“Duh,” said Nike. “Like in the movies, when the Indians pretend the cowboys got ’em, and they hang off their ponies. Then they whip up in the saddle and shoot the fuck outta the cowboys.”
“For reals?” said Moss. “You never told us this.”
“Topic never came up,” said Dad.
“How’d your horse like it?” I asked.
“Never complained to me,” said Dad. “Until one day he got spooked and started bucking. It damn near did put the death in my drag. I was lucky to get outta that one with a broken ankle. Pretty much ended my trick-riding career.”
There was a moment of silent appreciation for the story. Then Boosh commented, “I wonder if you could skate off a horse?”
“A running horse,” added Wee Wee. “That’d be all Cirque de Soleil.”
Dad shook his head and focused on his breathing.
After eating, the skaters disappeared again, which was kind of a relief. Dad and I milled around, talking about this-and-that. We took in the vertical competition on the half pipe, which fortunately involved no casualties. The primo rider in the orange and green we’d noticed warming up won the whole thing, and I congratulated myself on my ability to recognize talent. Then it was time to go indoors for Moss’s event, the Skateboard Park.
The competition featured a “jam” format, in which several skateboarders jointly skated the course for about five minutes, doing everything they could to impress the judges. Then the best rider from each of the eight jams would compete in a final jam, from which the top three finishers would be selected. All three would qualify for the finals in San Francisco.
Moss would skate in the fifth group. Dad and I watched impatiently as the other groups weaved through the course, an arrangement of ledges, pyramids, rails, and stairs which didn’t present the degree of difficulty that Moss appreciated in natural landscapes. The stairs and rail were just an 8-set, from which it was impossible to execute the most impressive tricks. But it was also a lot less dangerous, a fact not lost on Dad.
I thought the judges, professional skaters themselves, had a tough job. Though some competitors stood out as inferior, many of them seemed to be of similar skill level, and they mostly executed the same tricks. Without slow-mo, freeze-frame, and instant replay, it was hard for me to judge the relative quality between them. However, I found that keeping an eye on the videographers cued me to which skaters were the favorites. After a minute or so of action, the cameramen—who could discern subtleties that were lost on me—would jockey for coverage of the top one or two performers in each group, ignoring the others. They picked the winner every time.
Wee Wee skated in the third group. He did not embarrass himself, but his heat was won by an outstanding thirteen-year-old, who passed on the Junior Jam and was trying his luck in the main draw, which had the potential to get him to San Francisco.
Boosh was in the fourth jam. Coming off a jump on the 8-set, he missed his landing, snapped the tail off his deck and fell hard. The crowd applauded as he picked up the pieces and trudged off the track. Then it was time for the fifth heat.
Moss had been pretty quiet all day, and as he pushed out onto the course, I wondered if he was feeling any butterflies. If so, you couldn’t tell it by looking at him. Whereas the other competitors seemed to be in a frenzy to do as many tricks as possible, Moss appeared calm, bordering on disinterested.
But his nonchalance suddenly transformed into action as Moss accelerated to the top of the 8-set and launched into a simple, unadorned jump. Lacking embellishment, he nevertheless got far more air than any other rider we’d seen, clearing the rail by several feet and landing the jump flawlessly. The videographers scurried to reposition, and I tapped my dad to look at the judges, who were actually sitting up and looking at each other. I saw one of them mouth a name.
“Landing,” said Dad, reading their lips.
I watched the rest of the run in a daze. It was like spectating at the Olympics, where most of the athletes were amazing, but very evenly matched—and then someone put on a performance that was astoundingly superior to the others. And it seemed the judges might agree, since Moss predictably won his heat.
Dad and I watched the last two heats impatiently, nervously awaiting the finals jam. My throat was dry, and I wiped my clammy hands on my shorts. I could never be a professional athlete—I’d choke under pressure. Dad looked pretty cool, so that at least made one of us.
Boosh and Wee Wee joined us at the rail.
“The bro got the Flow,” said Wee Wee.
“I hope so,” I murmured.
“Oh, I know,” said Boosh.
“Enough nursery rhymes,” said Dad irritably. Maybe he was a little nervous. He looked at me. “Are there any ‘Moss rules’ to skating?”
“Not that I know of,” I said. “But he’s never actually been in a competition before.”
Dad blew out a breath. Boosh and Wee Wee looked at each other quizzically.
“Moss rules?” asked Wee Wee.
“Moss rules,” Boosh answered with an affirmative nod.
When the final jam started, the higher quality of the riders was obvious. There were fewer falls and less sketchiness in the tricks and landings. Still, within a few runs I thought I saw the main competition for Moss, a lanky skater in a black T-shirt. He looked a little older than Moss and wore a black helmet with a skull-and-crossbones drawn in white.
“Who’s the guy with the Jolly Roger on his head?” I asked Boosh.
“Ron Nash,” he said. “Won this thing last year but didn’t do so good in the finals. He’s got the full tricktionary.”
“I can see that,” I murmured. So could the videographers. By now they had focused on two riders, Moss and Ron Nash.
Moss just ran through his repertoire, mostly working the 8-rail, doing hardflips, kickflips, and tre flips. Ron Nash was doing very similar tricks, and it was honestly hard for me to tell the difference between the two skaters. I thought Moss had an edge, but knew I was far from an impartial judge.
“What do you think?” I asked Boosh quietly.
“Hard for Moss to get off-the-hook on the bunny slope,” he said.
“There’s a slight difference in difficulty, though,” said Wee Wee softly. “Moss’s combinations are technically harder.”
“You think the judges will notice?” I asked.
“If I notice, they’ll notice,” said Wee Wee. “Could be some political shit, though.”
Five minutes can take a long time if you’re holding your breath. The heat ended and the judges conferred for a few minutes, with contestants and spectators milling around. The skaters pretended to be unconcerned, but they had to be nervous, too.
Then they announced the winners. Third place—Waylon Jacks from Ontario, California. Second place—Ron Nash, from Santa Monica, California. First place—yeah! Boosh and Wee Wee let out loud hoots at the announcement, and Dad clapped me on the back, grinning broadly. Moss made his way to the front with an “aw shucks” attitude. We watched as they bestowed more plunder than he could hold, then the three placers took positions on the podium for pictures, brandishing NK skateboards, backpacks, shirts, and hats.
But the day was far from over. There was still a video interview to shoot for the YouTube footage that would be posted of the event. While Moss waited to film his clip, we watched in fascination as he was besieged by a throng of little kids, cute girls, and representatives for board, shoe, shirt, hat, and helmet manufacturers.
And why not? SoCal was the hotbed of skating, and a lot of the guys who had won the Free Flow tour had gone on to pretty amazing careers. Like Timmy Knuth. Chaz Ortiz. The new guy, Brendan Villanueva. And—Moss Landing?
Moss flashed us a grin, fanning the phone numbers and reps’ business cards out like a full hand in Vegas.
The lady we’d met earlier with the three-year-old skateboarder walked over dragging her kid. She reached out to shake Dad’s hand. “Congratulations,” she said. “He’s gonna buy you a house.” Dad
laughed, and she flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Married?”
“Uh…no,” said Dad, laughing.
“Me neither,” she said, slipping him her number.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cubs
I’m not one of those people who believes divorce has to be awful. Sure, a nuclear family with a mom and dad who still at least vaguely like, if not love each other—and put their kids’ well-being before their own pursuit of whatever—sounds pretty good. I’d order it. Give me Happy Family Special, please. Also wonton soup, fried rice, and extra fortune cookies.
But back in kinder I learned that most of the time you don’t get to order, it’s done for you. “You get what you get, and you don’t get upset,” Mrs. McConnell would say. We’d snidely parrot it to Kimberly when she’d throw a fit about what color crayon she got, or to Franklin, when he’d fall apart because he wasn’t chosen as office monitor.
Maybe it helps that divorce is so common. It’s not like everyone you know won the happy family lottery but you. At least half the kids I know had divorced parents. The other half wished their parents would get divorced. I think it helped that our parents were so obviously miserable together, especially my mother. My dad probably could have hung in there, though it wouldn’t have been satisfying for him.
Well…point is, you won’t find me on some shrink’s couch twenty years from now claiming their divorce ruined my life. I know that it’s fashionable to scapegoat your parents, but if I’m a thirtysomething loser, it’s gonna be on me, not on my folks. Turn the poison into medicine, right?
But if the shrink leads with the old cliché, “Tell me about your mother,” well, I won’t know where to start. Which one?!
Lance was but the first of Mom’s boy toys, who, we were to learn, are referred to in singles’ jargon as the cougar’s “cubs.” Ouch! Do they know that?
Playing our usual role as hosts for gentlemen like Seymour Smith was one thing. But accommodating Mom’s new suitors was another matter entirely. One night I was doing homework in the living room when I thought I heard a faint knock on the door. I looked up at Moss.
“You hear that?” I asked.
He shrugged, shook his head.
I went to the door and opened it to find a tall young man with his hand poised to knock again.
“Bell works, dude,” said Moss, joining me at the door.
“Oh, yeah, well sometimes it doesn’t. Then I just stand there waiting…waiting…waiting…y’know. Uh…is Janice here?”
A sick feeling flooded my senses. “Are you…Greg?”
Greg nodded weakly. “I know this is a little awkward.”
“Ya think?” said Moss, who was finally putting this all together. “The momster’s dating a kid with peach fuzz and you think that’s awkward?!”
“It’s more of a five o’clock shadow,” protested Greg.
“Get real! Italian women got more stubble than you do!” Moss was getting worked up. “And it’s not ‘Janice.’ It’s ‘Mrs. Landing’ to you, sonny boy.”
“Mom!” I yelled, hoping my voice would carry upstairs. “Greg is here!”
“Invite him in and offer him a drink, of course.” The note of annoyance in Mom’s reply was loud and clear. It was the tone reserved for dealing with feeble-minded servants and sons.
“It’s so hard to get good help these days,” I mumbled, pulling the door all the way open. Greg gave me an apologetic look.
“Sorry about that, man,” he said.
“Moms,” said Moss. “You can’t live with ’em, but you can fuck ’em.”
“Get you a drink?” I offered.
“Beer, if you’ve got it,” he said.
“Let’s see some ID,” Moss demanded, sticking out his hand. Greg rolled his eyes and grinned.
“C’mon, we’re all adults here…”
“Or not,” said Moss. He didn’t withdraw his hand.
Greg considered a moment, then pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open to flash his license at Moss.
“Take it out,” Moss demanded.
“What are you, the highway patrol?”
“Moon and I cannot be accused of accepting bribes. Please remove your license from your wallet, sir,” said Moss. I snickered.
Greg snorted and took the license out. He handed it to Moss, who peered at it for a moment. His eyes tilted to the sky and his lips moved silently. Greg and I waited for the verdict.
“Fuck! I can’t even fuckin’ subtract! Here, you do it,” said Moss, sticking the license out to me.
I glanced at it and broke into a grin. I looked at Greg who was smiling, too. “Made it by a week. Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” he said, replacing the license in his wallet. “I gotta update my profile. This puts me in a better demographic. Cougars actually prefer their cubs a little older…”
“Well, you’ve got that to look forward to,” I said.
“Lower auto insurance rates, too,” Greg added.
Moss led the way to the kitchen. He pulled a beer out of the fridge and offered it. “Bud okay?”
“Sure,” said Greg, taking the bottle, “unless you’ve got something imported…”
“Think we have some Newcastle,” I offered.
“That’d be great,” said Greg, holding the Bud out for exchange.
Moss wagged a disapproving finger at him. “I’m afraid those beverages are reserved for the twenty-five-year-olds.”
Greg laughed. His willingness to avoid confrontation was slowly defusing the situation. Moss took the beer, replaced it in the fridge, and pulled out a Newcastle. He popped the top and handed it to Greg.
“I ask you something?” said Moss.
“I guess.”
“How do you feel about being called a ‘cub’? Don’t you find it—what’s the word, Moon?”
“Demeaning?”
“Yeah,” said Moss with satisfaction. “Demeaning.”
“It’s not my favorite,” Greg admitted. “But it’s better than ‘cougar bait.’”
“Or ‘douchebag,’” said Moss.
“It’s just a cute term cooked up on a website,” said Greg, ignoring the insult.
“Cute?”
“Cute to mature women,” Greg clarified. “They’re a huge market. The online services cater to them.”
“I’m not sure I’d call our mother mature,” I said.
“It’s kind of a euphemism.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I said. “You’ll see, she looks good. But going out with guys half her age is hardly mature.”
Moss hurried to pile on. “So you like the old ladies, huh, Greg?”
Greg nodded. “If I’m bad, they spank me.” Moss and I looked at him, aghast. “Just kidding. Relax.”
“I’d relax if I was doin’ your mom,” said Moss.
Again, Greg ignored the challenge. “You know, younger women totally bust my chops. ‘What do you do? Where are you taking me? Do you want to get married? Do you want to have a baby? Are my tits big enough? Is my butt little enough? Are you a bad boy? Are you a good boy?’ You can’t believe it.”
Moss was unimpressed. “Mom’ll say, ‘Have you finished your homework?’”
“She’s a teacher,” I explained.
“Really?” said Greg with evident interest. Moss and I looked at each other. Greg threw up his hands in surrender. “Tell me you never fantasized about any of your teachers,” he protested. “Or your friends’ moms. Or your mom’s friends.”
“Betty,” said Moss, conceding the point.
“She kind of hit on me,” I offered. “Accidentally, I think.”
“Well, now we have to wonder, Moon,” said Moss, adopting an academic tone. “Was it an accident? Or are you in Betty’s target demographic? Hmm? Wonder how Mom’d feel about you boinking Betty Boobs? Seems like, what do they call that?”
“Poetic justice?” I suggested.
“Yeah,” said Moss. “Poetic justice. What do you think, Greg?”
“
Go for it,” he advised. “The thing about these, uh, cougars is, if they’ll go out with you, well, it’s, uh, pretty much a…” he trailed off.
“…sure thing,” Moss finished with distaste.
But in this case, it wasn’t. When Mom finally descended to meet her waiting suitor, she looked him up and down with a surprise that contrasted to his own appreciative reaction to ‘Cougarlicious’ in the flesh. Mom actually narrowed her eyes, squinting at him a little.
“Your profile said you were twenty-six,” she accused.
“Twenty,” he corrected.
“When zeroes start looking like sixes, it might be time for reading specs,” suggested Moss innocently.
Mom scowled. “In your picture you look…older.”
Greg shrugged. “The camera adds years.”
“The difference in ages is the point, isn’t it?” said Moss, increasing his smarminess.
“But this is…extreme,” said Mom. “You’re twenty.”
“He just turned twenty-one,” I said.
Greg took up the sales pitch. “It’s not that bad,” he said. “I’ve been out with older women. And you’re no grougar.”
“Grougar?” I asked.
“Uh…that’s a grandma cougar,” said Greg, wincing.
Moss and I were stunned. To our relief, Mom actually covered her face and doubled-up in shame. But when her hands came down, we saw she was actually convulsed with laughter, not humiliation.
“Greg,” she choked out, “have you ever heard of ‘Oedipus’?”
“You’re asking him?” I burst out. “What about you?!”
“Not really,” he said. “I pretty much stick to Cougar Life, but I’m open to new sites. How do you spell it?”
Mom burst into laughter again. “How do you spell it?!”
Greg looked at me uncertainly. Mom was laughing so hard she couldn’t talk. “Did she say ‘Oedipus’ or ‘Oedipussy’?”
“She’ll flip you the link,” I advised.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cougar Scat
The experience with Greg served as a real world lesson on big cat dating mechanics: whenever possible, prospective cubs were to be isolated from a cougar’s “litter,” the offspring who might take offense at the particulars of their mother’s mating ritual. For this reason, most rendezvous were scheduled in neutral territory such as bars, coffee shops, and gyms (if a cougar had assets she could truly flaunt). For cougars with kids, a premium was placed on cubs who had their own lairs, which were naturally modest in comparison to a cougar’s cushy cave. However, assembling IKEA furniture, copulating on musty futons, and eating cheap takeout from the carton helped aging mama cats recapture their golden youth, an essential aspect of the relationship dynamic.
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