The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  This did not sound like a ringing endorsement of the profession. “But what about me? What do you think?”

  “What do I think?” Mr. Desrosiers stroked his chin. “I think you will sit at my desk in front of the class. For one hour you will see what I see for five hours, one hundred eighty days a year, thirty, Mon Dieu, forty years of my life. Then perhaps you will know.”

  This sounded ominous, but there seemed no graceful way to decline the proposal since it was my free period. I took a seat at Mr. Desrosiers’s desk, feeling like an idiot. I might as well be wearing a dunce cap, or a sign that said “Kiss Ass.”

  Mr. Desrosiers was one of those touchy-feely teachers who liked to shake hands with the students as they walked into class. I recoiled as he clasped the booger-crusted mitt of Sammy Jenkins, a notorious nose miner. I figured I’d better make a learning experience of this, as Mom always says, and began to take notes.

  1. Have a monster bottle of alcohol goo on your desk and apply it as if your life depends upon it. It actually does!

  Mr. Desrosiers missed no opportunity to wallow in his Frenchness, so he naturally greeted every student with a cheery “Bonjour.” I noticed that several of my fellow students had trouble with the pronunciation, responding with, “Boner to you, too, Mr. D,” amid rampant snickers.

  2. Avoid language that can be easily corrupted into comical obscenities.

  For a minute I was so busy dodging spit wads that it was impossible to make more notes. Then Mr. Desrosiers called the class to order.

  There was silence. It was not, however, expectant, respectful silence. Instead, an assault of the most massive, concentrated boredom confronted Mr. Desrosiers, and his protégé, moi.

  With growing panic I regarded thirty of the most vapid, empty, unpromising, lifeless, and hopelessly unteachable faces to ever grace a classroom. Moments ago, some of these had belonged to individuals who were, if not friends of mine, as least fellow members of the human race. But before the lesson had even begun, they had transformed into zombies.

  3. Brandish a cross and hope it does some good.

  Mr. Desrosiers, however, was unfazed, and plowed ahead.

  “Today we will work on our conjugations.”

  Massive moan.

  “Oh, I know you love it, don’t try to hide it.”

  More groans, but a few reluctant giggles.

  “Is that a verb thing, Mr. D?”

  “Yes, indeed. When you conjugate the verb it changes according to tense, person, number, and mood. For example, Monsieur White, the verb, ‘to do.’ We might say, ‘You do your homework.’”

  “We might say that, but it’d be a lie,” answered Bill White, not the most diligent of students.

  “Yes, it would,” sighed Mr. Desrosiers, as the class guffawed. “Let’s try another example. ‘On Thursdays I do the laundry.’”

  A voice rose from a student slouched in the back. “What do you use to get out the skid marks, Mr. D?”

  Mass derision.

  4. Avoid all speech. Mutes are well-suited to this profession.

  Mr. Desrosiers crossed to his desk, giving me a slight, “I told you so” look, as he pulled a form from a large stack. He quickly filled it out. As the laughter died, he replied, “I find office referrals are very effective for that. Au revoir, Morning Wood.”

  As the student took the referral, he stopped in surprise, blurting out, “Did you just call me ‘Morning Wood’?”

  Again, general hilarity. Mr. Desrosiers rolled his eyes theatrically. “Mais non, your first name is ‘Morgan.’ Perhaps it is my accent. Now, goodbye.”

  5. Amuse yourself (if you can get away with it).

  Morgan Wood exited and Mr. Desrosiers returned his attention to the class.

  “And now, I think, some work from the textbook…”

  More groans. “No, Mr. D, we’ll be good.”

  “We’ll be better, anyway.”

  “But not the best.”

  “Very nice,” admitted Mr. Desrosiers. “Comparative and superlative forms of the adjective. Perhaps for next week. For today, page two-forty-three.”

  “Can we just do the even ones?” asked a girl with long blond hair who was sitting with a football player.

  “No, the odd ones,” suggested an emo girl with streaked hair and so many piercings I cringed to look at her. I don’t get the pincushion thing.

  “Better yet,” chipped in the football player, “how about we just do every other question?”

  6. Before considering a particular school, check into the presence of nearby toxic waste sites or other factors that could drastically lower IQ.

  Perhaps because he was not a math teacher, Mr. Desrosiers took their redundant suggestions with aplomb.

  “I cannot choose between three equally commendable proposals. Therefore, I must request you answer all the questions. Merci.”

  “Merci,” the class parroted back sarcastically.

  As the students made a great show of opening books, shuffling papers, finding pens, and pretending to get to work, Mr. Desrosiers turned to me.

  “So, Monsieur la lune…” He saw my notes. “Observations? May I?”

  He picked up the paper and began to read silently. Chuckles became snorts, turned to knee-slapping laughter. The class ceased its simulated effort and stopped to watch with amazement. After a minute Mr. Desrosiers pulled himself together.

  “Ah, Monsieur la lune. I see that today I have been a teacher. Perhaps you will be going to Tahiti?”

  “Yeah, maybe I might try that. If I can figure out what my Tahiti is.”

  “Well, I can assure you, it’s not this. A bientôt,” said Mr. Desrosiers, shaking my hand as I fled to enjoy what was left of my free period.

  “Hey, Mr. D, why does he get to go to Tahiti?” complained the blond.

  “Yeah, is that French for the bathroom?” asked the football player. “I want a Tahiti pass, too. I gotta use it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Seymour Smith

  After a few months of reconnoitering the social scene, Mom began to accept offers from gentlemen callers. It seems Moss and I were to play a role in this too. Mom sat us down for an indoctrination session before her first date. She was dressed in a slip and chugging a glass of white wine, which she was now consuming in such quantity that she was in no position to point an accusatory finger at my father.

  “When Seymour arrives—” she started.

  “Seymour?!” interrupted Moss. “You’re going out with a guy named Seymour? What’s his last name, Butts?”

  “Moss—” she tried again.

  “Will you Seymour of him? Will he Seymour of you?” He turned to me. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “When Mr. Smith arrives,” Mom insisted, “the two of you will attend to him until I am ready.”

  “We will, will we?” challenged Moss.

  “Why won’t you be ready?” I asked.

  “Yeah, why not shag ass now instead of jawing with us?” suggested Moss.

  “I will intentionally not be ready,” said Mom crisply. As Moss began to complain, she added harshly, “Don’t interrupt again if you value any aspect of your life on Earth.”

  Moss rolled his eyes, but closed his mouth. Mom continued, “A lady is never ‘quite’ ready. A gentleman must wait momentarily as she applies the finishing touches to her toilette before the curtain goes up. Obviously, this heightens anticipation. It has the further benefit of providing an opportunity for my callers to make the acquaintance of my charming sons, who will play the role of most gracious hosts.”

  Moss and I looked at each other. Throughout our childhood, Mom had at times adopted stilted speech, especially when she was ODing on plays, museums, concerts, and other mind-altering drugs. But this was something else. She was channeling Scarlett O’Hara meets Martha Stewart laced with a dose of fascism.

  Moss required clarification. “You mean you want us to sit around with this guy?”

&
nbsp; “There’s considerably more to it than that, dear,” said Mom.

  “Such as?”

  Mom thought for a moment. “Moon, you be Mr. Smith. Exit and ring the bell. I will model the role I expect you and your brother to play.”

  “Why do I gotta be Seymour?” I asked rhetorically, walking out the door. I pivoted and rang the bell.

  A moment later Mom opened the door, beaming at me with a robotic smile. “Hello!” she said. “You must be Mr. Smith! Please come in! May I take your coat?!”

  “He’s gonna run for his life,” predicted Moss.

  “Hardly. Mr. Smith is a man of culture and refinement and will be perfectly at ease.”

  I saw a car pull up at the curb. “Mr. Smith is a man who’s gonna see you in your underwear if you don’t get out of here,” I said.

  Mom pulled me inside and shut the door. “Well, the show must go on. The two of you will just have to improvise. Offer him something to drink and make polite small talk. Perhaps he’ll ask you something about yourselves, though that would be dreadful. Well, it can’t be helped.”

  The doorbell rang. Moss and I looked at each other.

  “After you,” said Moss.

  “No, after you,” I said.

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  “But you must!”

  “You first, I insist!”

  “I insisted before you!”

  The bell rang again. We looked at each other and walked to the door together. Moss opened it.

  “Good evening, gents,” said Mr. Smith with a crisp English accent. He was a tall man dressed in a conservative suit and tie. More importantly, he was at least twenty years older than Mom, which had the effect of rendering both Moss and me temporarily speechless.

  This fact was not lost on Mr. Smith. “I take it you’ve never seen an octogenarian before?” he commented wryly.

  Moss recovered faster than I did. “We’ve never had any pets, so we usually just go to the doctor. But Mom’s spent a lot of time with the plastic surgeon lately.”

  “A matter which requires a tad more discretion, I might advise,” said Mr. Smith conspiratorially.

  “You mean I ought to kind of shut up about that, huh?” said Moss.

  Mr. Smith nodded meaningfully.

  To my surprise, Mr. Smith was actually getting through to my brother. “Would you mind not saying anything about that?” asked Moss.

  “Mum’s the word,” he said with a wink. He turned to me and stuck out his hand. “Seymour Smith.”

  I shook. “Moon Landing. And I don’t think you’re eighty years old.”

  “Well, I would have said ‘sexagenarian,’ but I thought it best not to bring up that word on the first date.”

  “Dude, did you say sex?” asked Moss.

  “See what I mean?”

  “Moss, ‘sexagenarian’ means sixty years old.”

  “Dude, did you say sixty?” he retorted, no less shocked.

  Mr. Smith cleared his throat. “Um…were you going to invite me in?”

  Moss came to his senses. “Oh, yeah, man…there’s like a whole line we gotta grind. Rewind.”

  He shut the door in Mr. Smith’s face, then abruptly opened it. “Hello, Mr. Smith! How are you! So good to meet you! We’ve heard so much about you! Please come in! May I take your coat?!”

  Mr. Smith entered with a smile of amusement. “No, you seem a little too eager to get at my jacket, young man. I think I’ll keep it,” he said.

  “Can I get you a drink?” I asked.

  “Good man, Moon! Have you any single malt scotch?”

  “Uh…I’m more of an expert on root beer than on whiskey.”

  “Well, lead me to the liquor cabinet and let’s have a look.”

  Mr. Smith found a bottle that pleased him. “Ice?” I offered.

  “Thank you, no. Scotch this fine should be taken neat. Will you gents be joining me in a libation?”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” said Moss. He pulled out a couple of sodas and handed me one.

  Mr. Smith took his drink and sat at the kitchen table. Moss and I joined him. Mr. Smith looked around appreciatively.

  “Charming home you have.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Dad did a lot of work on it,” added Moss.

  “I can see that he did,” said Mr. Smith. An awkward silence ensued.

  “It’s not like it’s your fault, or anything,” said Moss.

  “That’s very good of you, Moss, thank you,” said Mr. Smith. Another awkward silence.

  “So, uh…do you know Mom from the museum?” I asked.

  “Well, yes…are the two of you art lovers as well?”

  Moss snorted derisively. “Oh yeah. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, you know.”

  “Well, that is a rather fruity line, but artists themselves are not necessarily fruity fellows.”

  “What about Gauguin?” I asked.

  “A case in point. He had a lifestyle most men would relish. Do you like his work?”

  “I’ve only seen a couple pictures—”

  “So you’re saying artists are not just a buncha fags?” Moss pushed on.

  “There are artists of all proclivities,” said Mr. Smith. “However, you must’ve noticed that women are rather drawn to art, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah, and they pose naked, too,” said Moss.

  “So there you have it,” concluded Mr. Smith, raising his glass in a toast. “To art!”

  The next time Mr. Smith came to call he brought us three art books. For me, he selected a book of Gauguin’s work. For Moss, he chose a book about taggers and graffiti creators—“street artists,” they were called. Then there was a book with pictures from his own favorite artist, Caravaggio.

  It was the Caravaggio book we wound up looking at the most. Maybe it was the paintings, with their dramatic contrasts between light and shadow, their rich colors, their sensual textures. Maybe it was the subject matter of the paintings; depictions of desire, revenge, and raw emotions. Or perhaps it was the story Mr. Smith told us of Caravaggio himself, a rebellious, dangerous brawler, who could wield a sword almost as deftly as a paintbrush. By the time Mom was ready, Mr. Smith had sold us on the Italian artist.

  Reluctantly, both Moss and I admitted to Mom that Mr. Smith was all right. In fact, we even liked him. To our surprise, Mom dismissed him as a “friend,” not a “beau.” She continued to see him from time to time, along with Harry, Walt, Dick, Mort, Bernie, Franklin, Felix, Stan, and a few others I forget.

  Trust me, Moss and I got very adept at playing our part, and we couldn’t help feeling a sympathy and kinship for these guys. We were all men snared in my mother’s web. Moss and I decided we’d better take something away from this experience, and vowed that we’d never wind up getting involved with anyone like our mother.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cereal Killer

  “Why the C, Mr. D?”

  My English teacher turned from the whiteboard, nearly underlining Lori O’Neill’s indignant nose, which was thrust deep into his personal space. She angrily waved a sheet of paper at him.

  “You gave me a C on my story. I want to know why.”

  Mr. Desrosiers glanced at the rest of his fourth period English class. We watched with interest, guessing there might be more entertainment value in a student-teacher confrontation than in identifying objects of prepositions.

  “Mademoiselle O’Neill, this is not an appropriate time for this discussion…” he protested weakly.

  “It’s cool, Mr. D, let her have it,” called out Felix Hernandez.

  “I didn’t spell a single word wrong,” said Lori, as much to the class at large as to the teacher.

  “Girl down with the spell check deserve an A plus,” said Lamont Bridges.

  “Extra credit.”

  “Advanced placement.”

  There were several chortles. Lori looked chagrined, but she wasn’t ready to back down.

  “I’m just saying that he hardly mar
ked anything wrong. There are almost no mistakes.”

  “Just sayin’, Mr. D.”

  There was a general chorus of “just sayin’,” the most courteous challenge to a teacher’s judgment. Mr. Desrosiers considered a moment, capped the marker, and took a perch on his stool. He waved for Lori to take her seat while he gathered his thoughts.

  “This will be a rather lengthy explanation…” The class nodded its indulgence. Mr. Desrosiers continued. “My family moved to California when I was seventeen. After two years of high school, I went away to college.”

  “What’d you study?” I asked. Unlike most teachers, Mr. Desrosiers tolerated our digressions within his digressions.

  “French and Spanish literature.”

  “Spanish? ¿Habla español?” asked Felix.

  “Por lo menos, me defiendo,” Mr. Desrosiers answered.

  “Sound pretty good, homes,” approved Felix.

  Mr. Desrosiers nodded, acknowledging the compliment. “I spent my junior year studying in Madrid, which helped. When I came back, I worked that summer at Hughes Aircraft Company, where my father was an engineer. What I can tell you about my job is that the best part was going out to lunch.”

  “What’s that say about your work ethic, Mr. D?”

  “I’m French, I can work up an appetite.” Mr. Desrosiers gave a Gallic shrug, and the class laughed. “Once a week we’d hit a little Mexican place in Westchester. My dining companions were two engineers, Pat and Mark. They were learning Spanish, and I was trying to practice mine.”

  “Nerds eating nachos,” observed Felix.

  “Well, yes,” agreed Mr. Desrosiers. “After a few weeks my new friends invited me to Tijuana for the weekend.” Mr. Desrosiers fell silent.

  “Well didja go?”

  “I declined.”

  “Coulda gotcher party on, bro.”

  “That is what they alluded to,” Mr. Desrosiers nodded. “However, one of them did not make particularly good eye contact. When the trip was suggested, Pat regarded the enchilada on his plate with surprising interest.”

  “Probably wishin’ he’d ordered tacos,” said Lamont.