Murber Strikes a Pose

by Tracy Weber

  I considered pointing out the whipped cream mustache adorning her upper lip, but I launched into the story of my frustrating week instead. I told Rene all about the studio’s new smelly salesman, his horse-dog companion, and my collection of unread newspapers. I’d finally gotten to the part about buying a giant dog cage, when she shoved her palm in front of my face, interrupting.

  “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You met a perfectly good guy, and you turned down a date because he had a beard? Are you crazy?” Rene’s voice belted across the cafe. She clearly wanted everyone inside Mocha Mia to hear about my transgression. Perhaps even the pedestrians walking by on the sidewalk.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved Rene; she’d been my best friend since grade school. But most of the time I still wanted to kill her. She had this annoying habit of homing in on my nonexistent love life like a heat-seeking missile. I wanted to complain about the annoying drunk outside my studio, not get all goofy-silly about a cute guy in a pet store. I sipped my coffee and jealously eyed the pastry on her plate, tempted by the sweet smell of vanilla icing. Maybe if I stole her cinnamon roll, I could distract her and get back on topic.

  “I knew I never should have told you,” I replied. “And it wasn’t a date. He invited me to a business meeting. Besides, I’m very happy on my own. The last thing I need is some stupid man distracting me from the business. I barely have time to think as it is!”

  “Come on! You haven’t been out on a date in more than eight months!”

  “It hasn’t been that long, has it?” (It had been nine months, three days and seven hours, to be exact.)

  She shook her head in disgust. “You would have sabotaged a relationship anyway. You know how you are. You fall head over heels for the first couple of weeks, and then suddenly Mr. Perfect turns into Mr. Perfectly Awful.”

  “It’s not my fault you keep setting me up with jerks.”

  She looked at me incredulously. “Jerks? Are you kidding me? You’ve gone through every one of Sam’s single friends. And I can assure you, my husband does not hang out with jerks. What was wrong with Troy?”

  “Too dumb. Couldn’t hold his own in a conversation with a doorstop.”

  “How about Chris?”

  “Too boring. Going out with that guy was like taking a triple dose of Ambien with a Valium chaser.”

  “Sean?”

  “Too rich. What do I have in common with a guy who owns a yacht named Pocket Change and flies to Vail every other weekend?”

  “OK, what about Carl? Surely, you can’t find fault with him.”

  “That guy was a football fanatic. I have no intention of spending my Sunday afternoons hanging out with a bunch of beer-drinking, junk-food-belching sports nuts in their man cave. Spare me.”

  Rene glared at me in frustration. “You dated him for two weeks in April. There was no football. You look for any excuse to dump and run. Ever since your father died, I swear you’ve become commitment phobic.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Rene didn’t realize it, but she was getting a little too close to the truth. Make no mistake, I enjoyed a fun night out with a guy as much as the next girl. But ever since that dreadful night with my father, I couldn’t stand the thought of relying on someone else—or having him rely on me.

  “I am not commitment phobic, I assure you. I simply have relationship ADD.” Rene rolled her eyes. “Seriously,” I continued. “Give me a break. I just haven’t met the right guy yet. But when I do, I can assure you his face will be clean-shaven and baby smooth.” I leaned back and took a deep swig of coffee. “You know, ever since you married Sam, you’ve become obsessed with setting up all of your friends. Just because you’re Mrs. Marital Bliss doesn’t mean the rest of us have to join you.”

  “I know, but I do worry about you,” she said, sighing. “You’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  “When did thirty-two become an old maid?”

  Rene pretended not to hear me. “And you spend waaay too much time in that yoga studio. You’re not the only teacher there, you know.”

  “Maybe not, but the other instructors only teach a few classes a week, and they certainly don’t help manage the studio. I can barely get them to take out the garbage.”

  “Come on, Kate. You don’t have to personally oversee everything, and you know it. Frankly, I’m beginning to think that you bury yourself in work to avoid dealing with your own issues.”

  She was right, of course. But that didn’t mean I had to admit it.

  “How can I possibly avoid my own ‘issues’ when I have you to remind me of them? Besides, it’s hard to meet people unless you hang out in bars or join some online dating service. Neither of those is really my thing. How am I supposed to meet someone?”

  “That’s exactly my point!” she said, scowling. “You claim you can’t date anyone from the studio, yet you spend all of your time there. This pet store guy may have been your last chance. I don’t want to visit you ten years from now only to be surrounded by a hundred cats. You may not mind being the crazy cat lady, but I’m allergic!”

  “I don’t even own one cat, Rene. But I do own a business. And in spite of what you seem to think, the studio needs my attention more than I need any man.” If I had any hope of getting out of this coffee shop with my ego intact, I needed to change the subject. “Speaking of which, are you coming to flow yoga tonight?”

  “Yes, I guess I’d better,” Rene replied, eating the last bite of pastry and licking the frosting-coated whipped cream off her lips. “I love these sticky buns, but they stick right on my ass. I’ve got to work off the calories somehow. You know, I love your studio, but you really do need to turn up the heat. Nothing like an hour or two of hot yoga to sweat all those nasty carbs out of your thighs.”

  Another reason to hate Rene. As long as I’d known her, I’d never noticed an ounce of body fat mar those perfect legs. She ate cinnamon rolls, I crunched celery. She had the kind of body found in the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated, I had thunder thighs.

  Hmm … Maybe she had a point about that hot yoga thing …

  “Now finish up that disgusting soy latte and let’s get going. I’ve got a pet store owner to check out. If you’re not going out with him, maybe one of my other friends will.”

  _____

  Time zipped by, and before I knew it, three weeks had passed. The great crate experiment with Bella went reasonably well. Caging Bella like a zoo animal wasn’t the most elegant solution, but the setup cut down on the daily noise and drama, which were my main concerns. After all, how could students find their internal Zen if they were forced to inhale flying fur before breath practice and listen to dog fights during meditation? Bella still barked occasionally, but significantly less than before. She seemed basically happy as long as she could be close to George.

  For his part, George kept to his selling schedule like a full-time corporate job. He’d arrive at eleven each morning and sell until seven at night. Over time, I stopped noticing his pungent aroma and started looking forward to seeing his friendly face outside my window.

  I felt oddly comforted by his presence—as if I had a private security guard on duty from eleven to seven every day. George assured me that he and Bella watched out for me; that they kept would-be prowlers from sneaking in the finicky front door when I wasn’t looking.

  He wasn’t perfect, by any means, but he stayed relatively sober each day until his selling shift ended. Then he ambled off with Bella and a bottle for his evening reprieve from the struggles of daily life. If I hadn’t known he was destroying his health and shortening his life span, I would have found a sort of symmetry and beauty to the simplicity of his existence.

  Every now and then, I’d pick up sandwiches for us at the PhinneyWood Market. On sunny days George, Bella, and I packed up our lunches and headed to Greenwood Park, a small oasis of green a few blocks north of the s
tudio. This hidden, two-acre play space restored my faith in the untapped potential of the Greenwood community.

  Adopted by a group of dedicated neighborhood activists, Greenwood Park had recently been transformed from the run-down site of a defunct nursery to a beautifully maintained community gathering place. The park’s many amenities included something for everyone: Pea-Patch vegetable gardens, multi-use sport courts, futuristic-looking children’s play areas, and a large open lawn suitable for Frisbee, volleyball, and spirited games of fetch.

  But for the three of us, Greenwood Park was simply a tranquil place to relax and spend precious minutes chatting in the shade. I liked listening to George’s stories, and he obviously loved telling them.

  Much to my surprise, he had owned a business.

  “It was one of those dot com startups that were all the rage in the late nineties. I started the company out of my house, which wasn’t all that unusual back then.” He fed Bella the last bite of his ham and cheese sandwich. “What was unusual was that we almost made it. We were this close.” He held up a thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart.

  “We worked night and day, and I never had so much fun in my life. I wasn’t as young as most of the kids forming the startups in those days, but I could work twice as hard. My partner and I built the company to over fifty employees in three short years. We were growing so fast we could barely keep up.” He smiled and looked wistfully off into the distance. Although he gazed toward the playground, his eyes seemed blank—as if he had traveled to some better, faraway place.

  I hated to make him return, but I wanted to hear the end of the story. “What happened?”

  He turned back and shrugged. “Bad luck combined with bad decisions, I guess. First the tech market bit the dirt; then our investors got nervous. So I took a couple of creative financing risks and, well, let’s just say they didn’t pay off. We went bankrupt almost overnight.” His voice grew sad. “Broke my heart the day I had to tell everyone we were closing the doors.”

  As I listened to George’s story, my heart broke too, for him and for others like him. The failure he described could happen to anyone, even me. Being forced out of business was my worst nightmare—one that might soon come true, if business at the studio didn’t pick up. I didn’t know how to help, so I kept listening, hoping that would be enough.

  “My partner was furious. He never understood the financial side of the business, and to be honest, I didn’t tell him about our money issues until it was too late.” George paused, shaking his head. “Helluva way to lose a friend.

  “But the worst part was telling those fifty-three people that they were out of a job. Several of them had families to support. Every single one of them had put 110 percent into building the company, assuming their hard work would pay off in the end.” He rubbed his eyes, as if even remembering that day left him exhausted. “All for nothing.”

  He stared at the ground for a full minute, the laughter of children paradoxically filling the silence. When he continued, his voice sounded heavy, defeated. “That night I went out and got plastered for the first time. Just couldn’t take how I had let all those people down. One drink became two, became three. The next night, three drinks became four, and well, the rest is history.” He absently stroked Bella’s fur.

  “My biggest regret is what my drinking did to my family. My wife finally gave up and divorced me, not that I blame her. I wasn’t exactly a good husband. I got drunk every night and disappeared for days at a time. She gave me plenty of chances to go into rehab, and I said no to every one of them. Last I heard, she had remarried and moved to Denver. I haven’t spoken to my daughter in years.”

  As his voice trailed off, I sensed an opportunity. Maybe alcoholism and homelessness didn’t have to be the end of his story.

  “What about now? Have you considered getting help? Your wife may have moved on, but I’m sure your daughter would love to see you again. It’s not too late, you know.”

  He sighed. “I keep thinking that one day I’ll get my act together. But honestly, for now this life suits me. I sort of like disappearing into the woodwork. Nobody’s counting on me, except Miss Bella here.” He patted her affectionately. “No rent to pay, no employees’ lives to ruin. Heck, I even get to meet nice people like you occasionally.” I smiled. People didn’t call me nice every day.

  “Besides, I can’t possibly go into rehab now. What would happen to Bella? I may not be much, but I’m all she’s got.” Bella stared steadily at him, drooling and hoping for one last morsel. He ran his hand down her side. “I’m getting worried about her, though. Does she look skinnier to you?”

  I looked more closely; she did look thinner. Bella had been skinny the first day I saw her, but not like this. Her ribs clearly showed, and her formerly shiny black fur appeared dull and brown. Even her eyes seemed sadder, more desperate somehow.

  “Now that you mention it, yes,” I replied. “If you’re having trouble affording food, I can always help out a little.” I had my own financial worries, but an extra ten or twenty dollars a month wouldn’t break me.

  “Well, you know I never look a gift anything in the mouth, so if you want to buy us some dog food, I sure as heck won’t stop you. But she’s not underfed, believe you me. She eats better than I do.” He touched his nose to Bella’s and cooed. “I feed you lots, don’t I, Missy Girl?”

  He turned back to me. “But she’s always ravenous and she’s getting grumpier, too. She never liked other dogs much, but she only used to bark when they got in her face. Now she goes after them even when they’re clear across the street. And she keeps getting skinnier and skinnier. At first I thought she was having another growing spurt, but this seems different. I even caught her eating dirt yesterday.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean she’s not done growing yet?” That wasn’t the most relevant comment I could make, but I couldn’t help but be dumbfounded. The Bella-beast was already ridiculously large.

  George smiled with obvious pride. “She’s a big one, isn’t she? A vet told me once that she’d be 100 pounds by the time she stopped growing. I think she could top that. She’s got at least six months’ growth left in her. I’ll bet she hits 110. She’s a purebred shepherd, but some days, I swear she’s part malamute.”

  More like part horse.

  “And she’s a smart one, too,” he continued. “It only took me twenty minutes to teach her to ‘say hello.’” Bella looked up expectantly at the familiar command. “But I am worried about her, and people have started to harass me about her weight. They assume I’m intentionally starving her or that I can’t afford to feed her. A couple have even threatened to turn me in to the Humane Society.” He scowled, clearly offended. “As if I’d ever hurt Bella!”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m taking her to the free vet clinic by Southcenter next weekend. Hopefully they’ll figure out what’s going on.”

  “Next weekend?” From what George described, I was afraid Bella might not make it that long.

  “I’d like to take her in sooner, but they’re only open one weekend a month.”

  I hesitated, vacillating between idealism and realism. A true friend would offer to pay for an earlier appointment. But I had my own money issues. “I wish I could help but—”

  George responded with an insincere smile. “Don’t you worry, ma’am. Bella likes the folks at the free clinic, and they’re good with her. I wouldn’t take her anywhere else.”

  “How are you going to get Bella all the way to Southcenter?” I could at least offer him a ride.

  “It’s pretty easy, actually. Bella loves riding the bus. The drivers even keep a stash of cookies for her. We’ll get there, no problem.”

  I guiltily counted the days until that fateful appointment. Bella got alarmingly thinner, and George’s face grew more concerned. The angry words outside my door changed
from “Control that beast!” to “If you can’t afford a dog, you shouldn’t have one!”

  I wanted to throw open the door and tell those obnoxious strangers what they could do with their rude opinions. I stopped myself only by imagining the headline: “Yoga Teacher Starts Fist Fight Outside Studio.” I even tried practicing loving-kindness meditation. But instead of feeling waves of love flow from my heart, I felt white-hot daggers of indignation shoot from my eye sockets. Buddha needn’t fear for his job any time soon.

  Saturday finally arrived. I waved goodbye, sent George positive energy, and waited, hoping for good news. I looked for George Saturday evening, to no avail. Saturday turned into Sunday, turned into Monday, turned into Tuesday. Although I searched for him every day at eleven, he failed to show up for his route.

  Unaccountably depressed and fearing the worst, I went on with my life. What else could I do?

  four

  “You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I punched the numbers in again, but the studio’s calculator stubbornly refused to change its mind. “This can’t be right. How can we possibly be down to $300 in the studio account?

  “No new candles this month, I guess. Maybe I’ll ask students to reuse paper cups and bring their own toilet paper.” I tossed the traitorous device to the side. Grumbling felt good, but it didn’t change the bottom line. My bank account gave the phrase going for broke a whole new meaning.

  For the 937th time, I wondered what malfunctioning brain synapse compelled me, of all people, to open a yoga studio. The day I got my foot behind my head would be the day I chopped it off at the ankle, and my short, stubby legs hardly merited the cover of Yoga Journal. As for achieving yoga’s supposed blissful state of samadhi? Well, let’s just say that I had yet to discover the path to enlightenment.

  But in life’s toughest times, yoga kept me going.

  So when my father passed away and left me his house and a small inheritance, the choice seemed obvious. I quit my stable, good-paying, full-benefits job and opened Serenity Yoga.