Breathe In, Cash Out

by Madeleine Henry

  At first, the article was a more detailed version of my expectations. Arjun was born and raised in India. He dropped out of school as a teenager to soul search, during which time he met Guru Bhavin. Bhavin taught him yoga and methods of deep meditation and, in the process, helped Arjun find enlightenment. Then, Arjun had a vision: his purpose was to spread true yoga to America and his first stop had to be Hollywood. Something about that seemed weird, but I kept reading the article. Arjun proceeded to build luxury yoga studios exclusively for Hollywood’s elite before expanding his franchise globally.

  Wow, he must be loaded, I thought.

  And he was. Arjun’s massive corporation has supported his lavish lifestyle. He’s collected Ferraris—and then I stopped reading. Yeah, yogi loves dem Ferraris, I thought sarcastically. I wrote off the whole website. It had to be clickbaity garbage. But the next article I read about Arjun on a different site corroborated the first. Yogi loves dem Ferraris had been an accurate thought. The Google Images search for this guy was insane—he looked like a caricature of Snoop Dogg in Soul Plane, but flashier. In one picture, he wore a leopard-fur oversize bomber, and in the next, a velvet jacket with silk pants and burgundy slippers. This was the founder of the major yoga chain? This was the man trying to popularize the practice with American Yoga? Jesus fucking Christ.

  Arjun Patel has made millions of dollars a year in fees coming from the thousands of his yoga studios. Every interview that I read with him was a different shade of outrageous. When asked about his company culture, he said, “It’s good. It’s great. Fantastic. Everyone loves it. And when my employees complain, I tell them they’re lucky to have a job at all.” Uh, okay. To describe his teaching style, he said, “When people listen to me, I change their lives. When they don’t listen, I tell them to get the fuck out of my studio.” I wondered, Do you have to be a piece of shit to be successful? I should just stay in banking.

  I shut my laptop in disgust. I didn’t want to pose in Arjun’s contest anymore. I showed Dad what I’d found, and we talked about whether or not I should withdraw. In the end, we decided to finish what we started, even if Arjun was a horrible person. We weren’t representing him, we were representing ourselves. We wouldn’t enter again.

  Being that detached from winning actually helped me perform, because judges deduct points for signs of tension. When it was my turn, I stepped onto the focal yoga mat calm. The crowd and panel of judges didn’t affect me as I moved through my routine. After I won, Dad and I posed for the photo that remains on my nightstand. We left content that we had represented ourselves. No matter what you do, you’ll run into bad people. You just have to do your own thing.

  * * *

  I wake up in a place I don’t recognize. There’s a lot of white. Colors slowly become shapes with edges until I realize I am in a hospital bed sequestered by a hanging plastic curtain. Skylar stands nearby, holding a bouquet of white roses that I mistake for lotus flowers. She still wears the gray yoga outfit from our last practice. A white-coated doctor leans over my bedside.

  “Allegra,” he coos.

  I blink hard and swallow.

  “Good,” he says. He pockets a flashlight the size of a ChapStick. “Can you hear me?” I nod. “Good. My name is Dr. Peterson. You are in an NYU hospital.”

  “Can we be alone?” I ask him as soon as I can.

  He turns to Skylar, who leaves.

  “No visitors,” I demand.

  He nods. “How do you feel?” he asks.

  The doctor wears a scrub cap like David Foster Wallace’s bandana. I take a deep breath, sending pain to my deltoid. My shoulders twitch on reflex, bringing my attention into my hands. I wiggle my fingers. They move, but it’s different.

  “I can’t feel my hands,” I think aloud.

  Yoga, of course, can cause injuries. Since college I have seen different people seize, tear a hamstring, rupture an Achilles tendon, and uncontrollably start to shit. I practiced with one teacher who overworked her knees until she was diagnosed with “bone on bone.” I met another teacher who had a stroke while holding a headstand. It still takes her five seconds to swallow. Headstand.

  Dr. Peterson asks me more questions and conducts a brief physical exam. He moves my neck and shoulders until there is pain and touches my arm at different points, which leads him to diagnose me with “cervical radiculopathy.” He says this nerve damage can be caused by pressure on the root of the nerve near the spine. As in backbending. Some nerves that run down my arms are recovering, so I can’t feel properly right now. My back hurts where the nerve roots are inflamed.

  “I’ve never seen this in anyone your age,” he says. “This typically occurs in much older people, after discs have degenerated over time. You almost have to try for this injury to get it so young.” I remember the feel of Skylar’s strong hands pushing me closer and closer to injury as I tried to struggle out of her grasp. “Fortunately, your case is light,” he continues. “And, because you are young, your body is already repairing itself. You may feel uncoordinated this week, particularly in your hands. For the pain, anti-inflammatories: Advil, Aleve. If it takes longer to improve, we can talk about steroids or physical therapy. But that probably won’t be necessary.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You are very lucky,” he says.

  * * *

  Soon after, I sign my own discharge papers from bed. My hospital room door opens to a long hallway. Skylar sits nearby on one of the chairs lining the wall, and the sight of her sends a chill through my body. Her legs cross in lotus, and her spine is as straight as in tadasana. I walk hunchback to relax away some of the pain. Every time I breathe, it hurts. I try to breathe shallowly.

  In front of Skylar stands a middle-aged couple. The man’s broken arm rests in a sling. Skylar points to her own arm and crooks it back and forth. She is talking about something, and the man talks back. She points to his arm, and he nods. The woman listens intently. Skylar pulls a business card and pen out of her parka’s pocket. She starts to write something on the back. I walk closer.

  “Gentle poses will help it heal,” Skylar says to them.

  Her eyes dart to me. She finishes with a flourish of her pen.

  “So wonderful to meet you,” she tells them.

  “Thank you so much,” the man says.

  The couple depart down the long hallway toward the exit. I follow in their footsteps, separated by five seconds of distance. Their head start lengthens, as I am walking slowly. My back would hurt more if I moved any faster. So here I am, at full speed, at a snail’s pace. Skylar walks beside me.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” she says.

  We continue to pass through the same, repeating unit of hallway: a door on either side, four wooden chairs in a row against the wall. It’s as if the architect dragged his formula for the decor all the way to the end.

  “I was so worried,” Skylar says.

  “Stop,” I say.

  I can’t believe she’s still pretending to be a good person. We walk in step with each other. Hallway unit after unit, I ignore her. She makes a few more efforts to comfort me, as if my injury were a freak accident. I keep my eyes on the red EXIT sign.

  Eventually, Skylar seems to realize that I’m not buying her sympathy act. She falls silent. We pass the front desk, close to the end. We step outside through the double doors, where the streets are dusted lightly with snow. Skylar touches my shoulder lightly, and I jerk her off. Doing so brings an intense flash of pain, but I stay expressionless. I wrap my arms around myself to stay warm.

  “Oh, are you cold?” she mocks with faux sympathy. “You privileged bitch. I bet you are. Aren’t you, princess?”

  I pick up my pace. I’d never heard Skylar curse until this moment, and I’m not planning on sticking around for more.

  “Oh, are you running away?” she asks.

  She grabs my shoulder, hard.

  “You leave when I tell you to,” she snaps.

  I shove her aside, and she slaps my chee
k. I clutch the side of my face in horror. All of the kindness in her face has drained away, and the look in her eyes would scare even the most intimidating VP at Anderson Shaw.

  “You think that hurts?” she ridicules. “That’s why you’ll never make it. You have no idea what it takes. You lose sleep in your ivory tower and think you’ve worked hard? You think you’re smart? Look at you, cowering. It’s pathetic.” She raises her hand again, and I flinch. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do to make something of myself. I look at you, and you don’t have it in you. Not even close.”

  I gape at her.

  “If you try to take any of my students, any of what I’ve built”—she spits at my feet—“then I will eat you alive.”

  I try to run away, but I can’t move fast enough. The sidewalk is slippery. I keep my eyes locked on her as her gray figure gets smaller and smaller. She watches me leave and remains perfectly, eerily still. As I round the corner onto the nearest street—whizzing with cabs and witnesses—she snarls and bares her teeth.

  chapter 24

  I recover somewhat by Monday. If I hunch my back in one particular way—with my spine curved into the shape of a cane handle—the pain is tolerable. After Skylar, Erg Guy would probably be first in line to kill me today. It’s not how I expected to greet Bonus Day, but so be it.

  On the thirty-fifth floor, people are smiling, chatting, and bustling in a hopeful whir of energy. Never have so many bankers looked so happy. It’s like the only day of the year they like their jobs. Today, the annual ritual goes: Jason will call us into his office one by one, starting with assistants and working his way up the hierarchy. He will reveal the size of the bonus we earned and our total compensation for next year. Sometimes we get feedback. The meeting takes five minutes.

  I expect my bonus to fall between $70K and $120K depending on my tier, judging by rumors of how people made out last year. Associates can expect to earn $90K to $180K today, and for VPs and above, who even cares. Their system is more individualized and can cross into the millions.

  I take small steps to my desk and brace myself for the imminent shitstorm of other people’s emotions. Today, some ninety-pound, first-year analyst is going to make $100K and learn he’s on track to be promoted early, meaning he’ll make associate after just one year and not the standard two. He’ll update his LinkedIn immediately and walk around with a “Big Man on Campus” chest puff, shaking hands with senior people and thanking them for the opportunity. Maybe he’ll lose his virginity tonight. On the other side of the spectrum, some VP will make only $200K today and spend the afternoon puppy-eyeing the window ledge by his desk. I keep my back hunched and take a seat.

  Puja and Chloe are mid-conversation.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “. . . I mean, we are the one percent,” Puja says.

  “No, that’s not technically true,” Chloe says. “To be in the Manhattan one percent, you need to make over five hundred thousand dollars per household per year. I read that. There’s no way your bonus is that big.”

  I rub the tops of my thighs with my palms and realize I can’t feel a patch of skin on my inner left knee. All nerve cords connect to the spine, and my injury must have fucked up one of them attaching here. Dr. Peterson said I should be fine, but this is fucking annoying. I rub the area in a circle with my hand, trying to map the edges of the numbness.

  “You okay?” Puja asks.

  “Where’s Tripp?” I ask.

  “Working out,” Puja says. “He wants ‘Bonus Biceps.’ ” She makes air quotes. I laugh, and it hurts my back.

  From: Jason Chase

  To: Allegra Cobb

  Mon 18 Dec 9:34 a.m.

  Allegra, could you swing by?

  “It’s my turn,” I announce.

  “Good luck,” they say, overlapping.

  I pick up a notebook and head to Jason’s slowly. So close. I started imagining my last day at Anderson on my first day of training. Since then, I have tweaked my quitting fantasy hundreds of times, much like an arduous comment cycle with a VP. What if we revised this one, inconsequential detail? What if we changed the color here? No, change it back. As my fantasy stands, I envision myself wearing yoga clothes to work. It will be a thrill and a statement. Like, Goodbye, standard track. Here’s my ass.

  Of all last-day-related details, my goodbye email has taken the most time to plan. Frustrations aside, I’ve spent a lot of time at Anderson, and my goodbye email will eulogize those years. People don’t fuck around with eulogies.

  “Prolonging the suspense?” Harry asks. I roll my eyes.

  “Yep, I’m walking slow,” I say. “Good one.”

  Harry sits at his desk, outside Jason’s office. Apparently, Skylar snubbed Harry’s attempt to kiss her good night after the holiday party. Since then, I heard he’s taken up ax throwing, a hobby I think he chose for being the polar opposite of yoga.

  Jason waves me inside.

  “Sorry, gotta go,” I tell Harry.

  “Proceed,” he says. “Enjoy your bonus, yogi master.”

  I shut the door behind me.

  “Welcome,” Jason says.

  Today, Jason’s smile finally looks happy. Last year, he told me that PATC day is his favorite day of the year, because he gets to give us something other than work. I sit carefully. “It’s my pleasure to say HG has been doing well, thanks in part to your hard work. Your contributions put you in the middle tier. Your bonus will be one hundred thousand dollars.”

  I sit up straighter, which pinches something. I cringe. Fuck.

  “Does that upset you?” he asks.

  My mouth is a horizontal line of concentration as I re-stack my vertebrae into the one alignment that prevents back pain. I squirm like an ungrateful perfectionist, discontent with her ranking.

  “You got an outstanding review from one of your peers for your work on Titan,” he says, as if to encourage me. I know that couldn’t have been Mark, because I didn’t select him in my handful of reviewers, for the obvious reasons. Of course, Jason means Tripp.

  “Yep,” I say. “Thanks.”

  I squirm again. Fuck.

  “Really, thank you so much,” I say. I mean it, but my voice is hollow. His disappointment shows on his face, because I am raining on his favorite day of the year. I must look like such a brat, but I’m ecstatic. I am finally fucking here. I will live off of this bonus potentially for years. Of course, though, I can’t say that out loud. I will live off of this for years would come off like I was straight-up mocking him. Instead, I twitch a crooked smile and leave.

  * * *

  After the pod leaves for lunch, I head to an empty conference room to call Dad. It makes sense to tell him now.

  Bonus feedback for juniors is over. Tripp just finished a half-hour rant downloading his talk with Jason. Tripp “only” made middle tier, but after hearing what Jason said—after Tripp already took the fall for the strips—I’m surprised he’s even employed. Apparently, Tripp went to a client meeting in the Midwest wearing an Armani suit so fashion-forward that it didn’t have buttons. The VP had to take Tripp to a Men’s Wearhouse and buy him a suit that the client would not find alienating. At that same meeting, which was a pitched sale to private equity reps, Tripp showed up late and told the client offhandedly, “Talking with sponsors makes you want to skip all this and go straight there, ya know?” Jason told Tripp that he overused the word nah, worked out at inappropriate times, and over-broadcasted his Chesticles and Testicles Day in the gym. Tripp disputed this last point. Then Tripp got real-time feedback that he is bad at receiving feedback.

  From inside the conference room, I dial Dad from my cell.

  “Allegra?” he asks, tone upbeat.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says.

  I hear his TV on in the background. Sports.

  “We get ranked yet?” he asks.

  “Yeah, I did,” I say. “Just now.”

  His TV goes silent.
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  “And?” he prompts.

  “Middle tier,” I say.

  “Fuck,” he says.

  “The bonus was a hundred K,” I say.

  “Well,” he says.

  I can feel him caught between two camps. On one hand, he’s pissed we didn’t make top tier. We are, after all, the Cobbs. On the other, this bonus is more than he ever made in a single year or will ever make again.

  “Dad, I want to talk to you about something,” I say.

  “Did Jason say why middle?” he asks.

  “It’s not about my bonus,” I say. “It’s about the job. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and decided not to stay with banking.” The silence is rough. “You remember American Yoga?”

  He grunts yes.

  “I’ve kept practicing as much as possible, and there’s a way for me to do that professionally,” I say. “I’ve already booked students, and there’s a career path there. The Instagram account we started? I have twenty-five thousand followers now. You know, this is the life I want to live. If you’re going to do great work, you have to do what you love, right?” I don’t want to end with a question. “So that’s where I’m headed.”

  “Yoga teacher?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “So, no Anderson,” he says.

  “Right,” I say. “I’ll quit this week.”

  A pause grows.

  “Is everyone else in your class staying in finance?” he asks.

  It pinches an emotional nerve.

  “Basically.”

  “And you’re sure about this?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  After all of my preparation for this moment—the anecdotes, the reasoning—I don’t even feel the need to justify myself. I’ve been through enough.

  “Well, that’s something,” he says. He nurtures a pause. “You know, I’ve had my suspicions for a while now, that your heart wasn’t in this. Talking to you about work always felt a bit . . . short. I knew there was something else on your mind. I just didn’t know it was a bunch of yoga.”