He followed with a kick flip, a heel flip, and a varial flip, where the board both spins and flips—each trick building in difficulty from the previous one. What made Moss a great skater was not just the degree of difficulty of what he attempted, though that was very high. It was the style and ease with which he landed every trick, making the board dance while following a fluid line. This section was like a gunslinger twirling his pistols, showing off his dexterity before he blew everyone away.
All the while, Moss was skating slightly downhill and picking up speed, heading point blank at a brick wall. As he landed the varial he abruptly pivoted ninety degrees, dragging an index finger along the wall’s face to show how close he had come to impact.
The four people witnessing this loosed four different expletives. One of them stuck his head into the bar, and a few seconds later a flood of customers poured out the door, some still holding their drinks, eager to see what the fuss was about.
They didn’t have long to wait. Moss was just about done scaling a series of handicapped ramp switchbacks to a bank building next door. Other customers had to ascend—and descend—a flight of about twenty steps to reach the bank’s entrance, which had a façade adorned with columns like a Greek temple. Moss slalomed through the pillars picking up speed, going faster and faster, the god of skateboarding rolling through the Parthenon. Then he slowed, veered toward the handrail, and went airborne.
The handrails in most competitions are maybe ten feet long, but this one was much, much longer, and it was do-or-die. Once he committed to the trick Moss either had to grind the entire distance or suffer a gory fall onto the cement steps of the staircase, since there was no bailout available.
My brother did not study academic science, but he was physics in action. He and his board were a diagonal vector—a force with direction—about to abruptly change course into a sheer vertical slide. To do this, he slightly pivoted body and board to execute a frontside smith grind. He took the rail between the wheels of the back trucks, the front of the board dangling precariously off the rail. His knees flexed and hands splayed to the sides, he shifted his weight back like a surfer plummeting down a wave face—as much a posture of artistic expression as one of perfect balance. His face showed dead calm with a trace of a smile. “Steez” the skaters called it. Style with ease.
Moss stuck the dismount and a cheer went up from the crowd, who had been holding its breath throughout the trick. A guy next to me murmured, “That’s unreal.”
“Not yet,” I whispered.
Next to the bank was a post office parking lot, empty on a Saturday evening. Moss headed for the lot as the crowd ran to keep up with him. There were maybe forty bar patrons, some half in the bag, but no one wanted to miss this.
The US government had provided for his needs, installing a tasty array of raised concrete planters on the premises. Moss ground their ledges one after another, unleashing a display of the hottest street skating trickery. If he didn’t kickflip into the trick, then he flipped out of it, his board rotating and spiraling, effortlessly mounting the ledges and grinding on every part of the deck, wheels, and trucks. I had seen my brother do this many times, and the ease with which he landed these tricks belied their true difficulty.
A decorative planter bed bordered the parking lot. Moss skated wide, picked up speed and sailed over the shrubbery with ease. He angled to the periphery of the sidewalk and jumped a trash can. Upon landing, he immediately veered left to avoid smashing into a lamppost, drawing a howl from the people who rushed to follow him.
He was headed back to the bank. I thought I knew what he’d do next. I waved the crowd away from the staircase, hoping I was wrong and he wouldn’t try it. But I was right.
Moss gained the landing and skated away to start his run for the stairs. He approached at full velocity, and instead of mounting the handrail, this time he crouched, leaped, and went for the more spectacular jump.
He and his board shot into space, then separated for a time that seemed much longer than it actually was. Below him, the board arced through the air, spinning like a torpedo, as Moss hurtled the distance like a bionic long jumper. His leap had to cover a thirty-foot gap with about a fifteen-foot drop.
The board completed its revolution and Moss descended onto it, his feet finding the bolts on the deck as he and the board cleared the final steps together. On touchdown he sailed over the curb and into the street, which was, happily, empty at the moment.
Expletives from the crowd. Game, set, and match to Moss.
My dad’s expression was wondrous, but his face was ashen. “We better head for the ER,” he muttered.
“Why? Moss is fine.”
“I’m not. I need an EKG.”
Several folks near us laughed and clapped him on the back. Instead of the hospital, we went back to the bar and Dad bought a round on the house.
Chapter Twelve
Finding Goats
Most people had never seen live skateboarding and were in awe of the performance Moss had put on. Several customers asked for his autograph, convinced that he’d wind up the next Tony Hawk and his signature would be a collector’s item. Everyone was friendly and would greet us enthusiastically when we came in.
However, now that we were back in school, our nights at Fanatics took on an academic dimension. After dinner, we’d tune the TV facing our table to something neutral, then Moss and I would crack the books while Dad headed for his little office to work on his own books. The buzz of the bar made it feel like we were in a big, noisy house. It kind of replaced the home we’d had when our parents were together.
The only homework I don’t mind is math, probably because it’s so easy I could do it in my sleep. Mom has always seen to it that I was a couple years ahead of everyone. She tried to do the same for Moss, but somehow it didn’t click for him.
Moss knows I like math so much that a while back he offered to let me do his homework if I paid him five bucks a week. I recognized this immediately as the scam from Tom Sawyer, where Tom makes his friends ante up for the privilege of doing his chores for him, so I didn’t fall for it. I negotiated a much better deal. Moss agreed to let me do his homework absolutely for free!
One night I’d finished my math and was working on Moss’s. Dad was in his office and Moss was out and about, so I had the table to myself. A waitress quietly refilled my water. Then I guess she must have stood there watching me for a minute; I wasn’t aware of it, until she reached out and flipped over the textbook to see the cover.
“Aren’t you a little young for this?”
I looked up, startled. “Are you going to card me for a textbook?”
“No,” she laughed. “Geometry is non-alcoholic, although it would give me a headache.”
“Well, you shouldn’t do it on an empty stomach. But we had burgers and fries, so…no problema.”
She laughed again. I noticed—and not for the first time, of course—that she was pretty. I mean, very pretty. She had long dark hair, eyes so big I could see myself in their reflection, and soft, full lips. She was very slim, but not in the important places.
“Seriously,” she said, “I’m impressed. I couldn’t even pass algebra.”
This made no sense to me. “You have to pass algebra to graduate.”
“Exactly. That’s why I dropped out.”
“You dropped out of high school?!” I must have sounded horrified, because she got kind of defensive.
“It’s not such a big deal. A lot of kids drop out. And I’m going to get my GED.”
“What’s that?”
“You take a test to show you know the stuff you would’ve learned in high school. They give you a diploma and you can go to college, or whatever.”
“Sounds better than actually going to the classes.”
“It is,” she agreed. “Except I can’t pass the test, ’cause I still can’t do the math.”
“Well, I could do it for you,” I said, joking.
“I wish. But maybe…you could t
each me?”
“Me?” I choked out, my voice cracking. We both laughed. “You said I was too young for this.”
She regarded me critically. “You actually don’t look so young.”
“Mom and Dad redshirted us, so Moss and I are older than most of the other kids in our grade.”
“You’re tall.”
“Genetics,” I said as I straightened up in the booth. “And good posture.”
“At ease, soldier.” I slouched and she smirked. “Are you getting them right?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Then you’re not too young. You’re hired.”
Even though we were just talking about math, I blushed.
The waitress’s name was Jasmine. We worked out a schedule where I’d ride my bike over to Fanatics after school. I’d teach Jasmine math for about an hour, then head home, and Jasmine would work her shift. Dad was around most days, so I’d get to see him. But above all, I’d get to see Jasmine.
Her problem in math was that she didn’t know anything. That sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. Okay, she knew her multiplication facts, and she could add and subtract, but decimals, fractions, geometry, algebra—fahgeddaboudit!
The first day she showed me some of her work and I studied it for so long that she finally asked, “Uh…are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m finding your goats.”
“My goats?”
“Um-hm.”
She waited a few moments. “I don’t know much math. I never heard about finding goats.”
“It’s just something one of my teachers used to say. It helped me a lot so I always do it.”
“Well, maybe it’ll help me, too.”
It was worth a try, so I told her the story Mr. Riley told us in fifth grade.
Once upon a time there was a Bedouin sheik. He and his tribe lived in tents and traveled around the desert, herding their many goats and camels. One day his servants came running in, yelling, “Master, master—one of your goats is gone!”
“Find my goat!” the sheik thundered. The servants looked and looked all day, but they couldn’t find the goat.
The next day a servant came running in, yelling, “Master, master—one of your camels is gone!”
“Find my goat!” the sheik yelled.
“Uh…you mean your camel?” the servant asked timidly.
“No, I mean my goat,” the sheik insisted. “Find it!” The servants looked and looked all day, but they couldn’t find the goat.
The next day a servant came running in, yelling, “Master, master—one of your daughters is gone!”
“Find my goat!” the sheik bellowed. The servants looked and looked all day, but they couldn’t find the goat.
The next day the servants came running in and said, “Master, master—”
“Don’t tell me,” the sheik interrupted. The servants looked at him expectantly.
The sheik sighed. “Okay, tell me. What happened now?”
“Your wife is gone!”
“Find my goat!” As the servants ran out, he added, “And if you find my wife, don’t tell her I said that!”
The servants looked and looked all day, but they couldn’t find the goat. So the sheik called all the servants to him and looked at them severely.
“Now we’ve got a heckuva mess, you guys. Someone is stealing goats and camels and daughters and wives—who knows where this is gonna end. If you woulda found my goat in the first place like I told you, the rest of this never would’ve happened!”
I wound up the story, thinking it was amazingly like the tale of Job, though not nearly so tragic. Maybe every story in the Middle East featured animals and servants running around like crazy.
Jasmine was staring at me, waiting expectantly.
“But what does that have to do with math?” she finally asked.
“The connection is not obvious,” I admitted. “I think Mr. Riley just really liked telling this story, so he found a way to use it to make his point.”
“Well, I’m waiting for it,” she insisted.
“When you do math you make mistakes, which are the goats. If you don’t figure out why you made a mistake and fix it, you’ll make even more mistakes. We’ve got to find your goats and fix them—or things will just get worse.”
“Can you really do that?” she asked.
I shrugged. “If you show your work…yeah, maybe. Like this problem…”
“I got it wrong, didn’t I?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“What about the next one?”
“I haven’t gotten that far. I’m still rounding up goats in the first problem. You multiplied instead of dividing, so I guess you’re confused about that. You also made a mistake when you converted the mixed numbers to improper fractions, and you forgot to simplify your final answer.”
“That’s a lot of goats,” she admitted.
“Yes, many goats.”
“Ba-a-a-a-a,” she bleated. I cracked up.
“I think that’s a sheep. Fortunately, we don’t have to find them.”
Chapter Thirteen
Rigo’s Ego
There’s nothing like math for making you feel stupid when you don’t get it. It’s like a club that lets in anyone but you. Everyone’s at the party and you’re out on the sidewalk by your lonesome. That’s no fun.
On the other hand, there’s nothing like math for making you feel smart when you finally do get it. You think you’re turning into Einstein, or at least one of those annoying kids who always have their hands up with the right answer.
Jasmine and I worked for a month. I could see her brain swelling, and along with it, her confidence. You wouldn’t think a girl as pretty as her would have lacked anything in that department. Or at least I wouldn’t have, with my limited knowledge of women. But now Jasmine was in the club and it put a little more strut in her step.
She did the learning, but she gave me the credit. She also gave me $10 a day for our sessions. I tried to refuse, but she insisted. She said I was a better teacher than any she’d ever had and worth five times as much.
This didn’t hurt me in the confidence department, either. It’s not too shabby hanging out with a gorgeous eighteen-year-old who laughs at your jokes and gives you money for being smart. But whenever I started to get carried away with my fantasies, I’d remember the tale of Rigoberto and that would hit me like a cold shower.
Rigoberto was a third-grade student my mother had a while back. Mom said Rigo was even more immature than the other childish children in her class. Either he wasn’t housebroken or he was too shy to ask permission to use the bathroom. Whatever the cause, he had several accidents of the most embarrassing sort. These came to Mom’s attention when kids held their noses and complained in pinched voices, “Rigo’s stinky!” His shamed face provided tearful confirmation, and Rigo’s mother was called to fetch a change of clothing.
In due time he outgrew this problem and his self-image took a leap forward. But it was the act of learning his nines that sent Rigo’s ego into the stratosphere.
The major milestone of third grade is to learn the times tables. Of these, the nines are among the most daunting, an Achilles heel of students in even more advanced grades. My mother, however, knew all the tricks of the trade. She took advantage of a useful number pattern to help her students quickly memorize these facts. So while students in other third grade classes were still doddering over their twos and threes, the kids in Mom’s class were bursting with pride that they knew their nines!
Rigo was the proudest of all. Despite topping out at three feet and lacking several front teeth, which made him look like a stubby vampire, he began to spend recess and lunch loitering at the fence that Mom’s elementary school shared with an adjacent middle school. Gripping the chain links with bravado, Count Rigo would holler at passing seventh-and-eighth-grade girls, “Hey, I know my nines!”
The older girls thought it was cute and played along, calling to their friends.
Pretty soon Ri
go had a crowd of girls towering over him and flirting so shamelessly that it put him at risk for a relapse of his embarrassing incidents.
To Rigo’s credit he pushed his luck further, proposing to teach the girls the nines if they’d give him their phone numbers. Since most of them didn’t actually know their multiplication facts, they took him up on the offer. At recess, separated by the chain-link fence, they’d sit on the asphalt and work problems in their notebooks, a diminutive Rigo standing eye-to-eye, teaching them the trick that Mom had taught him.
To their surprise, under Rigo’s tutelage the middle school girls actually learned their multiplication facts, and true to their word, surrendered their digits. For a couple weeks Rigo tied up the phone lines with his middle school harem in a way that would have done Don Juan proud. Then the cell bill arrived and his mother hit the roof. She dragged the story out of him and went to see Mom. A new school rule was enacted, and third graders were no longer allowed to approach the fence and solicit the older women.
So when Jasmine gave me a dazzling smile…I’d think of Rigo. When I’d tease her and she’d elbow me and giggle…I’d think of Rigo. When she’d brush the hair off my forehead…I’d think of Rigo.
It was pretty much like Rigo.
Wasn’t it?
Chapter Fourteen
Shoring Up the Ruin
Whereas Dad seemed to be handling his newfound freedom with restraint and dignity, the most generous adjective I can offer to describe my mother’s approach to her single lifestyle would be “eager.” Others might be more apt, but a son shouldn’t have to say them about the woman who brought him into this world.
Mom’s standard line became, “Forty is the new thirty.” We pointed out that it was hard to find any thirty-year-olds who were acting like her, and she amended her defense: “Forty is the new twenty.” That would actually make her our big sister, not our mother. But her antics were hard to take, even for an older sibling.
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