and scratching at my bedroom door. I knew if I opened my door, Bear would run to my mom’s room and try to get her attacker off of her. Unlike me, Bear was fearless. I was sure Darren would kill Bear, so my door remained closed. Frozen with fear, I curled up on my bed in the fetal position and cupped my hands over my ears to block out the chaos going on around me when I heard the voice—her voice. “I will let no harm come to you, Lance.”

  At that moment, I wasn’t able to process in my mind what was happening. I opened my eyes, and there was a beautiful woman with olive skin and long black hair hovering above me with a most calming smile on her face, her long, white lace dress flowing as if a gust of wind had kicked up in my room. Her head was so close to my bedroom ceiling I was afraid she was going to bump it. Suddenly the screams from my mom’s room and barks from Bear began to slowly fade away like a TV that’s turned off for the night, and all that’s left is the smallest flicker of white light at the center of the screen that then, too, disappears.

  I awaken, and I’m in a room, but it’s not my bedroom. This room is large, built out of stone and rock with smooth edges. The chamber is gray, dark, and cold, but oddly I feel safe and warm. Feet firmly planted on the ground, the woman in my bedroom is standing in front of me. She waves her hand for me to sit down on a crude wooden stool as she sits across from me, straightening the ruffles of her dress. I look around the room, and it’s bare except for two stools and an arched doorway with a crest masterfully crafted out of wood, with an ornate shield and two phoenixes. The details of the emblem are amazing and so realistic that I think the firebirds are actually moving. I stare intently at the armor shield and realize the phoenixes ARE really moving, wings flapping and their beaks opening and closing; they’re alive.

  Their eyes are intense as if they have homed in on their prey and are watching its every move. Mesmerized and curiou
s, I stand and begin to walk toward the door. Their eyes following me, and I realize I’m the prey. As I creep closer and closer, the intensity in the phoenixes’ eyes grow as they track me. I approach the halfway mark between my stool and the door, and the phoenixes’ sizes are rapidly increasing, and the wood begins cracking and splintering to the stone floor below. Flames emanate through the cracks, lighting the room, and now the fire of the phoenixes is all too real.

  I take the opportunity to scan the room with the new light, its spacious and vacant, except the two stools and the lone door. I glance up and can’t see the ceiling; it feels like it goes on forever. Before my foot takes another step, the woman is next to me, pulling me backward. Forcefully, she says, “Don’t go any closer; they’re sentinels.”

  She guides me back to my stool, and I obediently sit as she explains that this room is the portal between Adamah and Sheol, my world and a parallel world, good and evil. If the door is breached and the gateway opened, there will be no separation, and Adamah and Sheol will be intertwined. Erebus will dominate both worlds. She explains that a Council of Demonic Elders called Erebus is trapped in Sheol, and they have conscripted an evil and vile soul to open a rift between the two worlds.

  Like praetorians protecting their principal, the two phoenixes melt back into their sentry post so quietly that I don’t notice.

  I find myself gazing into the woman’s eyes, and for the first time, I notice how beautiful she is. I always thought my mom was the most beautiful woman in the world, but this woman sitting across from me is striking. My nine-year-old frame squirms on my stool, and I look down, embarrassed. She places her hand on top of mine, and I feel how soft and warm it is. “My name’s Emma, Lance, and you don’t need to be embarrassed,” she says, still holding my hand. “Yes, I know what you are thinking. I can hear your thoughts.” I feel my cheeks heating up and turning red at the thought of her reading my mind.