Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

“Trying to make ends meet?” another chimes.

  The small group gathered around me looks gleeful, chomping at the bit to one-up each other with jokes. Banking and yoga is a stretch. Get it? Nama-slay. LOL. I allow them their fun—har har, guys—expecting them to take their places and unroll their mats, at least, but their jokes keep coming. They keep going.

  “Do they pay you?” one asks. He shakes his head.

  “Man, times are tough when Anderson bankers need a side hustle.”

  “What, you just blowing everything on models and bottles?”

  “I hope you disclosed this to HR. Could be a conflict of interest, you know. You don’t know what this studio is invested in.”

  “Yeah, they probably have an extensive stock and bond portfolio,” Robbie says. “With billions of dollars in Lat Am.”

  “This just screams paperwork to me.”

  Skylar approaches, and finally, they leave. The bankers press their palms together in mock prayer and bow to each other, leaving with their rental mats under their arms. People lumber around. Some thumb away on their phones, shooting off two-word emails in rapid fire. I have no choice but to roll with it.

  “No phones,” I announce in a calm teacher voice.

  “No phones? This yoga is bullshit!” someone jokes in a shout-whisper. On the bright side, two listen and lay theirs blinking side up next to their mats. One asshole in the back continues to glare at his, hammering away. The fitness freak ogles his girlfriend’s ass as she bends over playfully into downward dog. “Woof,” he says. He gives it a light pat, and I don’t think anything bounced.

  “Please let me know if anyone is uncomfortable with assists,” I say.

  “Will loves assists,” someone says. Laughter.

  “Yeah, extra assists for Will.”

  “Shut up!” the one who must be Will shouts.

  A group of three in the back chants: “Will, Will, Will.”

  * * *

  The class that followed, of course, was shit. People raised their hands in the middle of flows to ask questions: “Which pose best targets the glutes?” “Is there really such a thing as a ‘yogasm,’ and what exactly does that mean for my experience specifically?” “Can Jack get a private lesson, but he’s going to need lots of assists because he is a tactile learner?” Two more bankers from Natural Resources filed into the class late, and eventually there was so much disruptive laughter that I wrapped it up with an early savasana.

  Skylar and I are the last two here, side by side on the teacher’s stage. At the back of the room, there’s a messy line of prop blocks and blankets that people did not return to the shelves. I’m embarrassed. I did not structure the class around compassion. I didn’t structure it around anything other than trying not to cry. I just tried to keep my voice steady and the flow as respectable as possible while the group devolved.

  Skylar puts her hand on my back. I stare at my toes. All I can think about is what an insane coincidence it is that dozens of AS bankers showed up to class on the one night I teach. Yes, Yoga Cyclone is right by the office and, yes, groups have off-site bonding activities every once in a while, but come on. What are the odds? One of those fucking numbers guys rolling up their mats could answer that.

  “Can I be honest with you?” she asks softly.

  I lift my head.

  “I am impressed,” she says.

  chapter 16

  Skylar’s impressed? But that class was a total disaster.

  “This class wasn’t about the students, it was about you,” she says. “You can’t control what goes on outside, you can only control yourself, and you did! You kept your composure. You were calm. You were exactly the strong, beautiful presence I knew you would be.” She smiles so wide it’s contagious.

  “Oh, wow,” I exclaim. “That’s great!”

  “I think we can make our relationship more formal,” she says. “You and I met during a time of growth for me, too. Next year, I will be growing my little enterprise, and I would love to have you on my team.”

  My head jerks at the word team.

  “I’ve always said I admire your skills, and I know you will be a great teacher one day. But I always imagined us working together in a different way.” She pauses, which feels like a silent drumroll. “I think you would be a beautiful voice for some of the beliefs of my practice.”

  “Okay,” I say hesitantly.

  What does she mean?

  Skylar smiles wider.

  “So, I would be a spokesperson?” I ask.

  “Think of it as, you are an example of what I help people achieve,” she says. “Here’s the story: you’re unhappy at Anderson, unfulfilled despite ‘having it all,’ but then we meet, and I transform your life with the SkylarSmithYoga method and teach you advanced asana. You are suddenly breathing easier, sleeping better, spiritually centered, a few pounds lighter, and you feel compelled to evangelize my practice. You’re perfect for the role. Your poses will be stunning.”

  I am speechless.

  “Really, it is such an incredible opportunity for you. You’ll help people live their best lives. You’ll get name recognition. And you’ll travel. I’ve already picked some great cities.”

  “Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “So, I would travel as, like, advertising. . . .” I linger here, putting the pieces together out loud. “And not teaching. Just talking about how much you helped me?”

  She nods. A pause grows.

  “But I haven’t changed that much,” I say, asserting the obvious out loud.

  “I think you’re losing sight of the big picture,” she says, still upbeat. “I have such big dreams for you! You will travel to all of the best studios—places like Mala, Hamsa Hand—and be part of the SkylarSmithYoga team. Your practice is so inspiring. What you can do with your body is breathtaking, and adding my story to it is something I’ve been, well, really excited about. You will be a role model.”

  “I’m the client other people could be,” I say.

  “Exactly,” she says, smiling. “And it’s not just you—I’m building an amazing team. Rosie will take on more responsibility. She’ll be working for me on the Instagram side, editing photos and writing content. She’ll stay up on the hashtag and pose trends, so I don’t have to.” She laughs. “To be honest, I’ll be glad to take that one off my plate. Then I can spend more time teaching retreats and making videos.”

  “So Rosie will manage your account?” I ask.

  “Yes!” Skylar says. She wraps one arm around my shoulder the way she held Rosie on the park bench in #mudita.

  “Wow,” I say, still processing.

  “I know!” she agrees.

  “It’s just . . . I just imagined myself teaching,” I admit.

  She swats the air. “You will be in the studios,” she says. “Think of all the people you’ll meet and inspire.”

  Rustling noises amplify outside the closed studio door, signaling that another class may soon begin in this room.

  “I’m really, really flattered,” I say. “Honestly. But it’s a lot to take in. I’ll probably think of more questions after I leave. Can we talk about it again later?”

  “Of course,” she says. “I don’t need to go through the whole contract right here and now.” We stand, and she hugs me. “Talk again very soon. I think we’re going to work well together. You’re so teachable.”

  It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

  * * *

  I change in Yoga Cyclone’s dressing room. As I zip my skirt, I avoid eye contact with the woman wearing two dark-purple hair wraps. Yeah, I know class sucked, lady. I scan my work emails—nothing due now—and mark banking Google Alerts from Dad as “read.” I mentally write my to-do list for the rest of the night. Cold air pricks my face as I leave.

  Skylar’s offer reminded me of a moment from new-banker training. During one of the presentations on company culture, an HR rep projected a slide illustrating the income trajectory at Anderson Shaw. The chart showed a single arrow sloped diagon
ally up. The y-axis: Money. The x-axis: time, going from analyst to MD. It was an attempt by AS at retention and suggested the caption “Stay here for life and ride this fucking arrow all the way to the top of our line graph. How incredibly fucking dope does that sound?”

  Analysts have plenty of high-paying exit options waiting for them after two years here, but one of Anderson’s selling points is a “risk-adjusted” path to wealth. Go to the buy side and your income is insecure. Many of the associate jobs that analysts flock to after AS only have two-year contracts, and then the firing rounds begin. Beyond that, investments can fail. The market can crash. Hedge funds close. But companies will always need bankers. Anderson was saying: “You can count on this fucking line graph. You don’t need your own dreams when you’re building ours, bitches!” I just don’t know if my working for Skylar would be her dream or my own.

  I stop at a convenience-store ATM and withdraw twenty dollars for a $1.95 fee. I break the twenty into some single dollar bills. Soon enough, with my cash in hand, I see the pretzel cart come into view. It glows radioactive orange in the dark.

  Out of curiosity, and because I need a distraction from thinking about my uncertain future, I look up the cart on Yelp. There are apparently several pretzel carts nearby that expose this one to be even shittier than I believed. One a couple of blocks away sells sweet and savory pretzels in flavors like Gruyère paprika, cheddar truffle, and churro. The pictures uploaded by customers are as well lit as acting headshots. The churro-pretzel competitor is described as the “perfect love child between a pretzel, croissant, and biscuit.” How is Anderson’s pretzel guy even still in business?

  He mans his stand while I wait at the intersection.

  “You again,” he says. “Fuckin’ A.”

  I hand him two dollar bills. He gives me the middle finger.

  “Why are you so mean?” I ask.

  “I sell you pretzels,” he says. “I don’t sell ‘be your bitch.’ ”

  “Got it,” I say, with some admiration.

  He may be the only person I know who’s not sacrificing who he is or acting two-faced just to make another sale. He is staying true to what he believes—in his case, he seems to believe, Fuck Anderson, but still. His main mantra in life isn’t Sell more shit and, for a second, I like him.

  “You have a tip jar?”

  “No.”

  You got a mission, bro. Godspeed. I hope I have half his guts in the morning, when I face the bankers I just taught.

  chapter 17

  As I walk onto the HG floor with unusual trepidation, Tripp is one-earbud zoned into Game of Thrones. Chloe is adjusting her shawl. Puja is unwrapping a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, presumably from the stash of MDs’ leftover candy.

  “Well, well, well,” Tripp greets me.

  He removes his earbud. Chloe and Puja perk up.

  “Looks like the pod has another celebrity,” he says, with a thoroughly unmalicious aura of amusement. “Are you in office-chair pose right now? Looks amazing.”

  Chloe smirks, and Puja giggles.

  “Does everyone know?” I ask.

  The associates Harry and Alex stop at the edge of our pod. Their impromptu visit is unusual. I ignore them.

  “Sorry, are you meditating right now?” Harry asks.

  “We wouldn’t want to interrupt that,” Alex says.

  “Yeah, I am, fuckface,” I snap.

  “Hey, now,” Alex says. “Whoa.”

  “That’s not very yoga of you,” Harry says.

  “Yeah, someone needs a green juice and a flow,” Alex says.

  “Yum,” Puja says.

  “All right, all right,” Tripp says. “I’m trying to watch Game of Thrones, guys.”

  He waves them away like dust bunnies, and they oblige, sniggering. I mouth Thank you to Tripp as Outlook loads. The first email to appear turns out to be an all-HG-analysts blast where the photo above the sender’s signature is a gypsy caravan. The wagon is decorated with vaguely Eastern symbols.

  Tripp fills me in. Since the class last night, the guys in Industrials have been spreading the word that an HG analyst—me—is teaching at Yoga Cyclone. The news traveled fast because it’s extremely bizarre. I now appear to have a whole other, second identity that people can’t reconcile with my life at Anderson. The fact that I have time for it at all is a point of fascination and attributed to “yoga powers.”

  Tripp says not to worry. People are just unhappy and jumping on an easy laugh. Right now, it’s at my expense, because, “come on, this shit is fun-nay.” Soon enough, it will pass. Which brings us back to the wagon picture blast. Yep, that’s me. I am HG’s yoga gypsy in residence, smoking ganja and peddling feathered dream catchers to the clients out of a fucking wagon. I am the butt of a group-wide joke.

  “Do you want to get a drink or something?” Tripp asks.

  “It’s ten a.m.,” I say.

  “Bloody Mary?” he says.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  “Oh, is it the yoga?” he asks. He winks.

  “L-O-L,” I spell.

  “Leggo,” he says. “Come onnnn.”

  I open Instagram for a distraction. The first post comes from a yogi my age sitting in a non-asana on her yoga mat in a leotard. The surface area of her one-piece suggests a profound shortage of latex. The thigh holes run so generously high that she is basically wearing a white version of the iconic Baywatch swimsuit. So yoga.

  A red notification hovers in the corner: +201. @AllegraHandstands has 201 new followers. The fuck? The profiles are attached to handles like @LikeCashLoveYoga, @HGUnit, and @BankDatAssUp. My most recently posted video has been viewed over five hundred times and earned twenty-five comments. I read them. The number of banking puns is astounding. There is only one explanation: My colleagues found my yoga Instagram.

  Mark walks onto the floor, briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.

  “Morning, team,” he greets the pod.

  “Fantastic to see you, Mark,” Tripp says.

  Fuck my life.

  I head abruptly for a conference room. The trip unfolds as if I am a television show walking through my own audience. Some people look at me, stare, and lean in to whisper amongst themselves. I steal a random cardboard notebook and use the prop as a deflective I’m busy flag. Oh, you have a yoga joke? Sorry, I’m on my way to a meeting. A megamerger meeting, to be specific.

  I duck into the first dark conference room I see and leave the lights off. Conference rooms like this one are scattered throughout the floor. They are used mainly for interviews and late-night dinners when people literally get sick of their screens. My pod sticks close to home base, but I went to one of those dinners a few weeks ago. A dozen analysts sat around the table, and casual conversation turned into swapping ambitions. People shared how they wanted to change the world. One analyst from Ghana said he wanted to go back with the skills he learned to reform his country. A similar mind from the Caribbean said he wanted to learn microfinance and development economics, and then go home to develop his nation. Another analyst mapped out how he wanted to rise in a private equity firm and then go into policy. Yeah, where are those grounded and respectful assholes now, huh? It’s like recess out there.

  I turn my back to the door so that no one can see my face. Who even makes an all-glass door? What is the point of that? I know I’ll have to come out eventually. For now, I think back to some of the things Skylar has said to make me feel better. You can’t control what goes on outside, you can only control yourself. . . . You kept your composure. You were calm. This time, though, it doesn’t seem to help. I don’t know. Listening to Skylar is sort of how I got here in the first place.

  * * *

  Tripp, Chloe, and Puja rise at noon, beckoned by the silent call of the un-discount. I drink the final inch of Keurig coffee waiting room-temperature in my paper cup. Coffee grounds speckle the bottom like a kaleidoscope of shit spray.

  “Want anything?” Tripp asks.

  “Nah,” I say
. “Meeting.”

  “Do you mean nah-maste?” Chloe says.

  She giggles. Tripp raises one of his eyebrows.

  “That’s the one minority we can jab at? Yogis?” He shakes his head. “That’s fucked, Chlo, really. I expected better from you.”

  They head for the door.

  “Let’s be politically correct, but fuck the yogis,” Tripp says.

  “Oh my God, so mean,” Puja says as they leave.

  Thanks, Tripp. He’s deduced that I don’t want my “second job” in the limelight. Every time someone stopped by and expressed uncharacteristic interest in how my day was, Tripp shooed them away because he was “cranking right now, steaming at the ears, thanks bro.” He usually had a window of Rick and Morty up at the same time, which made his “cranking” excuse empty but even more appreciated by me.

  A familiar, round figure comes into view: my associate, Adam. I’m reminded of the shitty management presentation I sent him during my fast last week. Adam graduated from Columbia Business School in May and has over one hundred thousand dollars of student debt. He was born and raised in Illinois, gets to the office at 9 a.m. on Sundays, and has a deeply internalized sense of subservience. When the companies he covers report their financial results every quarter, Adam proactively emails his MDs on how they performed. At every internal lunch meeting, he clears the place settings of the VPs and MDs. He has gained fifty pounds since he started working here. Of all the associates to burden with shit work, I sent nice-guy Adam shit work.

  “Hey, Adam,” I say.

  “Allegra,” he says cheerily. “Ready?”

  I follow him to the MD’s office, where we take our seats and flip open our notebooks. Adam titles a fresh page “Mgmt Pres Review,” and I double-take when I see his wrists. They are extremely slender and pale as printer paper. I look away because they are so fucking sad. I don’t want to know that his wrists belong to an 1850s Southern debutante with sun allergies. Thin hairs struggle to assert masculinity. This poor fucking guy.

  From my seat, I see down the line of pods. A few analysts have added new decorations to their desks: a miniature Zen sandbox and fork-size rake, a hatha yoga book the size of a brick, and a small electric fountain.