The Alien Club

By Trel Sidoruk

From your first kiss, to your last stand. The Alien Club is a coming-of-age novel that follows a 10-year-old boy forging his destiny without a destination in the summer of '79. The world outside his front door is an alien landscape.  The woods down the street from his dysfunctional, downtrodden home are the Wild West and the new Sheriff just left town…

 

His physical, emotional, and mental capacities will not just be tested over 3 days, but more times than he cares to admit, bested.  

 

Peer pressure, drugs, violence, love, fear, hate and eternal happiness team up to test the child's loyalty to friends and family.

Will his soul emerge the phoenix from the fire, or burn in hell?  Hopefully you'll laugh more than you'll cry.

The story is meant to discuss real-life issues that make or break a human entering adulthood.  Child abuse is a main theme, as is peer pressure, bullying, and consequences for one's actions, regardless of the intent.  based on true events.  

 

If the book had grandparents they would be, Lord of the Flies, The Outsiders, Goonies, The Body (The narative would be closer to the movie adaptation, Stand by Me) 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mo Peanuts
• Release date: Jan 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997151305

Book preview

The Alien Club

When everything is your first, you’re an alien.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2016 – All rights reserved to Trel W. Sidoruk

Published by Mo Peanuts

Your Dream, Our Team, Full Steam!

www.MoPeanuts.com

ISBN # 978-0-9971513-1-2

The Alien Club

Written by Trel W. Sidoruk

Illustrated by Aleksandra Klepacka

Edited by Lauren Sidoruk

& Isabella Rose Sidoruk

Dedication

I have many to thank for this book. To my loving wife, Lauren: your love of language and unwavering support were vital to this book seeing the light of day. To my amazing children, Isabella, Madison, and Logan: your insight and enthusiasm turned an arduous endeavor into a joyous journey.

Though you were the inspiration for the book, it is my genesis that not only spawned the story, but made it possible for me to conceptualize it in written form. For that I must thank my first family, all of whom have since left me for the greater journey. To my mother, father, and sister: I could never have become the father, friend, and husband I am today without your love and unfiltered humor.

Libra, my Wonder Twin and greatest loss, the irony of your nickname, Sister Soul, would become painfully apparent once a piece of my soul died along with you. I have never accepted your death, which I have been told countless times is paramount to the healing process. In my defense, I fear that if I allow the pain of your loss to subside, our memories will soon follow.

To that end, I choose to hold tight the hurt with the love and care I would a newborn, until I, too, am in God’s embrace.

Thank you for always watching my back, lifting me up, and, through your death, solidifying a truth that now guides and comforts me throughout the remainder of this journey.

‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. - Alfred Lord Tennyson

Dear Witness,

As a tree falling in the woods does not exist if it falls on deaf ears, a self-evident truth does not exist if we choose to turn a blind eye.

Within The Alien Club, I forced incredible circumstances onto the characters, leaving them no choice but to confront the fears and demons that reign within, affording them an opportunity to rise and grow via their souls that most are never lucky enough to endure.

Silence is a coward's war cry.

TWS

Table of Contents

Prologue: Summer Sizzle

Chapter 1: Alien Origins

Chapter 2: My Enemy’s Enemy, is My Ally

Chapter 3: Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire

Chapter 4: Down the Rabbit Hole

Chapter 5: Logistics and Planning

Chapter 6: Dinner and a Show

Chapter 7: Night Mission Bravo

Chapter 8: A View from Afar

Chapter 9: Dante’s Inferno

Chapter 10: A Course Correction

Chapter 11: Swing for the Fences

Chapter 12: First Contact

Chapter 13: The Final Leg

Chapter 14: Rendezvous

Chapter 15: The Morning After

Chapter 16: Everything Comes Full Circle

Chapter 17: Wonder Twins’ Powers, Activate!

Chapter 18: The Face that Launched a Thousand Ships

Chapter 19: Time to Rise, Shine, and Walk the Line

Chapter 20: Outmanned and Outmaneuvered

Chapter 21: A Brave New World

Prologue

Summer Sizzle

The summer of 1979 didn’t go down as the hottest summer in history, most likely because the east coast didn’t have sweeping blackouts or the accompanying riots that usually ensue in the inner cities. Nor did the summer break any records of major significance. And come to think of it, Long Island, which is where I’m from, didn’t even have a summer that extended well into October, or a drought that destroyed the potato and corn crops.

Matter of fact, the summer of ‘79 was a tale of two summers. And though the first part of the summer didn’t break any official records for heat or drought, it did break our collective will with the highest ‘miserable’ index anyone could remember. An oppressively hot and steam-sauna humid affair that drained the soul of all living things, including the sun, which knelt to the horizon in a pool of its own blood each evening, eagerly awaiting the perpetually tardy moon to relieve it for the upcoming night shift.

Resources were tapped on a statewide level, from police and firefighters, to the actual water table itself, which in turn, meant local authorities had kept nonessential water services to a minimum. The resulting water shortages made the properties look even sadder than the humans they housed. Cars were so dirty, many looked abandoned; once lush lawns were now brown; flowers wilted, and vegetable gardens were left fallow, no longer even weeded.

Our house was especially downtrodden in the first half of summer, for it wasn’t until ‘84 that our next-door neighbors, the Kreagans, purchased central air, meaning we’d have to wait five more years before we inherited their old window unit. Thus, the only reprieve from the heat happened twice a day. Once in the morning and once before bedtime, my thrifty father would turn on our house’s massive attic fan to suck in as much air as possible within the self-imposed ten-minute run cycle, effectively making the outside ambient temperature our temporary thermostat.

Though it wouldn’t be considered a cool summer breeze by most, those of us who were attempting to sleep in bedrooms cresting 102 degrees, considered the 10-degree temperature drop an arctic weather event. In preparation for the Big Suck as my father so affectionately referred to it, we’d open every window and door in the house and stand in front of our favorite egress with the anticipation of a child waiting in front of a fireplace on Christmas Eve. Though the brisk air didn’t bring Santa himself, it did bring us joy, even if that joy was short lived. The powerful fan made us feel like vehicles at the end of an automated carwash, blow-drying the sweat and stank off every square inch of our electrolyte depleted flesh vessels, as we basked in its industrial strength glory with our mouths gaped open like dead fish on hooks.

On the most soul-wilting of days, my mother would line the kitchen windows with various frozen goods in hopes of lowering the incoming temperature by one or two degrees. Whether one stood in the kitchen, and bravely inhaled the damp, wafting cocktail of frozen pea soup and concentrated orange juice, or stood on the cold tile floor of a bathroom, everyone stood and faced an opening with arms and heads raised, making sure maximum body and clothing surfaces were dried in the short reprieve. With eyes closed to keep the powerful winds from drying them out, I found myself meditating in the mornings and contemplating life in the evenings. I remember on more than one occasion envisioning what an inmate must endure during the waning moments of his one break a day outside his cell. Return to the bed you made and lie in it. Lights out!

As fleeting as the ten minutes of sweatlessness was, the time between sucks seemed like an eternity. With no one riding a bike or even mustering enough energy for a simple game of hopscotch, the streets were abandoned. Yards were as still as Monet paintings with sports and war games put on indefinite hiatus. Instead, the occasional child shuffled with shoulders slumped to and fro places of shade, displaying the decisiveness of a leaf blowing in the wind.

Then the rains came. A six-day deluge. Pounding rains from a tropical storm that forged its way up the coast. It had survived the harrowing exodus from the equator, arriving on the Island with such ferocity that it was exhausted by the third day and needed three additional days of rest before it could mosey its way up to Vermont. And as God rested on the seventh day and looked lovingly on his beautiful creation, the seventh day of our Island’s rebirth was the most beautiful day not officially on record, and still is to this very day.

The week of August 10th was a time for celebrations and backyard barbeques. Every get-together, party, function, and game that had been put on indefinite hold was crammed into that week. At the center of my world was the one pool in the neighborhood.

The Pelagatti’s had a 10x25 foot above-ground oval which managed to sap what was left of the sun’s summer fury. Hot, wet and salty was the visceral affair one experienced when seven Kool-Aid-logged children shared a large tub for a day’s refresher. An occasional super-heated jet stream emanating from the same corner your best friend was comatose in only intensified the pointless games and frenetic frolics. Being that Christian Pelagatti, aka Kring - short for Kris Kringle - was one of my two best friends, life was good, for once we left his lavish bathing facilities, we were afforded ice cold drinks in his house, which was kept at an FDA-approved temperature for storing meats.

Once the weather had changed for the good, our neighborhood became a thriving metropolis, packed with parents, parties, pets, and politics. The social explosion was clear as day, even throughout the night. So was the exodus of youth to all places outdoors. Kids flocked to the streets and backyards, playing whatever games or sports that could be organized the quickest. I played like a gambler on a hot streak using his wedding ring as collateral. Whatever was available was my game, and I planned on winning, or not going home. I wasn’t alone, of course, and just like the casino, the House always won—meaning playing in a neutral territory was always preferred.

Now that virgin territories were being settled at a rate not seen since the colonization of America, Wilder’s Woods had become the Wild West. Wilder’s was a 27-acre wooded lot, purchased by the man who created 3D film, who upon his death sometime in the last century, bequeathed it to his hermit widow. It abutted our street, La Rue (which is French for The Road), and several other neighborhoods. Wilder’s topography and centralized location made it the new frontier and even wilder than the name, Wilder’s, would connote. A series of shoddily erected trading posts where all forms of debauchery were shined upon, from drinking and smoking to pornography and thievery, sprouted faster than the shanty towns of the Gold Rush.

As was the case in the Wild West, posses were the only true form of justice in Wilder's, thus safety in numbers was paramount to one’s enjoyment of all that The Woods afforded a well-heeled, outdoor enthusiast. The social clubs erupted faster in Wilder’s than the vices they racketeered.

Power was at a premium, as it always is when new lands meet new people. There must be a top rung to every ladder, a point to every pyramid, an alpha male for every pack.

I, just like all the kids on the block, had visions of grandeur, but unlike the average snot-sucking sissy sizing me up, I had the brains and charisma to actualize those dreams. I also had the ear of the little person portion of our neighborhood. I carried their hopes and dreams like a covered wagon heading west—a true representative of the people. It was all going smashingly well until Jim Kreagan, my other best friend, quashed my latest attempt at unifying the belts, when he unceremoniously kicked me out of the club that I’d co created with him at the beginning of the summer…

Chapter 1

Alien Origins

My parents weren’t just from another generation, they were one generation removed from another land. My mother, Patricia Joyce Cognati, was born to a first-generation Italian- German family setting down roots in Long Island's first planned community: Levittown. Levittown got its name from the builder, Levitt & Sons, Inc., and just like the name, the town wasn't inspiring or extravagant. Designed to accommodate the needs—not the wants—of the returning GI's from WWII and their soon-to-be bursting at the seams families, Levittown wasn't just frugal, it was forgettable. Carbon copy houses on postage stamp properties, crammed along arrow-straight streets, made fancy fences and bright trim the only means of distinguishing one's residence from the rest of the neighborhood.

My mother's father, Zelotes Augustine Cognati, was a jovial, hardworking Italian immigrant, who was well-liked in the neighborhood. He ate like he joked—a lot... and died of a massive heart attack when my mother was sixteen. The funeral was well attended, but not well funded. As a rule of thumb, first generation immigrants had nothing in the way of savings other than some cash sewn into the mattress and some jarred foods in the basement, with my mother's family having less than the average due to their new home purchase. Zelotes' Army pension couldn't keep the lights on, let alone pay the mortgage, and the manufacturing facility located in Bethpage where Zelotes slaved ten hours a day, six days a week, only offered a week's pay as a death benefit.

My mother's mother, Helen, soon had to remarry to pay the bills, and her new husband offered some security, but little love. Carl was the antithesis of Zelotes. Where Zelotes was jovial, Carl was cold. Where Zelotes worked hard, Carl was living off a city janitor's pension, and the money he made selling off his parents' potato farm to builders out East. Unlike Zelotes, who had professed his love for my grandmother on their wedding day, Carl made sure to remind my grandmother on their wedding day that a wife fed her husband food, not lip. A widower himself, Carl wanted to listen to baseball games on the radio and not a teenage girl in his waning years and gave my mother the cold shoulder and disapproving grunts any time she uttered a word.

Though my grandmother never asked my mother to leave, she didn't ask her to stay when my mother laid her bold plans at her feet. Upon Grandma Helen’s acquiescence, a brokenhearted 17-year-old Patricia mustered enough coverage and conviction to graduate Levittown High School early and move to Brooklyn with a friend, where she waited tables, as well as for her chance encounter with Mr. Right. The move was hastily planned and poorly executed, but my mother's fighting spirit kept the dream alive, until Mr. Right Now came strolling through the door on a muggy May day.

Walter Semenov was born in 1929 to a warm, quiet, and stoically beautiful mother, Catherine, and to a cold, ugly, abusive, drunk—Dimitri. In later years, my Aunt Rose told my sister and me that my grandfather, Dimitri Semenov, had been someone of ill repute within the Russian Tsar's royal guard, and that he had performed atrocities against innocent peasants at the whims of the Romanov royal family. Fleeing Russia in 1917 at the onslaught of the Bolshevik revolution with nothing but the clothes on his back and the chip on his shoulder, Dimitri despised his new station in life, and blamed everyone but himself for his predicament. He beat Walter, my father, almost as often as he drank, which was three times a day—morning, noon and night…

In addition to having an unloving, violent drunk, war criminal for a father, Walter had the untimely luck of being born on the day the Great Depression began, Thursday October 24th, 1929. My grandfather, of course, pinned the entire global economic meltdown on my father, and to a lesser extent my grandmother for giving birth to him, and beat them both accordingly.

Dimitri was a man of few words, so he made sure they had as much impact as his fists, explaining to my father in great detail on his third birthday that he was conceived because two of his three older siblings, who he had never met, had died of Yellow Fever before he was born, and that Dimitri knew my Aunt Rose would never have the financial wherewithal to take care of him when he was elderly.

A product of his environment, my father was tough as nails, smart as a whip, and cheap as the day was long. He knew no love from a man other than an elderly neighbor who lived down the hall from them at 304 10th Street. Dennis Shapiro showed my father how to play baseball, and eventually taught him to read, write, and appreciate the American Dream. My father soaked up the attention given to him by a caring male like a sea sponge. He eventually graduated from New York University with honors after playing minor league baseball for the Yankees and enlisting in the Korean War.

Dennis was so beloved by my father, that my father wanted to name me after Dennis. My mother never loved the name, because a sexual predator in her neighborhood named Dennis Devine, had dressed up every year as Santa Claus and made all the kids in the neighborhood sit on his lap and tell them what they wanted for Christmas. Years later, many of those same children, now adults, wanted justice, only to find Dennis had relocated to somewhere in Central America to become a missionary.

With the name issue rearing its ugly head upon my birth, a deal was struck at the 11th hour in the delivery room on January 28th, 1969 at 2:25am. A deal that could only be created and consummated in the free love, free thought era. My mother and father agreed to combine my mother's father's name and Dennis' name into one name: Denzel—’Den’ from Dennis and ‘Zel’ from Zelotes. Though at the time the name was well regarded in black communities throughout America’s inner cities, it wasn't exactly the ‘Chang’ of China in white suburbia.

Starting out in white suburbia with a black man’s name was not helped by the fact that I had a massive orange afro. Though my name and nappy hair were as black as you got, my blotchy, butt-white, freckled skin, wrapped over a frail, baby-fat body composition, coupled with subpar athletic skills, was anything but what my ignorant perception of a young black man should be.

It wasn’t all bad news. My superior intellect and sizable height advantage over the average ten-year-old fooled many adults into believing I was in my early teens. I wasn’t a teenager, of course, but that didn’t stop me from hanging out with them every chance I got. Being one of the younglings, meant I was continually fighting an uphill battle for a say in the day’s events. Therefore, it meant the world to me not to be picked last for a game, sport, or club, and thus I was willing and able to do anything asked of me to make the team. After years of teasing, taunting, and tribulations triggered by the chasm in age, I knew that the team I needed to make and lead was Team Denzel, which meant I needed to create a fan base fast.

The problem was my immediate neighborhood was comprised mostly of kids much older than I; therefore, I needed to figure out a way to brainwash them into accepting me as their supreme leader. After years of deliberating my dilemma, I came to the conclusion that war was the great unifier. When the threat of war is imminent, people oddly enough begin to expect more of each other and less of their leaders—less brains, experience, morals, ethics, vision, etc.… thus there was an outside chance my lesser age would be considered an attribute and not an albatross. If everything fell into place, before I fell on my face, I could transform the despondent, destitute, lawless tribes of Wilder’s into an euphoric utopia.

Now that the goal was set, I needed to galvanize an army, but without land, resources, or even people to proposition, the Herculean challenge felt farfetched. As fate would have it, my next-door neighbor, Jim Kreagan, also suffered from delusions of grandeur. When I approached him shortly before dusk along our poorly defined property line, I was somewhat sluggish since my digestive system was garnering the majority of my body’s blood supply in a vain attempt to break down the two medium rare charcoal-grilled cheeseburgers that I had just gorged myself on.

Luckily for us, Jim had already spent considerable time deliberating a course of action, and being a history buff like his father, he'd worked through much of the minutia that neighborhood politics would present. One such glaring issue was building momentum. Enough momentum that the kids on our block would have no time to measure their decision in following us. We weren't the Alpha and Beta males of our packs respectively, but rather the runts, who were easily dismissed based on a myriad of measurables that we severely lacked: size, strength, speed, and, of course, fighting ability. Basically, any of the key attributes that would comprise an awesome D&D warrior character, we were deficient in. If that didn't put us far enough behind the genetic 8-ball, Jim had the dexterity of someone in an infomercial, and I was three years from puberty, meaning anyone with pubic hair, or a girlfriend, would most likely laugh at us.

We did have significant resources thanks to Jim. His garage attic was a shelter that kids could access without the prying eyes of adults. The unimpeded access to a secret club would be a boon for recruiting. Upon Jim's offering of his space, he immediately and emphatically demanded that I too, bring something worthy to the table. I offered up food and drink and when pressed further, offered some of my parent's booze. I knew they drank so much that they wouldn't know what was going down their throats versus out the back door, so it wasn't as big of a deal as I made it out to be. He seemed to relax somewhat when I agreed to the hard alcohol, but still felt compelled to add an abrupt, You better not renege like a bitch when it's time to shine.

I made assurances that the supplies would arrive unencumbered, and Jim offered some additional essentials without my pressing, i.e. a butane lighter, porno mags, and some loose change to start our coffers. I had never started a club before, but felt the impromptu process was going quite smoothly, until our first roadblock presented itself: a hook. We needed a ‘wow’ factor to captivate the community. Recruits may want to stop in to check out the new digs and sample the free delicacies, but what would keep them coming back for more? What would entice them to switch allegiances for good? We had already begrudgingly admitted we weren't cool enough to attract a fan base on our own, so we desperately needed someone or something that was. After staring at each other for what seemed like an eternity, Jim rolled his eyes, You got one thing to do, and goose eggs—I knew I should never have involved you in my plans.

Flabbergasted, I met his disdain with discourse, Your plan? I brought you into this, because I felt sorry for you!

Sorry for me? Where would you have your sorry club without me?

I have plenty of places I can put it.

The only place you have that's big enough to fit half the neighborhood without your Dad finding out is your Mom's vagina.

Screw you Kreagan! I'd rather have a club of one than have a club with you in it.

You do have a club of one. One inch. Oh snap!

Even though I was the butt of the jokes, I had to admit that both were well timed and delivered, and my lack of a rebuttal was a clear indication that I was acknowledging as much. That said, Jim’s brazen verbal beatdown was surely spurred by his knowledge of my compromised condition, therefore I’d have to measure my words moving forward, making sure I didn’t write a check my ass couldn’t cash later. As the full belly and the sequestered brainpower dedicated to solving Wilder’s riddles overtaxed my body’s resources, I found standing unnecessary, and decided to ask Jim to retire to the small concrete stairs and stoop that led to the side of my garage. When I groggily gazed in Jim’s direction, I realized he had been awaiting a snappy comeback to his viciously, uncalled-for mother joke, and when he saw the blank stare of someone preoccupied with deeper concerns, he was overcome by a mixture of jubilation and frustration. Well, if you're going to just stand there like my Alien doll, I'd rather go play with the doll. At least it makes a noise when I press its back. Speaking of frightening creatures with two mouths, your Mom—

That's it! I snapped as I lunged for his shoulder.

Jim tried to simultaneously jump back and swipe at my hand to counter what he believed to be a violent attack, incited by his unrelenting one-liners. I was overcome with emotion for sure, but it was the intense sensation of joy that accompanied prayers being answered. Before I could put two and two together, he’d fallen hard on his back, gawking helplessly in horror at his impending assailant. I was frozen. Regaining some of his senses, he began to attack from his back by bicycle-kicking at my legs. Stunned by the erratic events unfolding, I barely stumbled back in time, avoiding a catastrophic knee injury. I'll kill you Semenov!

What the hell are you doing, freak?!?! You almost broke my leg!

You were going to kick me while I’m down, and I should be worried about your leg?

You’re insane!

You're a dirty fighter! You couldn't win if we were both standing! Back up, and I'll show you!

Why? Do you want to fight me?

Says the guy who just tried to land a cheap shot?

What are you talking about?

You didn't just try to knock me out, because I owned you in a verbal spar?

What?

Jim could tell I was genuinely confused and had zero desire to hurt him. Regardless of my intent, the emotional toll of the one-sided fight had flushed his face and welled his eyes. Even from the now seven feet that distanced us, I could see Jim's eyes were redder than a dog's dick.

The Alien Club, I announced hastily. We'll call it The Alien Club, and use your doll as a recruiting tool. It's the coolest toy I've ever seen, and everyone in the neighborhood thinks so, too. Ever since your birthday party, that's all anyone can talk about.

You want to name the club after a doll?

"No, I want