“Nice ride,” I observed, as Mom freed herself from the hair protection she donned for open-air trips.
“Glad you like it,” she stated neutrally. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yeah, it was my idea.” The more I’d thought about Jasmine’s advice, the wiser it had seemed. In a few hours we’d see if I still considered joining the diplomatic corps such a smart move.
Mom raised her eyebrows slightly. “What is the attraction of a Presbyterian church in Westchester?”
“Didn’t I explain?” I said, knowing that I’d kept it from her. “This is not a run-of-the-mill service. It’s called ‘Canines at Covenant.’”
As if responding to the cue, several people strolled past, leashed dogs at their side.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” said Mom. “They’re bringing their dogs to church?”
“Oh, yeah. Dog and God are like that.” I crossed my fingers to show how tight they were. “Same three letters and all that.” I looked at her, not sure how she was taking this.
“One thing I’d like to know. Is ‘dog’ God spelled backwards? Or is ‘God’ dog spelled backwards?”
I grinned in relief. We always got along better when Mom was laughing, but it had been a long time since I’d heard her say anything remotely humorous. “Depends on who you ask, I guess. C’mon, let’s go see the show.”
About a dozen dogs and their people were stationed in a chapel set up with dog beds, water bowls, and folding chairs on a carpet that was, hopefully, stain-resistant. Along the wall, a couple of stiff-backed elderly worshippers sat on traditional hard wooden pews and cast doubtful glances at the latest additions to Covenant’s flock—who in turn ignored the disapproving glances and happily sniffed each other’s butts. Mom gave me an inquiring look about where I wanted to sit, and I made for the dogs.
We picked up a card with the particulars of the afternoon’s service, noting a big bowl of dog biscuits next to it on the table. Nice touch, I thought. I put one in my pocket, figuring it would come in handy later.
I considered it might have been a mistake when I felt a set of paws plant on my lower thigh. I looked down to see a small beagle staring up at me hopefully, its long tongue drooping from a drooling mouth.
“Ella, be good,” her owner, a middle-aged woman in sweater and jeans, said sharply. “Sit.” Ella gave a rueful look and squatted to defecate. “For heaven’s sake, that’s not what I said!” Her owner gave a sharp tug on the leash to pull Ella out of her crouch, then dragged her reluctant dog towards an outdoor area that had been designated for the excretory needs of four-legged worshippers.
Mom smirked at me. “You had trouble with the difference between “s” and “sh” when you were little, too.”
“And you jerked my leash sharply until I got it right.”
“I never!” said Mom, laughing, as we took folding seats and surveyed the congregation.
It seemed to be as good a cross-section of the dog world as you’d be likely to find at any church in LA. On our left, a pit bull lolled on its back, allowing a golden doodle to prod its belly with a moist nose, as the owners looked on good-naturedly. The lion lies down with the lamb, I thought. Next to them, a black Lab and a long-haired dachshund tangled leashes and headed in opposite directions, bounding happily through water bowls and dragging their confused people after them. A Chihuahua was dressed in a shark costume, making it appear that the monster had actually consumed the dog. Its owner was taking it door-to-door, collecting treats in a “doggy bag.”
There was a chorus of barking behind us. We turned in our chair to see a squat corgi frantically rushing from side to side, doing its best to corral two elderly women who were trying to make their way to the pews. The women halted in consternation, as the corgi’s owner reined her in. “She’s a herder,” the owner explained. “She doesn’t like people to leave.”
“The pastor will approve of that,” commented one of the ladies, as they edged past the nervous dog. Once they were on their way to the pews, the corgi calmed. Apparently she didn’t fret about the ones who got away.
Ella and her owner returned to the chapel and took seats near us. Or at least her owner did; Ella took one look at me and plunged her nose into my crotch.
“Ella!” her owner cried. “My God, I don’t know what’s gotten into her!”
“Oh, it’s not her, it’s Moon. All the bitches do it,” said Mom, giggling.
“Mom!”
“Is that a biscuit in your pocket, or are you just happy to see her?” Mom was laughing hysterically, slapping her thighs, and Ella showed no sign of calming down. Amid her licking and sniffing I managed to dig the biscuit out of my pocket and hand it to her. She took it greedily, then plopped down and set to eating her treat.
I turned to Ella’s owner and stuck out my hand. “Hi. I’m Moon Landing, and this is my mother, Mae West.”
“I don’t know which part of that sounds more incredible,” she said doubtfully. “I’m Dorothy Simmons. And you’ve met Ella.”
“Yes, we’re well-acquainted,” I said. Hearing my voice, Ella tilted her head up at me with a look that could only be described as suggestive. She grinned at me and licked her chops.
“Get a room, you two,” said Mom, sending herself into gales of laughter. People were starting to turn and look, as we were actually becoming more of a spectacle than the dogs.
“Do you come here regularly?” I asked, hoping to break Mom’s silly fit.
“On, no,” said Dorothy. “I don’t care for church, myself, but I thought it was time to see to Ella’s spiritual needs.”
“Her spiritual needs?” said Mom, aghast. “Really?!”
“You don’t think dogs should have a relationship with God?” asked Dorothy.
“Please,” said Mom. “They should have obedience training.”
Dorothy looked at me apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at disciplining.”
I patted Mom’s hand. “Neither am I. This one needs a muzzle, but I can’t bring myself to put it on her.”
Mom snorted and elbowed me, her eyes dancing playfully. We were getting along a lot better than I’d thought we would.
The pastor took a position at the front of the group and nodded to a pianist seated at a battered upright, who began to play a hymn. Around us the owners, cued by the “gathering music,” redoubled their efforts to bring their dogs under control, and we could hear choruses of “Sit! Stay!”
The pastor looked on benevolently for a few moments, then his booming voice filled the room, as if God Himself were issuing a commandment. “SIT! STAY!” There was a yelp from a cowardly Jack Russell terrier, but the last of the dogs took their places on the cushions, and their owners took a seat on their folding chairs.
“PRAY!” the minister thundered. The elderly worshippers in the pews chuckled. “Seriously,” he continued in a calm voice. “Lord, thank you for all the gifts that you have given to us, including our four-footed friends here with us today.”
The service was wonderfully brief, lasting barely half an hour. Apparently my attention span was similar to that of an average dog, because it suited me just fine. My favorite part was the offertory, when they distributed doggie treats along with the collection plates.
Amazingly, the Bible reading was from my old nemesis, the Book of Job! The pastor used a modern translation, selecting the passage where God brags about all the things he can do that Job can’t. The hipper language made God sound sarcastic and even more obnoxious than in the King James, like some irate gangsta who’s been dissed by a homie. The pastor’s conclusion was that since God is all-powerful, Job was wrong to question the Almighty about any unfair treatment he’d received. God knows best and all misfortune is for a good reason. Naturally I didn’t agree, but the dogs took the sermon lying down so I thought I’d better not make a fuss.
After the service Mom and I took a drive up the coast to enjoy the warm twilight, stopping to eat fish and chips and beer-battered shrimp at N
eptune’s Net. I tried to ignore the way she was ogling the bikers and concentrate on the sun setting over the surf. It had been a good day and I didn’t want to screw it up.
Our accord was fragile, a pond that had just thawed but that could easily skin over with fresh ice were the temperature to drop a few degrees. I hated to risk that, but I had to take a chance. Mom was going to find out sooner or later, and this way there was a chance she’d react positively.
“So you might have noticed Moss has been getting some snail mail,” I started cautiously.
Mom nodded and chewed a shrimp. “What’s that about?”
“Free Flow Tour. He’s competing in the finals in a couple of weeks.”
“This is a skateboarding thing?”
I nodded. “A big thing. The top amateur skaters from all over the country are going. And the winner gets to skate with the pros starting the next day.”
“I don’t understand. How could this just happen? Did he compete in something else?”
I explained to Mom about the Windward West competition. She stopped eating and wiped her fingers carefully. She frowned, sipping her beer.
“Your father and I had an agreement that you weren’t to see him,” she said. I could hear the ominous, stubborn note slipping into her voice.
“This happened months ago, before you reached that agreement,” I said. “Which you ought to revisit, since it’s so crazy. You can’t keep us from seeing our father for the rest of our lives.”
“Not for the rest of your lives, no.” I waited, but she didn’t say anything else.
“The finals are Wednesday the seventeenth, and we’re going with Dad,” I said.
“That is against our agreement.”
“Then Mr. Smith will be our chaperone. But we’re going. That’s it.” I added, “It would be nice if you’d go, too.”
“I hate skateboarding.”
“It’s not about skateboarding, it’s about your son.”
“I have to work.”
“I think you can take a day off for this.”
“Well, we’ll see.”
Everyone knows what that means.
After that, I guess neither of us knew what to say next. Finally, Mom announced, “I’m going on a cruise in December.”
“A cruise? What does that have to do with this?”
“Nothing. I’m changing the subject.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to control my annoyance. “Tell me about your cruise.”
“It’s just for a few days. Cabo, Puerto Vallarta, and Ixtapa.”
“Mexico?”
Mom nodded. “Never been.”
I just couldn’t make sense of what she was telling me. “This seems very weird. Where did this idea come from?”
“The opportunity presented itself.”
“Are you going with some guy?” I asked, impressed that she had found a cub who would actually shell out for more than a couple of drinks.
“No, it’s not like that,” Mom assured me. “I’m going with Betty.”
“With Betty?” This was not at all reassuring. “Then it must be some kinda ‘Moms Gone Wild’ thing.”
“That’s rather offensive, Moon,” Mom said sharply, glaring at me, but I stood my ground.
“Tell me this is not a cougar cruise.”
She held my eyes for long moments and finally conceded. “Well…it is a cougar cruise.”
The bikers gave Mom an admiring look when she got into her red convertible, and she gave them a coquettish smile in return. Then we drove home in silence, the cool night air reflecting the chill that had crept back between Mom and me.
Chapter Forty
To the Flow
I didn’t actually invite Mr. Smith to accompany us to San Francisco for the Free Flow Finals. Maybe I was underestimating him, but it just didn’t seem right to ask a man like Mr. Smith to spend several days hanging out with Boosh, Wee Wee, and Moss. So I let it go, and hoped there would be no repercussions.
The competition was going to take place on Wednesday afternoon. Dad picked us all up in his SUV the minute we got out of classes on Tuesday, and we hit the road. We sailed out of LA before the traffic got bad, and I-5 was straight and fast.
You’d think that with four teenagers on a road trip it would have been a raucous ride, but just the opposite. I sat between Boosh and Wee Wee in the back, helping them with their geometry, while Moss held down shotgun and worked on a paper for English class. Dad just focused on the road and enjoyed the drive.
We finished our assignments by the time it got dark and retreated into our private iPod worlds. Dad pulled off for a bathroom stop and some burgers, but we jumped back in the car to eat on the road. Before we left the lot, Dad turned in the seat to look at us in back.
“What’re you guys listening to?” he asked.
“Music,” said Boosh.
“What kind of music?”
Boosh looked at Wee Wee. “What would you call it?”
“Post punk? Adult alternative?”
“I don’t know,” said Boosh doubtfully. “But it’s not classical.”
“I didn’t imagine you’d be chillin’ to Beethoven,” said Dad. “Name a band.”
“Lil Wayne?” said Wee Wee.
“That sounds like rap,” said Dad.
“Yes, come to think of it, that is what it’s called,” said Boosh. “Parents don’t usually like it.”
“Try me,” said Dad. Moss plugged Boosh’s iPod into Dad’s sound system, and Lil Wayne’s “My Homies Still” burst out of the speakers.
“Turn that shit way up,” said Dad, as he pulled back onto the highway. We grinned at each other, and Moss cranked it. A relentless string of expletives, derogatory epithets, and gangst uncoiled for the next few minutes. Dad chewed a burger and pounded the steering wheel, nodding his head to the rapper’s flow, while the rest of us snickered. The song ended, and Dad pulled the iPod cord.
“He’s good with the rhyming words, isn’t he,” he said. “What else you got?” he asked Moss.
“This old band before your time.”
“Who’s that? Sinatra? Bennie Goodman?”
“Not that old. You know Led Zeppelin?”
Dad looked at Moss in surprise. “Plug it in.” In moments the explosive guitar riffs from “Dancing Days” heralded Robert Plant’s plaintive voice. Dad grinned and said, “This was our rap. Parents hated it.”
Dad began to sing along, and I was shocked. “You sound good, Dad.”
“Yeah,” said Moss. He turned the music low, and Dad sang the chorus semi-a cappella.
“You coulda been a rock star, Mr. Landing,” said Wee Wee.
“Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” said Dad, laughing. “No regrets.”
We drove through the night eating, listening to music, and joking. But I couldn’t stop thinking about who my parents had been before they became the people they were now. I’d lived with them my whole life, and they still surprised me.
We slept late and stumbled outside to discover San Francisco. The city on the bay, noted for its blustery weather, was instead toasty and headed for the eighties without a cloud in the sky. With hours to go before the competition, Dad took us on a driving tour of the city. He told us about the Summer of Love while we ate a big breakfast in the Haight, then we went to the Golden Gate. We walked across the bridge, enjoying the breeze and the sight of dolphins in the bay far below. Looking back at San Francisco’s gleaming skyline, it felt like life had a lot to offer us.
We arrived at the Civic Center in the early afternoon, walking past the majestic gilded dome of City Hall. Flanked by long rows of porta potties, towering white tents billowed from the ground like ghosts, as workers hustled to set up displays for the sponsoring vendors—Stride, Mongoose, Dog Funk, and Toyota. Paul Mitchell and the National Guard had a presence as well, and I wondered what particular connection they had to the world of extreme sports.
After a bit of wandering, we found the competitor check-in booth for Alli Sports. M
oss made contact and the rest of us enjoyed the scenery: lots of athletes in their teens and twenties toting knapsacks and boards, and cute girls accompanying them. There was one guy everybody seemed to be paying attention to. I nudged Boosh.
“You know that guy?”
He shook his head. “BMX, I think. He’s a pro.”
“How do you know?”
“The ink,” he said simply, and I realized he was right. Almost every visible bit of skin on this guy was covered with tattoos, and his frisky girlfriend had a gallery of her own. Several other guys had plenty of body art, but the younger riders checking in were blank canvas. “Pros don’t need parental consent,” he added.
Moss went behind the counter and posed while the official photographer, a real babe, shot several digital photos. “Turn to the right,” she ordered, and he gave her a profile. “I thought I was skating, not going to jail,” said Moss with a wry smile.
“Your mistake,” she replied without missing a beat. “Bend over and spread ’em for the cavity search, honey.”
The riders hooted, and I think Moss actually blushed.
Meanwhile, the BMX rider had taken a seat at a long table nearby and was bent over paperwork. He frowned at the forms like he was taking a final he hadn’t studied for.
“How many exemptions I want?” he asked his girlfriend.
“What’s an exemption?”
“Yeah, right,” he said with annoyance, and noticed me eavesdropping. “Are you the IRS?”
“Uh, no…”
“An accountant?”
“Do you want to owe money, or get money back?” Dad asked him, coming to my rescue.
“What kinda question is that?” The BMX rider was getting more confused and more annoyed by the moment.
“The kind of question you have to ask yourself when you’re filling out those forms. If you put down one exemption, they’re going to take out a lot of money. But you can file at the end of the year and get a refund. On the other hand, if you take a lot of exemptions, they won’t withhold much—but you may end up owing at the end of the year. Your choice.”
The Book of Moon Page 19