What Mom loathed above all else was the computer. As a teacher she couldn’t avoid it completely. She had to check her email every couple of days, do an occasional Google search for something the kids were studying, and upload her grades. But that was about it. Mom believed that these “modern conveniences” ended up dominating your life and consuming more hours than they ever saved you. So she habitually spent as little time on the computer as possible.
Until now. The Amish Momish started out by hogging my computer. When I kicked her off, she took up residence on Moss’s laptop. He booted her and she bought a mongo desktop, with a humongous monitor and enough memory and CPU to run the Pentagon. She upgraded our Internet connection to something that loaded pages so fast you got whiplash.
Mom had become obsessed with computer dating.
There must be a million single people in the greater Los Angeles area, and they’re all online. Mom figured she needed a first class set-up to weed through the prospects and find the keepers.
With so much firepower brought to bear on the situation, Mom’s choice of princes was baffling. Moss and I opened the door to Mom’s first computer date and our jaws dropped. If Mr. Smith had been surprisingly old, Lance was horrifyingly young. He appeared to be in his late twenties.
Oblivious, he greeted us with fist bumps. “Yo, the offspring. What it be?”
“Uh, come on in,” I managed. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Like milk?” suggested Moss.
“Har, good one,” said Lance. “Brew me, bro.”
“Please,” said Moss.
“Yeah, like Emily Post said—please,” laughed Lance, splaying himself on the couch.
I got Lance a beer and the three of us looked at each other awkwardly. “So, you cats gonna make yourself scarce, or what?” he asked.
“We live here,” observed Moss.
“Cool,” said Lance. “We’ll go to my crib.” He looked around at the candles doubtfully. “This all a little gothic for me, anyway. I like to be able to see what I’m eating.” He snickered and checked his watch. “What’s takin’ the Moms?”
“Are you on a schedule?” I asked.
“You’d be surprised. If this doesn’t pan out, I got options.”
Moss and I looked at each other.
“Options?” asked Moss.
“Man, a night is a night, know what I mean?”
“You don’t exactly seem like my mother’s type, Lance,” I said mildly.
“Well, I’m not stepdaddy material—but didn’t seem like her top priority was replacing the old man…” He quickly changed the subject, but not for the better. “So…is Moms as hot as her picture?”
“We haven’t seen it,” I said. “Is it good?”
“Good? It’s smokin’! I’m just hopin’ it wasn’t airbrushed! I mean, she looks cougarlicious indeed! Rawrrrr!!” Lance pawed the air and snarled menacingly.
Thankfully, Mom now made her entrance. Lance took one look and leaped off the couch. “Good God, there is truth in advertising!!” he bellowed, delighted.
The next day Mom asked us what we thought of Lance. Moss got very chill, but I rolled my eyes and asked if Lance had been in the army.
“The army?” Mom asked. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“’Cause that guy was a major tool.” Mom snorted, so I added, “Or perhaps a general jackass.”
She burst into laughter, but protested, “He liked you two.”
Moss still wasn’t saying anything and the scowl on his face had become darker.
“Please,” I said. “He liked you.”
“Yes,” agreed Mom. “He did like me. That’s a point in Lance’s favor.”
“Mom, that’s sick,” I moaned. “You gotta change the way you keep score.”
“Don’t worry,” said Mom, suddenly tired of the discussion. She got up and headed for the computer. “I’m not marrying him.” She had a thought and turned to face us.
“And by the way, it’s not all him. My screen name is Cougarlicious.”
Moss and I looked at each other as Mom walked away. Moss stuck his finger down his throat like he was gagging.
We weren’t worried.
We were disgusted.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flow to Pro
Though Moss stays in the moment, even he recognized that adulthood would bring new responsibilities along with the allure of freedom. He still had a couple years before he reached the peak of the K-through-12 cliff. Plenty of time to line up a jump and stick the landing. But he had to be starting to wonder what tricks he could pull off for the next stage of his life.
Perhaps that’s how his posse finally persuaded him to enter the Gatorade Free Flow competition. They’d been trying for years, and Moss was a conspicuous absentee at the local event. Most of the skaters were not even in his league, but given his disdain for competition, he had no compulsion to outshine them onstage.
When Moss casually let me know he was thinking about this, I initiated my usual keyboard recon. Along with the possibility of snagging a few shekels, some skateboard swag, and courtship by a host of sponsors, the top three placers in the open division would be invited to the finals in San Francisco, where the winner would receive invitations to compete professionally. Hence the competition’s slogan: From Flow to Pro.
The local Free Flow qualifier was held at a place called “Woodward West” out in the Sierra foothills; not exactly bike riding distance, but it wouldn’t take any travel money to get there, either. With just fifteen bucks and a board, a skater got to show his stuff, cop a prize bag, and guzzle as much Gatorade as his gut would hold. Or her gut, since there’d be some girl skaters, too.
That’s how Moss sold it to Dad, who agreed to haul us out to Tehachapi, along with a couple of Moss’s posse.
When we got there, Dad had no problem with the meager entrance fee, but the legal waivers gave him pause. No one wanted to get sued, so they ran skaters and their parents through a release that featured worst-case scenarios laid out in attention-grabbing capital letters that made it seem as if the lawyers were screaming at the top of their lungs.
I thought I saw the color drain from Dad’s face as he skimmed the document. I looked over his shoulder and read, “THE ACTIVITIES OF THE EVENT(S) ARE VERY DANGEROUS…INJURIES RECEIVED MAY BE COMPOUNDED OR INCREASED BY NEGLIGENT RESCUE OPERATIONS.” There was a lot more in the same vein.
Dad turned to us with a look of concern. “You boys sure this is safe?”
“Oh, absolutely,” said Boosh, a near-sighted beanpole of a kid, named for his enormous curly Jewfro. “This is all legal beaglese. You know how they are.”
Dad looked at another of Moss’s friends, “Wee Wee,” an homage to Wee-Man Jason Acuna, a four-foot-tall skateboarder of Jackass fame. Though Wee Wee was not nearly that short, he did look stumpy next to Boosh—and he certainly shared his namesake’s go-for-broke approach to skating. “Did your parents sign this?”
“Yup. Since they couldn’t be here, we had to get it notarized,” he said. He waved his completed forms, and I saw Dad’s eyes flick to the large black band-aid on Wee’s elbow. It was completely covered with the message “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!” in bold white text.
“Did they look at it?” asked Dad, still not convinced. “I mean, did they actually read it?”
“Well, I presume so,” said Wee Wee, adopting his most formal persona. “It is a legal document and my parents take those most seriously.”
Dad fretted over the release another moment. Boosh jumped in helpfully. “My dad said none of this really matters, anyway.”
Dad gave him a look of mingled incomprehension and consternation. “Doesn’t matter? What in the world did he mean by that?”
Boosh, who has a great deal more hair than common sense, ignored Moss’s efforts to wave him off, and forged ahead. “He said it’s not binding. If I break my neck, he’s still gonna take ’em to court.”
“Well that really puts my mind to rest, Boosh,�
� said Dad, who couldn’t help smiling.
“Yeah, he felt better, too,” said Boosh. “Dad says it’s un-American to give up your right to sue.”
Dad snorted. Shaking his head, he muttered under his breath, “You’ve got good medical through your mother, I guess,” and signed the documents.
Arriving well before the start of competition, we could have staked out good spots for spectating and defended them for the next few hours, as some were already doing. Instead we just wandered, taking in the scene. Moss and company slipped away before we’d even noticed, so Dad and I were left to enjoy the sights on our own.
Several padded-up riders stood ready on the halfpipe decks. One at a time, they’d take turns dropping in and flying through the air. The skaters flipped and spun, accelerating throughout their runs to attain ever-greater speeds and loftier heights. It seemed they defied the laws of thermodynamics, like mechanical toys that wound up when they were activated, instead of winding down.
A shirtless skater showing several inches of boxers fluffed above the waist of his baggy pants rolled from the trough up to the top of the ramp. His front wheels cleared the coping and he quickly pivoted 180 degrees, then balanced for a moment, the midpoint of the deck resting on the edge, before he plunged back into the bowl.
“That’s a disaster,” I said.
Dad shrugged. “If you say so. It looked okay to me.”
“No, I mean, that’s a trick they call a ‘disaster,’” I said. “I don’t really know why.”
“Ah. So, do you speak ‘skate,’ Moon?” Dad asked.
“I’m moderately fluent.”
A short skater in green shorts and an orange shirt was clearly superior to the others, catching big air at the end of his runs.
“Watch that guy,” I suggested, pointing. The rider plunged down the half pipe and blasted up the opposite wall. He cleared the lip of the pipe and hung in the air, his board spinning cleanly off his feet, only to be caught by his trailing hand and thrown under the rider as he dropped sharply back down the steep face.
The crowd hooted in appreciation and Dad whistled.
“That’s what they call ‘diamondz,’” I said, imitating the vaguely disassociated tone of a skater. “Flawless.”
Dad nodded. “So is hitting a golf ball 250 yards down the middle of the fairway—and a lot less dangerous.”
As if on cue, the shirtless rider attempted a flip and went crashing to the bottom of the bowl. The crowd “oooed,” but he popped up quickly.
“No harm!” he proclaimed, earning applause, then comically crumpled to the ground, eliciting laughter. He got up, grinning, and exited the scene. Dad and I watched as several girls converged to make a fuss over him.
“See that?” said Dad. “Why do they go for the guy who crash-and-burned?”
“I think women appreciate a high tolerance for pain in a man. They know it will eventually come in handy.”
Dad grinned and gave me his full attention. “So cynical so young?”
“I just call ’em the way I see ’em.”
Dad put his arm around my shoulders. “You gotta keep the faith, man. They come to their senses when they get older,” he said.
“Uh…like Mom?” I knew I shouldn’t have said it, but it was too good a set-up.
Dad winced. “Well, let’s not go there,” he said. “Any place around here to get something to eat?”
“I think I saw a truck out front.”
We ambled back to the parking lot, passing a proud mom cheering on a tiny boy with a huge mane of hair, who pushed off on a long, wide skateboard.
“How old is he?” asked Dad as we passed.
“Just turned three,” the mother said. “He could ride before he could walk.”
“Maybe the next Tom Schaar,” I said, referring to the twelve-year-old prodigy who had just landed the first four-digit skateboard trick—the 1080, three complete revolutions in the air.
“That’s what we hope,” she said, then to her little boy, “If you get rich, will you buy Mommy a house?”
“No,” he said curtly, skating away.
His mom rolled her eyes at us. “Yes, he will.”
There was a short line at the truck, skaters whose diet was pretty much limited to chips, Skittles, Monsters, and Red Bulls. As if by magic, Moss, Boosh, and Wee Wee materialized next to us.
Dad noted their presence good-naturedly. “Get what you want, boys, I got it.”
“Thanks, Mr. Landing,” said Wee Wee, grabbing an energy drink.
“But not that,” said Dad.
“Uh…I believe it contains the four food groups,” said Wee Wee mildly. He idly picked at a band-aid on his other elbow that looked like a strip of bacon.
“You oughta eat some of that instead of wearing it on your arm. Have a breakfast burrito,” said Dad, getting a bit irritated.
“Burritos bloat me, sir,” said Wee Wee. The other skaters nearby hooted, and one farted loudly.
“Wee Wee,” said Dad, trying to be reasonable. “Don’t you have another name?”
“Well, yes, I do—but it’s embarrassing,” said Wee Wee.
“This is like Alice in Wonderland,” murmured Dad. “I give up.”
“Perhaps I’ll try a Danish and some coffee,” said Wee Wee.
“That’s how mature people get their sugar and caffeine,” said Boosh supportively.
Dad, Moss, and I got burritos, while Boosh and Wee Wee ordered their usual fare. We found a shady place and sat down, consuming our food in silence. Next to us, a group of skaters were chatting about their injuries with skaterish animation.
A guy with a DC hat worn backwards was on his feet, demonstrating a trick-gone-bad. “Yo, I tried to 360 flip off a funbox. Thought I had it, but in midair I lost it and the board went vertical—”
“Ouch!” said another guy.
“—I landed crotch first on the nose.”
“We’ve all nutted, man,” said a third guy with Nike Swoosh kicks, unimpressed.
“Not like this,” said DC. “I put, like, a half-hitch in my left nut. The surgeon who got it untangled said it was a good thing he was an eagle scout since he knew how to handle knots and such.”
“Save you the cost of a vasectomy later,” said Nike dismissively.
“So you’ve bled, huh, dude?” DC challenged.
“Bro, I set off metal detectors at the airport. They think I’m a terrorist. I was bombing a sixty degree hill, hit about ten mph—”
“Got the speed wobbles and bailed,” interrupted Boosh.
“I didn’t bail, I got ’em under control, but while I was, a car backed out of a driveway.”
“Oooooh,” moaned Wee Wee.
“I hit it on the driver’s side. It was this little old lady. She was staring at me with a look of horror that was actually hilarious. Fortunately, I missed her. I was, like, all Wile E. Coyote.” He held his arms and legs out spread-eagled, putting on the pained expression of the Roadrunner’s nemesis. “Concussed my ass and broke my clavicle. Also dented the shit out of the car and smashed its window.”
“She have insurance?” asked Boosh.
“Fuck, yeah,” said Nike. “It’s the law.” He looked over at us with more interest. “You guys got anything to offer?”
“Well, there was this time I was cavemanning out of a tree,” said Wee Wee thoughtfully.
“Ha,” said Boosh. “I skated off the roof.” Nike shrugged dismissively. “It’s a two-story house,” Boosh added, upping the ante.
“Yeah?” said DC with interest. “How’d that go for you?”
“Very well, while I was in the air. After my head high-fived the driveway I needed eighty stitches,” said Boosh.
“Eighty stitches?” said Dad, horrified.
“You can’t even count that high,” scoffed Moss.
“No, but the doctor could,” said Boosh, pulling back his hair to reveal a scar. “He said seventy-nine wasn’t enough.”
“It doesn’t look that long,” said Nik
e, unconvinced. He pulled up his shirt, revealing a long, puffy scar. “Stab wound defending the turf. This bad boy only took about twenty, and it’s longer than yours.”
“Yeah, but look at the keloid,” said Boosh. “Plastic surgeon did mine. They sew your shit up like Betsy fucking Ross.”
“Fine work,” observed DC.
“Plastic,” said Wee Wee. “It’s better than cash.”
This lighthearted game of you-show-me-yours-I’ll-show-you-mine wasn’t exactly reassuring Dad about the safety record of skating. He ate the rest of his burrito, but that didn’t prove anything, since Dad never loses his appetite no matter what happens. He gazed into the distance, chewing thoughtfully. I caught Moss’s eye, and hitched my head in Dad’s direction. Moss gave me a slight nod and a wink.
“You know, I’ve never gotten hurt,” he said softly to Dad.
“You guys make Evel Knievel look like a pussy,” said Dad.
“Thank you,” said Wee Wee, pleased.
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“Nevertheless.”
DC said, “Statistically you’re more likely to be injured driving to the grocery store than skateboarding.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Dad. “Moon?”
“Uh…there probably are more auto injuries than skateboard injuries, since there are a lot more drivers than skateboarders.”
“But that doesn’t make it more dangerous,” said Dad.
Wee Wee tried another tack. “Surely you must have engaged in risky behavior when you were young, sir.”
“Not that I’d tell you about,” said Dad. But a slow smile spread over his face.
“Oh, c’mon, Dad,” said Moss.
“When I grew up, we didn’t have Jackass, but we did have horses,” said Dad. “And it was pretty easy to be a jackass on a horse. My personal specialty was the Cossack death drag. It was a trick-riding stunt where you’d keep one foot in the stirrup and hang head-down off the other side of the horse, dragging your hand in the dirt, like you’d been shot.”
“And the horse was moving?” said DC.
The Book of Moon Page 9