Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  “Thanks for clarifying that.” The bottle makes a popping sound like the one I made when I read that dreaded e-mail. Luke Tucker. The Devil.

  “I think my deal is dead.”

  “What?” Suddenly I have Ron’s attention. Maybe he was planning on me taking him to Tahiti with that nice commission check?

  “Luke, the seller, he filed bankruptcy.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “Can you sue him?”

  “I can, but it would cost money, and there’s no guarantee I’d ever see a penny.”

  Ron reaches over and puts his hand on mine.

  “I’m really sorry, hon,” he tells me, and I start to sob. I tell him I’m fat and old and a rotten real estate agent. He pours me some wine and lets me cry.

  “I have to feed Herman,” I tell him.

  Ron owns a pool company. In fact, that’s how I met him. His company has the contract with the condo association where we live. He was training a new pool cleaner guy, and I was in a two-piece holding my stomach in (which happened to be about two inches flatter back then). We hit it off right away. My mother was thrilled, naturally, that I was dating, and I soon started planning our wedding. In my imagination. Because, well, he hasn’t asked me yet. I’ve hinted, left pictures of wedding cakes around the house, sighed heavily about always being a bridesmaid, never a bride.

  “You haven’t been a bridesmaid since I met you,” he said.

  “Well, I was three times before I met you.”

  “Listen, marriage is a big thing. What we have is great, right?” He points around the living room (mine) at the flat-screen television (his), the off-white sectional (mine), and the shelf full of videos (shelf, mine; videos, his).

  “I know, but I’d like to get married before I need a wheelchair to get down the aisle,” I tell him. He reminds me that a few years ago when we decided to live together he made it perfectly clear he had no intention of getting married and did not want children. These are facts I never shared with my mother but that haunt me daily.

  Chapter Three

  News in small offices carries fast. Of course, in part, we have Becky to thank for this. Of Latin descent, she feels responsible for making sure everyone in the “family” (aka, our office) knows when we should feel sorry for someone. I figure because she and I are such good friends, she has made extra sure that even the security guard and UPS guy know about my bankrupt client. I am wearing black today to mourn the loss of my biggest deal ever. I barely put any makeup on, and I am hoping none of the other agents are in the office today. Especially Tac, who I do not want to see ever again.

  “Morning,” Tac says, as I try to walk invisibly past him. Why did I even bother coming in? I could have easily stayed home and checked on my other two clients from there. But I know the reason. Well, actually there are two. The first reason is because Becky is really good at making me feel better. I wouldn’t be surprised if she brought in homemade burritos for me. Maybe even margaritas! And the other reason is because I know if I stayed home, I would eat anything that wasn’t nailed down. Why do women go on emotional eating binges? I have no clue. I got a book on it once, but I am pretty sure I ate it when I got my first rejection in real estate. I try to ignore Tac, but I can feel his snaky green eyes drilling a hole in the back of my head. It’s too late to turn around and go home without acknowledging him. Damn it.

  “Hello, Tac,” I say, all authoritarian-like. No eye contact.

  “So sorry to hear about your deal. That’s tough luck there.”

  Damn you, Becky! The UPS guy is one thing…

  “Yes. It sure is.”

  “Well, how about we go have a cup of coffee this morning?”

  What?

  I see. A trick. Kick her when she’s down. I’m not biting.

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Tac, but I have other clients to tend to.”

  I can tell that Tac is holding back a smile, like maybe I have no other clients to tend to and he knows all about it. God, I hate his hair.

  “Ah…all right, maybe some other time?” he says, but he’s not really asking, he’s more like reading it off a cue card of some kind. He flashes a smile and spins back around to answer his ringing phone. His phone is always ringing.

  I sit at my desk wondering why my phone never rings and whom I can call to sound important.

  It’s only about an hour later when Becky makes a whooping sound from the front desk. Our office isn’t very big. I do not know about square feet, although, as a real estate agent, I suppose I should. Perhaps if I say our office is about the size of a living room in a mid-sized house, that might help? Well, it is. There is a receptionist counter where Becky leads the troops with her daily e-mail quoting people like Mark Twain and Ronald McDonald. Then, there is our one conference room that has a big table and ten chairs. I know it is exactly ten chairs because whenever we have office meetings, if everyone shows up, we have one chair left over. I guess in case we have a guest. That means Broker Bert has eight agents. At least most of the time.

  Agents come and go. I have been here a couple years. Tac, four. Becky says she’s been here a few years, but she’s not all that good at keeping exact track of numbers like I am. Half the other agents were here before me; the other half came after. I don’t socialize much, except with Becky, because most of our agents are old. Except Tac, who is even more immature and annoying than his age of ten years younger than I. He really bugs me with all his awards and good hair.

  Too lazy to get up and walk the ten steps to the front desk so that I can discover what investigator Becky is gasping about, I shoot her a text: “What up?” I would holler it if Tac weren’t on the phone seven feet from me, and that old agent, Stan, weren’t taking a nap on his desk. But before I know it, Becky hollers, “Come here!”

  Old Stan’s head pops up, and Tac turns around from his call. Even Broker Bert steps out from his office to see what she’s hollering about. We all gather around her computer screen like we’re about to join hands in prayer, and then I read it.

  “Sacramento Attorney Caught Dealing Methamphetamines,” and right there in front of my very eyes is a color picture of Luke Tucker. He’s a drug dealer?

  “Man, that really does suck, Melissa,” Tac says, shaking his head from side to side. I am sure he is laughing inside.

  “Well, at least now we know why he got skinny and jittery,” Becky offered with her big, dark understanding eyes.

  Broker Bert patted my back like I was a good puppy and then went back into his office. Poor me was all I could think, right before realizing Becky didn’t bring me burritos or margaritas. Some kind of friend she turned out to be. I sigh dramatically and go back to my desk. Maybe I should go home early. After all, there’s nothing for me to do here besides soak in my self-deprecating depression and watch the back of Tac’s big head on his ringing phone.

  I decide to cruise through for a cheeseburger and milk shake. Milk shakes are not something I do very often, because, well, they are fattening as hell. However, today is a special occasion. Anyone who went through losing a big fat paycheck the day before she was getting it deserves, at the very least, an Oreo-flavored milk shake. I blame this on my mother. Remember I said she should have been Jewish? Growing up, food was how she comforted me. Get laughed at in third grade for having toilet paper streaming out my backside? A quick batch of chocolate chip cookies fixed it right up. Boyfriend in high school asks my best friend to the prom? That there’s a Taco Bell spread. Mom has always fixed things with food, and now it seems, I do too. Is this what they mean by “self-medicating?”

  I pull into my complex, with the cheeseburger I plan on devouring as soon as I flop on my bed and turn on the LifeTime Channel. I see Ron’s truck. Only, it’s parked right outside the front door with his big flat-screen television in the back. Maybe it’s broken? God help him if he bought a new one for the bedroom. Doesn’t he know I’m going to be drowning my sorrows in there now? Besides, what’
s he even doing home? This is my day. How can I drink what’s left of this milk shake in front of him? Maybe I should hide it. Leave it in the car. I pull in the garage and head to the front door. I can’t bear to leave my milk shake behind. The wound is too deep, the flavor too rich.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I say, hoping I don’t have any little pieces of Oreo on my mouth.

  “Christ. You’re home early.”

  The combination of the look on his face, the box in his hand, and the blank space on the wall where the flat-screen has lived the last few years hits me all at once.

  “What’s going on, Ron?” Suddenly the fact that I smuggled my milk shake in doesn’t seem to matter.

  “Melissa, I wanted to tell you—”

  “Tell me what?” My voice is shrill as I slam my burger bag onto the table.

  “I just think we need a break,” he says, heading out the front door.

  I follow him, trying hard to make sense of what’s happening.

  “You’re leaving me?” I can’t hide the sheer surprise in my voice. I mean, I thought for sure if anyone left anyone, it would be me doing the leaving. But I was giving him time, you know, to change his position on kids and marriage.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.” He places the box in the back of his ugly truck, next to the flat-screen. I can see now that he’s got other boxes in there too. I momentarily wonder where his pool cleaning equipment is.

  “Do you think you could give me a hint at what brought this all on?”

  “Nothing. I just feel we need a change.”

  Like a bright light, the truth flashes before my eyes. The recent but sudden interest in how he looks…going to the gym, buying new clothes, and clipping his nose hairs in the mirror. He never did that before.

  “Are you seeing someone?” The words are like glue, coming out of my mouth slow and sticky.

  “Melissa—”

  “No! I have a right to know.”

  “Yes.”

  Why couldn’t he just lie, save my dignity?

  “Who?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me!”

  Could it be someone in a two-piece bathing suit with a flatter stomach than mine? It’s not even summer yet.

  “She’s my yoga teacher.”

  Huh?

  “You don’t even go to yoga,” I say, hoping he is somehow mistaken.

  “I do, and I met her.”

  “When?” Suddenly I am more curious about his secret yoga hobby than I am about being left for another woman.

  “Look, I don’t want to get into details. The important thing is, I didn’t cheat on you.”

  “That’s the important thing?”

  I need clarification.

  “Yes. I cleaned her pool. She owns that yoga place downtown and invited us to go.”

  “Us?”

  “Yeah, I asked you.”

  “You never asked me to go to yoga downtown.”

  “Yes, I did. Do you ever notice how when you drink wine at night I have to remind you of our conversations the next day?”

  Wait. He’s trying to blame this on me?

  “That is beside the point. So you go to yoga…”

  “Yeah, and she and I just started chatting.” I think he means cheating.

  “On the computer!” I say, like I just solved world hunger.

  Ron bows his head now, clearly ashamed. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “So, let me just get this straight,” I say, feeling the Oreo milk shake working its way up my esophagus. “You go to this yoga place, start a midlife crisis crush, and now you’re leaving me?”

  He stares at the ground for what seems like an eternity. Hurt stings my eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, kissing my cheek and then getting in the truck. He drives off leaving me standing there like a limp doll.

  I would have tried yoga downtown.

  Chapter Four

  I go back inside. My living room wall looks hauntingly naked without the big flat-screen that I often complained about being on all the time. Was he moving in with the yoga teacher? Do yoga teachers even watch television? My cheeseburger is cold by now and has absolutely no flavor. I eat it anyway. Then, I take the lid off what’s left of my milk shake and pour in vodka. I do not use a shot glass. At this particular moment, I am rather numb. Do I call my mother or do a Google search and see if I can find a picture of this yoga whore who has stolen my man with her fancy yoga moves? I choose Google.

  The Internet. A blessing and a curse all rolled into one. On one hand, it’s allowed me to quench my curiosity by showing me not only pictures of the very cute yoga studio Ron’s been frequenting, but the woman he’s been frequenting as well. I can even push a map link and learn that it’s only twenty-two minutes away. On the other hand, I can no longer call her a yoga whore, because actually, she is quite beautiful. I am sure that the cheeseburger is on its way up.

  This woman looks like she’s twenty-nothing. Long blond hair, blue eyes, perfect body. She’s a yoga Barbie. This, I did not need to see. Damn you, Internet. I have to admit, under all the nausea, tears, and disbelief, it really is a nice website. There’s a place to put my e-mail address and be on their mailing list. How cute. I sign up out of spite. A glutton for punishment. Maybe I’ll go throw up on the front steps of her very cute yoga studio. After all, it’s her fault that this perfectly good depression-fixing meal went to waste. I enjoyed not one bite of that cheeseburger, and I have every right to blame Yoga Barbie.

  Now the vodka has kicked in, and I start to cry. I am all alone. I call my mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom, do you think I’m fat and old?”

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Not yet. Ron left me.”

  “What!” She sounds more mortified than I do.

  “Yes. For Yoga Barbie. She has a very cute studio.”“What happened? You’re not making any sense.”

  “He left me for a yoga instructor, Mom, plain and simple.” I take my last sip of Oreo-vodka shake.

  “Ron does yoga?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  My mother comforts me, telling me things to make me feel better, like how he wasted the best prime-marrying years of my life, rotten bastard. Somehow this helps. On the bright side, she adds, this will free me up for someone who will better appreciate (and marry) me. My stomach hurts, and I do not like the idea of sleeping by myself in that bed. I suddenly realize it was Ron’s bed and run down the hall to see if he took it.

  The bed is there. Actually, the bed is half mine, now that I think about it. I had a queen- sized and he had a king, so when he moved in, we decided to use his and gave mine to my cousin’s son who got his first apartment that same spring and had been sleeping on the floor with an air mattress. I hate those. So technically, if I got rid of my bed to bring in his bed, then doesn’t his bed become my bed, through some kind of osmosis? Wait. The fact that he didn’t take the bed means he doesn’t need a bed. Oh my god, he’s going to sleep in Yoga Barbie’s bed. I start to cry again.

  Opening the closet door, I see his tiny little space is empty. I was really a closet hog. I cry harder. I’ve driven him off over closet space, I just know it. Even the two drawers I gave him are empty. Now I know how Luke Tucker felt; breaking up takes its toll. Maybe I should start dealing drugs? Back to my home office to check e-mails. Maybe a new client wants to buy a million dollar house. That really would make me sleep better, but no. There is an e-mail for male enhancements promising I will be able to “satisfy her all night long,” and one from a real estate company telling me they have a dozen leads for me if only I click “here.” I do not click there.

  Lotus Gardens? Suddenly the name burns my eyes. Where do I know that name from? Oh my God! It’s an e-mail from Yoga Barbie! This must be automated, I tell myself, fully aware that by now she is doing a backbend while Ron is hanging his stupid flat-screen TV on her dumb wall.

  “Welcome to Lotus Gardens, and thank you for your subscription! Here’s
this week’s edition of our newsletter. We hope you enjoy it! Shanza.”

  Shanza? What kind of name is that anyway? “Yoga Barbie” is much more appropriate and way easier to remember. I open the link to the newsletter. How much can one put in a yoga studio newsletter? Maybe it tells readers about dumb postures and why we should drink wheat-grass? Put crystals in our cars and air fresheners in our auras? I laugh momentarily at my wittiness. Then I see the most interesting thing:

  “Holistic Blogger Wanted: As our popularity grows, we are looking for someone immersed in healthy, natural living who would like to be our guest blogger. At least one three hundred- to four hundred-word blog per week, on a variety of assigned topics. Please e-mail Shanza if you are interested. Sorry, no pay at first.”

  I smirk. What in the world is a holistic blogger anyway? I’m finally tired enough that I think I can tackle the empty bed. Maybe watch some LifeTime on my non-flat-screen TV. No, that might make me cry. Maybe watch something funny. Or, I know, a cop show where someone brutally murders her stinking, lying, cheating boyfriend. I take a deep breath and stand up. Then I sit back down and apply for the blogging job.

  Chapter Five

  Ever since my mother started reminding me I would be having yet another birthday without being married, I started using better night cream. In my twenties, I would sometimes forget to take my makeup off entirely, let alone remember to moisturize. But now, as a rule, I have started a washing, toning, night cream ritual. And yes, I put my hair back and sleep in an old-lady nightgown, too. Is this why Ron left me? I study my face in the mirror. Hmmm…I guess there is a difference in how I look when I used to go to bed with makeup on, versus scrubbing it off, greasing it up, and tying it back. I find myself wondering what Yoga Barbie looks like in the morning. Certainly not twenty pounds overweight with mouse-belly brown hair and otherwise plain but socially acceptable features. I remind myself that I wear nice clothes and accessorize well.