The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  “Uh, Janice, that’s not the way we planned it, either,” my father said.

  “Well, I’m not taking the blame for this.”

  “So Dad drinks,” observed Moss, taking up for Dad. “Big deal.”

  “It’s an occupational hazard,” I added. “And it could be worse. Dad could be a dentist. They’ve got suicidal tendencies.”

  My father cleared his throat. “It’s not just that, boys. You’ve probably noticed your mother and I haven’t exactly been getting along too well…”

  There was a quiet moment as we all digested Dad’s statement. This might have been the first direct reference to the cold war that had existed in our house for at least the last year or two.

  Tentatively, I broke the silence. “Everybody has their ups and downs…”

  “True. But we’ve been more down than up for some time now.”

  “And we all deserve better,” my mother summed up. “Our marriage is setting a bad example for you children.”

  “Yeah, for schizzle. Let’s hope you two do a better job on the divorce, dog,” said Moss.

  “Please don’t call me dog, Mr. Homie,” said Mom.

  Moss nodded. “Anyone want the last piece?”

  We all shook our heads and my brother blithely took the pizza, then cut it in half. He tossed a portion on my plate. “Better munch, bro. Never know where our next meal’s comin’ from, right?”

  Chapter Four

  Moss

  Moss is, and always will be, two years older than me. He got his name from a small town in California where my father worked for a month—Moss Landing. Dad says that if he’d had another son after me, his name would have been “Crash Landing.” Mom says over her dead body. Why she gave into him the first two times is a mystery to me, since relenting is not in her nature.

  While we both got enough of Dad’s height that we don’t get teased about our names, Moss and I wound up with Mom’s coloring: dark hair and eyes, and skin slow-roasted under the California sun where we spend as many hours as possible. Especially my brother.

  My parents gave Moss a skateboard for his fifth birthday. It must’ve been like when Tiger Woods got a golf club, or when Kobe Bryant got a basketball. Something that was meant to be. My brother is blessed with the three most important qualities in a skateboarder: balance, agility, and a high tolerance for pain. To Moss, the world is just a bunch of rails there for the grinding.

  Yeah, I know, the first-born is usually the anal worrier, but somehow my brother and I reversed roles on that. He’s chill and I stress—about grades, parents, ruptured appendices, venomous snakes, leprosy, girls, global warming, the national debt, the meaning of life, the meaning of death…

  Most of this is out of my control, though I still suffer some non-specific guilt. As evidence, I submit my recurring dream that I’ve done something to cause the destruction of the universe. It’s called the “big antibang.” The event has not yet occurred, but before it does, there’s still time for everyone to find out it’s my fault. Then I wake up. What an incredible relief that I haven’t personally destroyed the universe!

  As the little brother, I naturally tried to follow my sibling on the skateboard. My debut was not encouraging—I sprained a wrist. Then I got better—I broke an arm. Moss’s crew was impressed, but I wasn’t enjoying it. I switched to the unicycle instead. That really wowed them.

  I spent one entire summer trying to ride that thing out of our driveway, every day for two, three, four hours. The sidewalk was sixty feet away. I never reached it. Moss and his friends would grind up and down the street, offering advice. They had never seen anyone with so much stubbornness and so little talent.

  I have the ability to stick with something much longer than most people, which my parents say is a gift. They point out that every great success is bred of determination, persistence, and loads of failure. Of course, big losers share the same qualities, pouring resources down wishful ratholes until they exhaust both time and money. So we’ll have to see how this all works out.

  It’s not that I have great self-confidence, because I don’t. I do, however, have an overactive left hemisphere. It continually blessed—or cursed—me with inspiration for improvement. How could I enhance my performance to get another inch, another foot? The brainstorms would pelt my parched ego with hope. Reinvigorated, I’d straddle the cycle, push off and pedal, expecting that would be the day Moss and his friends would watch me disappear over the horizon.

  There’s a Greek character named Sisyphus who is consigned to Tartarus, the depths of the Greek underworld. He has an eternity to complete a single task: rolling a boulder up a high hill. Each time he approaches the summit, after a long, agonizing climb, the boulder rolls back to the bottom, smashing him flat on its way down. Then he starts over.

  That was me: Sisyphus of the unicycle. That’s how I spent July…and August…and the beginning of September. Just trying to get to the end of the driveway.

  On Labor Day morning, I came out and Moss was riding the unicycle. The other guys were eating donuts, watching him wheel up and down the street. He was riding forwards, backwards—he jumped the curb. He circled around and said, “Throw me a donut.”

  “What kind?”

  “Any kind. Just throw it.”

  They tossed him a chocolate glazed. He caught it, circled around and said, “Throw me another.”

  This sinker was a powdered cake. He began to juggle the pastries while he pedaled in a circle. When he completed a circuit, they flipped him another. Then they did it one more time. After several revolutions, Moss was juggling four donuts and riding the unicycle.

  After a few moments of this, he upped the ante, somehow taking bites out of the donuts as he juggled. The jelly donut leaked crimson goo as it flew through the air, but Moss didn’t miss. He kept riding and juggling until he had consumed all four donuts. His friends were jubilant. “Drop out, homes! Join the circus and hook up with the bearded lady.”

  Then one of them saw me. “Hey, the grom’s up, man.”

  Moss hopped off the unicycle and walked it over to me. “Sorry, Moon, mighta got it a little sticky.”

  I looked at him. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “I dunno. I’d tell you if I could, but…it’s just something I can do.”

  “And I can’t.”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s obvious.”

  That was it for the unicycle. I put it in the garage and never touched it again. Moss didn’t either. I went back to sports with balls—baseball, basketball, football. I’m not particularly good at them either, but at least I can get out of the driveway.

  Chapter Five

  Mom and Dad

  I can’t deny that Dad was an alcoholic. It’s not like he started the day with a beer, but he almost always ended it with a few of them. Or some Jack, or Johnny, or one of his other distilled pals. He wouldn’t say no to a glass or four of vino. Dad wasn’t the kind of drinker who played favorites: he simply didn’t want any of his bottles to feel left out, so they all got their shot.

  Abusing anything is unappealing, but Dad’s drinking was nowhere near as offensive as Mom’s smoking. For years we put up with the cigarette stench and her hacking cough. Moss and I constantly nagged her to stop, but Dad would tell us to give her a break. He didn’t like her nasty habit, but he liked her.

  Smoking is not the easiest thing for a teacher to do, since you can’t indulge on a school campus. But where there’s a will, there’s a way. Mom hung with this old second grade teacher, Mable Walsh. Ms. Walsh was so hardcore that she actually moved to an apartment near the school so she’d have someplace to light up. The two butt buddies would shoot over to Mable’s place every recess and lunch, have their smokes and grade papers, or whatever it is teachers do when there are no kids around.

  Then Mable retired. Top of the to-do list was the trip to France she’d always dreamed of. This could’ve been a problem for Mom, if Mable hadn’t given her a
key to the apartment. The fish got fed while Mom got her nicotine fix.

  Mom hung on Mable’s every postcard, and I could see the tears in her eyes when she read them. France was all Mable had hoped it would be, and more. After thirty years of nagging seven-year-olds to take it easy on the tattling, she had been incredibly ready for something new, and the next chapter of her life offered big possibilities for exploring the world—and herself. She couldn’t wait to start painting…to learn French…to cook coq au vin.

  With all this good news, Mable’s appearance when she returned was a shock. Instead of plump and sassy with crêpe suzettes, she looked gaunt and grey. Two months later, Mable Walsh was dead of cancer.

  It hit Mom hard, but she didn’t cry in front of us. Mable’s sister came out from Buffalo, and Mom helped her clean out the apartment and pack up Mable’s stuff. Moss and I felt bad and actually went over there to help. But when we got to the door, we could hear the two of them in there weeping and carrying-on. It spooked us and we couldn’t go in. They were at it for three days. Then Mable’s sister went back to Buffalo.

  That’s when Mom kicked the habit.

  She didn’t say anything about it, she just stopped. We didn’t say anything about it, either. Not me. Not Moss. Not Dad. It should’ve made us happy, but it just made us nervous.

  Turns out we had good reason. Six months later, when she felt she had it licked, she started in on Dad and his drinking. Said he was setting a bad example for us. Truth was, after watching Mom and Dad, there wasn’t much danger of me or Moss wanting to smoke or drink. They’d done a fine job of making both those habits look revolting. But since Mom had given up her vice, she figured it was time for Dad to give up his. Except he wasn’t ready to do that.

  He tried to laugh it off. He liked to point out that all his best customers were alcoholics, so it would be hypocritical of him not to drink. When he’d say that, Mom would go into a blind rage. She’d take out her fury by cleaning the house in a way that made you feel sorry for the floor, the rugs, the toilet. When she did housework before, it was like she was restoring a cherished painting, removing a layer of grime and letting its radiance shine through; now it was as if she was punishing the place for getting dirty. Our normally spotless house became so dazzling that for a year we no longer really lived in it. We merely existed, like decorative props in a model home.

  The writing was on the wall, even though Mom kept washing it off. I took a shot at it, too.

  Chapter Six

  The Scariest Person in My Life Is Me

  “I think you’d really like this. Come on Friday.” The girl who shoved a flier into Moss’s hands was a couple years older than him, and hot. She graced him with a dazzling smile. My brother generally attracted attention from the babes, but this one was so smokin’ she set off the fire alarm. Moss was momentarily tongue-tied and stared at the paper. I jumped in to help.

  “Will you be there?”

  “Do you want me to be?”

  “Duh. And I think he does, too.” I elbowed Moss.

  “What, precisely, might you be selling, Miss?” Moss waved the flier. “Bottom line.”

  “The secret of happiness. Fulfillment of your dreams. The means to achieve your every goal.”

  Moss looked at me. “Oh, man, this is for that mop that cleans under beds.”

  I shrugged. “Or maybe the toenail clipper for dogs.”

  Moss looked back at the girl. “Are we warm?”

  “Buddhism,” she crooned. “Reveal your Buddha nature and control the unlimited potential of your destiny.”

  “That’s it? Nothing for the kitchen?”

  The girl giggled and gave Moss a flirtatious shove.

  “This would probably count as our monthly dose,” I said.

  “Ya think Mom’d go for it?”

  “Don’t know why not.”

  Moss looked at our comely salesperson. “But you better be there, Miss…”

  “Gretchen. See you on Friday, boys.” She turned and started to walk away, then called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your mom.”

  We took in the view as Gretchen exited. Moss looked at me.

  “The momster could use some enlightenment, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Does a Buddha shit in the woods?”

  The Buddhist center was not far away, on the corner of Fairfax and Venice, which helped us persuade Mom to give it a chance. The fact that we had instigated this affair lent suspicion, however, and as we walked in, Mom warily examined the small room.

  I’d been expecting something kung fu-esque, with bearded Chinese monks in flowing robes dispensing wisdom to shaven-headed disciples seated on straw mats. Maybe some incense—karate or Zen archery if we were lucky.

  Instead, it was a small conference room filled with rows of chairs facing an altar decorated with bits of greenery and a scroll inscribed with Chinese characters. The walls were bare, except for a tacky poster proclaiming the “Year of Youth!” Alliteration tends to rub me the wrong way. “Gargantuan Giveaway Galore!” No, you keep it.

  About thirty people sat in the seats, chanting a mantra in a pleasant drone. Long accustomed to not understanding a word of religious proceedings, I felt right at home.

  Gretchen saw us enter and crossed to greet us. Connecting the dots, Mom gave a slight nod of understanding.

  “Janice Landing,” said Mom, shaking Gretchen’s hand. “Apparently sex sells, even in religion.”

  Gretchen shrugged. “If you meet Buddha on the road, ask her for a date.” We all looked blankly at her. “Buddhist humor. In about a year, you’ll get it.”

  Gretchen had enlisted a few of the regulars to fill us in on the protocols. She laid claim to Moss, and I was pleased to find myself with Claudia, a petite Hispanic girl about Moss’s age. My mother was assigned a cheerful Japanese woman.

  Claudia opened a thin prayer book and led me through the mantra with her finger. Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I looked at her blankly. “Nam-myoho-renge-kyo isn’t a high-stakes contract you need to take to a lawyer. It’s just a little chat between you and the universe.”

  “So…the universe will talk back?”

  Claudia held up a cautionary finger. “If you’re listening. Give it a try.”

  You wouldn’t think it would be hard to repeat a few words over and over—but within a minute I was gasping. I made a conscious effort to breathe more frequently, noting the rhythms of the others around me as they inhaled. Many rubbed prayer beads and put surprising effort into their chanting, like they were really getting something done.

  Claudia stopped me and directed my attention to the scroll on the altar. “That’s the gohonzon. It helps you focus. Look at the top, the vertical line in the middle. See the white space?”

  “Yeah…”

  “That’s the gateway to everything. Try to focus there.”

  “What am I focusing?”

  “Your intentions. Your causes.”

  I looked at her blankly. She thought a moment, then said, “What you want.”

  “I should think about what I want?” I had just gotten here, and it seemed presumptuous to be starting off with a wish list.

  “You’re not going to get it if you don’t think about it,” Claudia said matter-of-factly. “And remember, you’re never begging. You’re just declaring your intentions.”

  We chanted like that for several minutes, though it felt much longer to me. Then the leader struck a metal bowl a couple of times and everyone turned their attention to a short man with a moustache who introduced himself as Gus. He explained that he’d be our moderator for the evening, and suggested that we all introduce ourselves and tell the group which superhero we’d choose to be. He also asked to know how long each of us had been “practicing,” or, if we were a guest, who had brought us.

  I hate this stuff. Schmoozing, ice breaking, fellowshipping. Mom doesn’t mind attention of any sort, and Moss takes after her in
that respect, but I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. I listened distractedly, trying to come up with a superhero who wouldn’t sound too lame. Everybody wanted to fly, which narrowed the choices if I wanted to be original.

  It was Moss’s turn. “Hey, I’m Moss, with the moms and the bro. We was fetched by Gretch. At the mall buying some kicks, and she was all, ‘Hey little boy, how ’bout some enlightenment?’”

  The group busted-up, laughing and hollering, the ice truly broken.

  “Moss, you’ve been shakubukued by the best of them,” laughed Gus.

  Moss looked around theatrically. “Where’s the camera, dude?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not a practical joke.”

  “To shakubuku someone is to introduce them to our Buddhism,” said Gretchen. “Who’s your superhero?”

  “Gotta go with the Silver Surfer. He’s the closest thing to a skateboarder, and you know, I gotta roll.”

  It was my turn. “I’m Moon.” Everyone was staring at me. I tried to collect myself. “Uh, well, Moss just explained the Gretchen connetchen…” The play-on-words was accidental, but several people chuckled, and I relaxed. “You know, superheroes are some of my favorite people, so it’s hard to single out just one of them…” There were nods of agreement. “Maybe I’ll go with Daredevil. You have to admire him, ’cause he’s blind and he still kicks ass.”

  “Get down with nam-myoho-renge-kyo, and you’ll be kickin’ ass, too,” said a big guy near me.

  “Karmically speaking,” added Gus.

  Mom said she’d like to be one of the Desperate Housewives. Moss and I cringed, but the crowd thought it was funny.

  We watched a short video explaining the history of the religion, which was called Nichiren Buddhism. Mom had gotten to the lip-pursing point of the evening. “They’re going to try to sell us a timeshare…” she muttered.

  “What?” I whispered.

  “This is a pitch. Nothing but a hard sell. Watch,” she whispered. “They’re going to have a come-on—something free to rope in the mooches. Then they’ll make you a deal and try to close you.”