A Summertime Journey

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
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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 asked,” 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
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“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