The Book of Moon

by George Crowder

  Then, at the last moment, he held his right hand out slightly from his body. It smashed into the metal handrail with a sickening whack that was heard all over the course, and Moss crumpled to the ground.

  Two paramedics who had been stationed outside the course sprang into action and rushed to Moss’s side. The competition was halted and the other skaters formed a mass around him. Mom and Dad rushed down the stairs to get to his side. All over the course people were struggling to make sense of what they had just witnessed.

  I looked at Boosh. “He Krakened up, man,” he said simply.

  “No shit. How much of that was on purpose?”

  Boosh and Wee Wee looked at each other.

  “It’s not the way we planned it,” said Boosh.

  “But I’d say it was all on purpose,” said Wee Wee. “I think he reached out and busted his hand intentionally.”

  “Why?” I thought so, too, but I couldn’t understand it.

  Wee Wee pointed at the mob around Moss. Mom and Dad were now at the center of it, along with the paramedics. “Seems like he got someone’s attention. Finally.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Reheated Macaroni

  The competition resumed after the paramedics tended to Moss. There was no persuading him to go to the hospital before the jam finished, so we all stayed to watch the outcome. It didn’t take long.

  When there’s a gruesome crash in NASCAR, they wave the yellow caution flag and the other drivers all slow down. That convention is unknown to skating. Instead, the other four skaters totally went for it in the last seven minutes. Austin Zito particularly turned up the heat, overcoming his bobbles on the solo run to walk away with first place. If Moss couldn’t win, I was glad Austin did. We all liked his style.

  The news at the hospital wasn’t particularly bad. Moss’s feet and ankles weathered the landing okay, and his only injury was to his right hand. He fractured the fifth metacarpal and the cast they put him in would stay on for four weeks. Mom said that writing lefty might actually be a good thing and would help develop another hemisphere of his brain.

  “Hopefully the one where France is located, bro. The mademoiselles got mad love for thrashers,” said Boosh.

  “You know all the lingo you need. Stick to ‘oui, oui,’ and you won’t go wrong,” said Wee Wee.

  Still, Mom was not her abnormal self. She avoided any conflict with Dad, and they were united in their concern for Moss’s well-being. Whether it was Boosh’s words or Moss’s accident, it appeared that something had gotten her attention.

  Mac, Aron, and I were out eating pizza, and I was filling them in on these events.

  “So is Moss bummed he didn’t win?” asked Mac.

  “He’s making out okay,” I said. “The YouTube clip of the Kraken has been downloaded about a million times.”

  “Make it a million and one,” said Aron, studying his iPhone. “This is awesome.”

  “We don’t even answer the phone anymore, just let it go to message. Sponsors are calling constantly and he’s getting all kinds of offers to skate in movies. We’re totally inundated with free gear—boards, shirts, pants, hats, shoes—”

  “You can always send some of that my way,” said Aron.

  “You don’t skate,” said Mac.

  “No, but I can sell it on eBay.”

  We gave him a look, then Mac asked, “So you can see your dad again?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “In fact, he had his own plan in the works.”

  I told them about Mr. Smith and how he had played golf with us a couple of months earlier. That led to him finding a buyer for the Fanatics property, who was willing to pay, as Dad put it, an “obscene” amount of money in order to tear down the bar and put up a high rise. Since Dad owned the property, he made a killing on the deal.

  “So your dad’s out of the restaurant business?” asked Mac.

  “Not really,” I said. “Mr. Smith pulled off another miracle. One of the anchor restaurants at the Grove went bust and they want Dad to bring Fanatics over there. Mr. Smith got Dad a great lease and they’re even giving him a remodeling budget.”

  Mac and Aron stared at me for a moment.

  “This is freaky,” said Aron.

  “What?”

  “You recall the way the Book of Job ended?” asked Mac.

  “What about it?”

  “You know—when God gives Job everything Satan took away, and then some,” Mac said.

  “Uh, I don’t really think…” I fell silent, considering the parallels.

  “What of the scrumptious Jasmine?” asked Aron.

  “She aced her test. She said it was ridiculously easy and she was way over-prepared. She enrolled in Santa Monica College.”

  “And that’s the end of it?” insisted Aron.

  I shrugged. “We’re going to the beach tomorrow.”

  “To the beach? She’ll be wearing a bikini,” said Aron, his tongue practically hanging out.

  “Presumably. It’s not a nude beach,” I said.

  “But she doesn’t need any more tutoring,” objected Mac.

  I shrugged again. “We’re friends.”

  “Man, I hope I can be as cool as you when I grow up,” said Mac.

  Aron sighed. “I just hope you grow up.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ashes to Ashes, Sand to Sand

  After cooling off for a few days, the thermometer had shot up again into the high eighties. Jasmine and I were enjoying one of the truly great days at the beach: crystal clear skies, sunny and hot, with a sweet breeze blowing. We walked along the surf line, picking our way through the parents and kids playing in the water.

  I don’t know when I’ve felt so good. I was overwhelmed with relief, and for once I could enjoy the moment without worrying what was going to happen next.

  We meandered up the beach from Venice to Santa Monica dodging Frisbees and squealing infants, and I filled Jasmine in on all of the news. She listened carefully, nodding, and when I got done she said, “You left someone out.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mother.”

  “I told you what she did…”

  “Yeah, but how is it now? Did you work things out?”

  I was quiet, thinking of how to explain it. “I’m still kind of in shock. It’s like Mac said. For forty years, all anyone worried about was the Soviet Union. They were our big, bad enemy. People thought the Cold War would last forever, and then one day, completely out of the blue, it was over. The mighty Soviet Union crumbled under its own weight and the world changed overnight.”

  “You’re saying your mom’s changed?”

  I nodded. “I think she has. She’s not back to her old self, but the reign of terror has lifted.” I hesitated, then confided, “She even cancelled her cougar cruise.”

  “Cougar cruise?” Jasmine said with horror. “What is that?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “What does she want to be when she grows up? The female Hugh Hefner?”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Jasmine laughed. “I’m glad you still have a sense of humor about this.”

  “I try to stay in the moment.” I steered Jasmine into the surf up to our knees. Reaching inside my pocket, I brought out a small bag of multicolored sand.

  Jasmine’s eyes lit up. “The Wheel of Time!”

  “I think we should release it.” I poured some of the sand into Jasmine’s hand, and the rest into my own. “You ever see LeBron James throw the powder at the beginning of a game?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said.

  Together we flung our sand high into the air, spreading our arms wide like NBA superstars. The sun glinted off the colored grains, as they rained down to patter into the onrushing swell. Jasmine and I smiled at each other, then turned to make the long, pleasant walk back to Venice.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The Book of Moon

  In the beginning, I was nothing.

  In the end, I’m
everything.

  Sounds great, doesn’t it? I’d like to say it—but I can’t. It isn’t remotely true. Not even in my most spiritual moments.

  I’m still nothing. But I feel a lot better about it. I’m not an anti-theist, not even an atheist. I’m open to the possibility, despite plenty of evidence to the contrary. In my heart of hearts, I don’t know if I’ll ever believe in God. And I’m not too worried about it.

  I’d like to believe in people, though. I think that’s more important, and it’s not easy, either. Still, sometimes they surprise you and do wonderful things.

  Sarah and I hadn’t given up on Kony 2012, and in the waning days of October we made a push to enlist recruits to our cause. Boosh, Wee Wee, Moss, and the rest of the skaters were the first to join us. They helped us recruit the stoners. Mac somehow roped in the football team, and the rest of the athletes followed suit. After that, it was a domino effect, and the entire school enlisted in our cause. Literally every kid in school wore their red Kony 2012 T-shirts every Tuesday, when the teachers wore their red union shirts.

  Afloat in that red tide, I felt encouraged that so many people were at least willing to put on a shirt once a week. It’s not much, but if everybody does just a little bit, that might be better than a few people trying to do it all. As we hit the homestretch of 2012, Kony may still not be infamous enough to shame the governments in the world into taking action—but we’re going to keep it up until they do.

  Meanwhile, Sarah and I have decided that our attraction has grown beyond the confines of the Club Meeting period and spend as much time together as possible. The more I hear about her parents, the lawyers, the less I’d ever want to be one. One aspect of their work I find unappealing is the focus on asking questions they already know the answers to. Responses that surprise and entertain are much more intriguing to me.

  The search for my Tahiti remains ongoing, and maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Not knowing what my future holds is sometimes troubling, but if the Book of Moon were already written in its entirety, that would be far worse. The chapters continue as long as you live—and maybe after that, though I don’t think so. While browsing the stacks at the library last week, an elderly man and I both reached for the same volume on career counseling. When I gave him a look of surprise, he flipped me a white-dentured grin and said, “I’m trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.” Following up with a question about what he’d done so far led to insight no reference material could offer.

  Mom and I have resumed our monthly trips to church. We’re still not looking to join so much as window shopping—and spending time together. Though we plan to visit a much wider variety of churches and temples, reflecting the wonderful diversity of our city—our country—our world—it’s always easy to fall back on the places near home.

  That’s why we now found ourselves in the congregation at the Holy Spirit Catholic Church on Pico. After multiple experiences with the faith, I was actually getting a little more adept at the “stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!” rhythm of the service.

  And then came the sermon.

  It was about my old pal Job. Did they put out a recall on the rest of the Bible, or what?!

  I listened carefully, hoping the priest would find some way to make sense of Job’s trial at the hand of Satan. But like every other sermon on this topic, he put the blame squarely on Job, claiming the book was a lesson on the folly of doubting God’s judgment. When tragedy befalls us, it is surely part of a higher plan for our life, and we must take comfort in knowing that God has the details worked out, even if we can’t see how the pieces of the puzzle will come together. Blah, blah, blah.

  This sanctimonious interpretation sorely tested my newfound religious equanimity. I squirmed uncomfortably, and Mom actually put a hand on my leg to try to hold me still. I caught the eye of an old black woman who was scowling at me, and I made an effort to endure the sermon’s foregone conclusion.

  “I need waffles,” I muttered, as we slowly meandered out of the church.

  “Text your brother,” said Mom, and I pulled out my cell phone.

  Moss took a pass on our religious excursions, but most of the time he could be counted on to join us for breakfast. “Chow bound,” I sent.

  Vendors selling Mexican corn-on-the-cob and snow cones were set up outside the church, and generous parents bought the treats for their dressed-up kids. It’s the least they deserve for sitting through that BS, I thought sourly.

  Mom and I walked a few blocks east to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, where there was a substantial wait for a table. She went to the bathroom, and I put our name on the list. I heaved a sigh and settled on one of the banquettes.

  Just down the street six months earlier, I had heard the story of Job for the first time. It had deeply disturbed me, like a gloomy diagnosis that demanded a second opinion, which I’d never really gotten. Still, whether God’s arbitrary actions made any more sense or not, at least my life had righted its course, and that was some consolation. I no longer felt I had a passenger seat on the Jobean train wreck.

  Setting cosmic thoughts aside, I turned to the weighty issue of whether to order an omelet or a waffle. As I considered the merits of each, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see a black man in his early twenties frowning at me.

  “Gramma want to see you,” he said, hitching his head in her direction.

  “Me?” I was pretty sure there was no one I knew in this neck of the woods.

  “Yeah, you the one. C’mon.”

  Doubtfully, I followed him around the corner to a waiting area, and immediately recognized the old lady who had frowned at me in church.

  She was perched on a bench, leaning on a walker. Surrounding her was a family that must have extended over four generations, all dressed immaculately in stylish suits and dresses.

  Her face was puckered into a sour expression, like she’d bit into a lemon. I figured that was because of me—my fidgeting during the sermon must have offended her. She beckoned me nearer and I approached apprehensively, not knowing what to expect but hoping it wouldn’t be too bad. She pried one trembling hand from her walker and laid it gently on mine, patting me softly.

  “It troubles me. Always has. Troubles you, too.”

  “What?”

  Her eyes locked on mine. “You know what. Job.”

  She paused, waiting until I was ready for what she had to confide, then concluded: “No two ways about it. The Lord did him wrong.”

  I felt tears start to well in my eyes and I blinked them back. Her voice dropped an octave and became softer.

  “But you can’t take it to heart, child. You can’t take it to heart. Even God makes mistakes.”

  “And…we have to forgive Him,” I said without thinking.

  She nodded slowly and smiled. “We have to forgive Him—for a lot.”

  I had a sudden thought and said, “If we can forgive God…”

  “Yes. That’s exactly it.” She pointed a bony finger at me, and intoned slowly, “If we can forgive God…we can forgive each other.”

  There was a soft chorus of “amen” from her family. I thanked them and withdrew awkwardly to find Moss watching. He held his board and regarded me curiously.

  “Qué pasó, bro?”

  Before I could answer, Mom rejoined us from the bathroom. Without thinking it through, I wrapped her in a hug and said softly, “I forgive you, Mom.”

  “I never apologized…”

  “I forgive you anyway.”

  I held her tight as her body started to shake, and I realized she was crying. I felt another arm encircle my shoulder as Moss embraced us both.

  “I am sorry,” she sobbed. “I am sorry.”

  Holding my mother and brother close, the answer came to me.

  I’d order an omelet and talk Moss into getting a waffle.

  Fortunately, he agreed.

  THE END

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  Acknowledgements

  Big, big thanks to my beta readers—you know who you are—whose enthusiasm for early drafts of this book made me think it might be worth sharing with the world at large. If it weren’t for you, I never would have had the nerve.

  The baddest of the betas is my wife, Liz, who held my hand throughout the first draft. Only someone who has lived with a neurotic writer can appreciate the patience and love required to get him to the next day and the next chapter. Thanks for putting up with me, hon. I owe you another trip to Italy—and I’m gonna make sure you collect.

  A shout-out and a standing offer of a cocktail to my numerous writing partners over the years—Marc, Terry, Joey, Richard, and especially, Mark Saha. Whatever writerly skills I possess are largely due to my work with you guys. I know Joey would be the first to agree with this.