“I am not a liar,” objected Gurmeet.
“I cannot take your word for this. A liar would say he is not a liar.”
“Everyone saw.”
Mrs. Patel turned to me. “What about you, Jupiter, did you see?”
“Uh, yeah…he took it.” I gave an apologetic shrug to Aron, who nodded understandingly.
“Hmph. Some friend you are, Mercury. He is probably taking it for you.”
“Yes, that is a possibility,” commented Gurmeet helpfully. “It was a Snickers bar, which he does not eat.”
“He does not eat a Snickers bar?”
“I am aware of his dietary restrictions. He is a vegetarian who does not like vegetables.”
“What does he eat, then?”
“Well, you should know. Bean sprouts.”
“Bean sprouts? You think my son eats nothing but bean sprouts?!”
“That is what he told me.”
“You are a gullible man,” said Mrs. Patel. “You remind me of my husband, who is a fool. He is always being taken advantage of. We go to buy a car. ‘What is the price?’ says my husband. ‘Here is the price on the sticker,’ says the salesman. ‘Can you do better?’ says my husband. ‘No, I cannot. This is the most popular color. You are picking the color all people are wanting. For this color I must charge you the price on the sticker.’ ‘Vedy good,’ says my gullible husband, who I should not have married. My mother told me that, but I did not listen, just as my children are not listening to me. My son has probably stolen half your store. Bean sprouts! Do you think a boy could get so fat on bean sprouts?”
“He is only plump…”
“He is a pig. But you give me an idea. For two weeks he will live on bean sprouts and water.”
“Two weeks?” exclaimed Aron.
“Yes. Then you will not be a pig. And, perhaps, you will not be a thief. Also, you must not associate with Uranus. He is a bad influence.”
“This wasn’t Moon’s idea.”
“Pluto is beneath you, my child. You need to meet some nice college boys.”
“They’re ten years older than me…”
“Your son goes to college?” asked Gurmeet incredulously.
“Oh, yes. He is vedy intelligent. Of course, he does not get that from his father. Stand still! What is the matter with you! Stop moving around! We will go to Home Depot and get a chain saw. Don’t worry, we will take care of this problem.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Mac
When we left Wonderland I didn’t see Aron as much. He skipped middle school and stuck with college, while I followed a more conventional academic path.
Which turned out to be pretty boring after Wonderland. I was on an honors track, so there were many bright kids in my classes, but the teachers often left something to be desired. I started to think maybe Aron’s mom wasn’t totally nuts to put him in college.
American history was particularly dreary—so boring that, in comparison, TV static was high-octane entertainment. The drone of Mr. Grogan’s monotone was punctuated by students’ occasional snores, real or simulated, which he ignored. However, his dullness was redeemed by his negligence, since he tacitly allowed all forms of cheating, which resulted in stellar GPAs for all but the most honest or oblivious students. The facts of life in Mr. Grogan’s class were well known to us by the second week of class, and upon entering his room each day we all settled down to quietly endure fifty-four minutes of torpor.
I sat next to a skinny short kid named Solomon MacAndrew, who dressed in a uniform of flood pants and yellowed T-shirt. He had black wire rim glasses that ran in a cockeyed diagonal across his face, with masking tape connecting one of the temples to the frame front.
I had noticed that when Mr. Grogan started lecturing, this kid would begin rocking back and forth, mumbling under his breath. I thought he might be Asperger’s and left him alone. But my curiosity got the better of me and I asked him what he was doing.
“Davening,” he said. “Praying.”
“You’re praying?”
“That’s what I said. You got a problem with it?”
“No. Just wondered.”
“Well, now you know.” His words were aggressive, but I didn’t take it personally.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
“Apology accepted.”
He kept davening and I tried to listen to Mr. Grogan’s drone for a few minutes. But Mac’s praying was much more interesting.
“If you’re praying,” I whispered, “does it mean that you believe in God?”
“Interesting question. Not particularly.”
“What are you praying about?”
“For this consummate cretin to say one thing that’s true.”
I was quiet for a moment, shocked that he could be so disrespectful to authority. I hadn’t really considered whether the history Mr. Grogan was teaching was accurate or not. My only goal was to learn the answers that he expected so that I could regurgitate them on the test.
“Lies,” said Mac. Then, louder, “More lies.” Other kids were starting to raise their heads off their desk and look at him, but Mr. Grogan was oblivious. It seemed that I had upset Mac’s equilibrium. He got louder. “Damn lies!”
Now even Mr. Grogan heard. He blinked in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Are you aware that virtually every word you have uttered for the last week has been either totally false, slightly inaccurate, or an error of omission?”
“Uh…no. That comes as something of a surprise to me.”
“More’s the pity,” said Mac. Kids were rubbing sleep out of their eyes and waking up in a hurry.
Even Mr. Grogan seemed a bit refreshed by the turn of events. “Would you care to support your allegation?”
“Delighted. First let’s examine the reasons you’ve stated for European exploration. Why did they feel the urgent need to go looking for Asia? Anybody?”
A kiss ass girl in the front row raised her hand.
“Yes, Jennifer, one reason,” said Mac, playing the role of teacher to the hilt.
“Europe was becoming richer and the people had money to spend on luxuries.”
“An accurate recitation of what Mr. Grogan has imparted. Patently false, however. Having endured waves of bubonic plague which killed at least a third of the population, Europe was suffering a severe labor shortage and was not prosperous.”
“But that’s what the book says,” Mr. Grogan objected.
“You’re familiar with the expression, ‘Don’t believe everything you read’?” asked Mac. “That should be our mantra for the textbook.”
Another hand went up. “After the fall of Constantinople, the Turks closed the trade route to Asia.”
“Another correctly incorrect statement,” said Mac. “This was debunked almost a hundred years ago. In fact, the Turks had every reason to keep the trade route open, since they made money from it.”
“But wasn’t there a war between Spain and Turkey?” asked Mr. Grogan timidly.
“That is true. The Turks also fought with Portugal. So they may indeed have shut out those two European countries for a time,” Mac admitted. Mr. Grogan smiled with the quiet self-satisfaction of an inferior student who has said something smart for a change.
“But the Turks were Islamic,” pointed out another student. “Didn’t they have a problem with all infidels?”
“Depends what you mean by a problem,” said Mac. He got up and walked toward the front of the class. Mr. Grogan discretely retreated to his desk as Mac took center stage. “Perhaps you’re thinking of the Crusades, which might have—might have—had some legitimate motivation at first. Once the Muslims took over the Holy Land, they came down on the Christian pilgrims and there were atrocities. But the Muslims realized which side their bread was buttered on and they stopped stirring things up. After all, Christian pilgrims were the tourist trade. Cha-ching.”
“So why did we have the Crusades?” asked a big guy.
“I note your us
e of the word we,” said Mac. “Apparently you identify with the Christians.”
“I guess I do.”
“It’s good to be aware of your biases. Especially after you’ve watched lots of Hollywood flicks that demonize the towelheads as a bunch of terrorists, right?”
Jennifer sucked in her breath in shock and Mac looked at her pityingly. “That’s a politically incorrect word,” she said.
“Yes, it is, Jennifer. It’s very derogatory. I use it for dramatic effect only. Please don’t report me or I’ll lose my teaching credential,” Mac said. Several kids laughed. It was the most enthusiasm I’d seen in middle school apart from recess and lunch.
Mac continued his explanation. “Ironically, one of the main causes of the Crusades—which were, remember, Christian missions to ostensibly free the Holy Lands—was terrorism. But the terrorists were the Christians. There were a lot of trained warriors in Europe with time on their hands, who spent it beating up and killing civilians. Remind you of anything?”
“Police brutality,” I said.
“Bingo. Goons with guns equals violence. Of course, the Crusaders didn’t have firearms. They used swords, battle axes, maces, ball-and-chains, that sort of thing. Crush ’em, stab ’em, kill ’em. So it seemed like a pretty good idea to have the military go terrorize the Middle East instead of Europe. Give the thugs an indulgence and let ’em go beat on someone else for a change.”
“What’s an indulgence?” I asked.
“It’s a Catholic get-out-of-jail-free card. If you slid the church some money, or did them a favor, they’d give you a pass for whatever sins you had committed.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” said Jennifer. “It’s like you could buy your way into heaven.”
“You and Martin Luther would have agreed on that, Jennifer. It was one of the main causes of the Protestant Reformation.”
“So—and don’t make fun of me, okay?” said Lori Boggs, a pretty girl with long blond hair.
“Then don’t say anything stupid,” snapped Mac.
“I don’t try to say stupid things, they just come naturally,” said Lori. Everyone laughed and she blushed.
“Fair enough. What’s your point?”
“So you’re saying the Muslims weren’t, like, ‘the bad guys’?”
“That is what I’m saying,” said Mac. “You should be aware that in Spain the Moors allowed freedom of worship at the same time that the Catholics persecuted the Jews and Muslims. After all, it was the ‘good guys’ who brought us the Spanish Inquisition, an enlightened process to torture and, frequently, execute anyone whose Catholic faith was suspect. History is a great story, but it’s not just about good guys and bad guys. People are more complex than that. So it’s not all that easy to just take a side and root for them, like a football game.”
It turned out that Mr. Grogan actually knew more than he’d been teaching. However, over the years, he’d developed a conviction that kids had no interest in historical accuracy—all they cared about was their grade. He’d given in to the same apathy that he’d assumed on the part of the students and taken the path of least resistance—the textbook.
Now, with Mac’s cantankerous leadership, our class embarked on a journey down the road less traveled, which we hoped might lead to something like the truth. We determined to sift the evidence, reading first sources and alternative analyses of important events, to draw our own conclusions about what most likely had happened in the past.
Mac and I became friends. The rest of the class respected, admired, and even feared him, but they were not drawn to associate with him. Mac’s every instinct led him to adopt idiosyncrasies that made him a social pariah. But none of his peculiarities were repellant to me.
Like Aron, Mac was very entertaining. He had a strong belief in genetics and traced his character and temperament to his ethnic roots. He preferred to be called “Mac,” from his last name, MacAndrew. His mother was Jewish, and his father was Irish. Given this mix, he wound up in a lot of fights and invariably got his butt kicked.
“I figure I deserved it, anyway,” he said. I was helping him pull himself together after he’d been knocked down by a couple of future members of the Aryan Nations.
“Why?” I asked, surprised that anyone would imagine they merited misfortune.
“Jewish guilt. I musta done something, right?”
“Yeah. Your face got in the way of Butthead’s fist.”
“Exactly.”
I handed him back his glasses. When he put them on they were oddly straight across the bridge of his nose. I was about to say something, when he twisted them into their usual skewed position.
“There. Good as old,” he said.
The broken glasses were not the only defective hardware in Mac’s life. Even more egregious was his bike. In an age of designer mounts, he rode a creaking, rusting wreck. Then it got two flat tires that Mac “repaired” by filling them with sand.
I had the honor of assisting him in this unique procedure. “Let’s see that leak out of there,” he muttered, admiring his handiwork.
I contemplated the pathetic conveyance, its tires sagging like lumpy diapers carrying a full load. “Really great, Mac. You’ll be a regular Lance Armstrong.”
“Just watch. I’m gonna have legs like the Incredible Hulk from riding this thing,” he said.
Witnessing Mac ride his tenth-of-a-speed bike was a study in determination, for both rider and spectator. This was one bike that didn’t need any brakes: if Mac coasted, he’d wind up at a dead stop in a few feet—if he was going down a steep hill. It didn’t need a saddle, either, since Mac had to stand on the pedals constantly just to keep the thing moving.
His body was under severe strain, and the stress found its most graphic expression north of his shoulders. Sweat streamed from his scalp and curly hair, cascaded in a torrent alongside his dripping nose, poured over angry pimpled cheeks. His neck contorted like a chicken with its head stretched for the death blow, fighting to evade the axe.
This enormous effort was in pathetic contrast to the results, since Mac’s bike moved, on level ground, at about the pace of a brisk walk. There was simply no way to propel it up even a modest incline, let alone a genuine hill. Thankfully, these were abundant, and it was a relief to see Mac dismount and catch his breath as he pushed his bike up a slope.
After a couple of weeks of this, I dug through our garage for an old ten speed I didn’t ride any more. I cleaned it up a little and gave it to Mac, along with a lock.
He greeted this gift with mixed emotions. Clearly touched, he also appeared somewhat insulted.
“What’ll I do with my bike?”
“Perhaps it’s time to retire it.”
“Why?”
“Other conveyances make better use of the wheel.”
“But it’s unique. It stands apart from the common herd.”
“Apart, and far behind.”
Mac shrugged sadly. “Everyone needs a backup,” I suggested.
Unfortunately, my words were far too prophetic. A week later we came out of school to find Mac’s new bike rendered a crumpled wreck. Without even undoing the lock, one of his numerous tormenters had managed to lay the bike down and run it over several times.
Mac heaved a sigh, then looked at me. “You were right. It’s good to have a backup.”
He seemed oddly relieved to return to his old bike.
I figured that if anyone could help me make sense of Job’s story of suffering at the hands of God it was my two friends, Mac and Aron. Macaroni.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Macaroni
“Does the name ‘Mrs. Robinson’ mean anything to you?” asked Mac.
My horndog friends were plastered to Aron’s iPhone, studying Mom’s online profile, which I had stupidly mentioned to them.
“I hope you got the model equipped with a drool-guard,” I said.
“This? Don’t worry, I dropped it in a toilet and it’s still working fine,” said Aron, never look
ing up.
“Really?” Mac was impressed.
“No,” said Aron. “You’re awfully gullible for a Jew.”
“That’s the Irish. On the other hand, I’ll beat the crap out of you if you try to take advantage of me, so it evens out.”
Aron grunted. “You think Cougarlicious would go out with a college man?”
“Maybe,” I said. “You know any?”
“Seriously. Your mom getting action off this ad?”
“Major. Take one out for yours. It makes a great Mother’s Day present.”
“You could call her Curry-licious,” said Mac.
“Oh, man, if my parents ever got divorced…” Aron moaned softly. “Now I’m feeling your pain.”
“It’s about time,” I said.
“As a Jew, I always feel pain, some of which may, or may not, be yours,” said Mac.
“Dude, I may, or may not, appreciate that,” I said. “Let’s get some pizza.”
“Absolutely,” said Mac. He looked at Aron. “Will pepperoni offend your cow-loving sensibilities?”
“Despite rumors to the contrary, I have never loved a cow. How about a little pork sausage on there? That okay?”
“The more pig the better. Fat back, chitterlings, go whole hog, won’t bother me.”
All triangles have a dynamic. Ours was marked by considerable competitive bickering between Aron and Mac.
The waitress approached and I ordered. “One extra large with everything. No anchovies. Three Cokes.”
“You’re paying, right?” asked Mac, who never had any money.
“Moon’s rich from his little tutoring job,” said Aron. “Or, was rich, but I guess Cougarlicious threw a wrench into the gravy train…”
“Jasmine’s not online, is she?” asked Mac. “I’d love to see her. Purely vicarious, you know.”
The Book of Moon Page 15