“Hey, Tac, what’s up?”
“Hey.” He doesn’t even spin around. I am sure since he has nothing to gloat about he doesn’t want to waste eye energy on me.
“Is something bothering you?”
“Huh?” He mindlessly spins around, but it’s a slow spin, like maybe he really didn’t hear me. I repeat my question.
“I’m just bummed. Those buyers I’ve been busting my butt over bought from another agent.”
What!
I tell my very mean, petty, horrible self to shut up. At least quit jumping up and down.
“I’m sorry to hear that. That really sucks,” I say, realizing I know exactly how he feels.
“Yeah, it’s one of those things you just never really get used to.”
I nod my head in agreement. Luke Tucker will haunt me for years to come.
“Well, on the bright side, you are ahead of last year,” I say, wondering where all this compassion is coming from.
“Thanks.” He turns back around. Clearly he isn’t in the mood to chitchat or hear my perspective on life, yoga, and gratitude. He gets his keys and excuses himself, saying he’ll see all of us tomorrow. Marla, another agent who is old, and Stan are chatting near the window and absentmindedly tell him good-bye. I just watch him and kind of feel sorry for him. Weird.
Becky sends me a text: That was sweet of you.
Obviously Becky was listening. I didn’t realize how from her vantage point she can hear my conversations. I quickly wonder what else she’s heard. I text back: Even superstars have bad days. Then Becky texts something that surprises the heck out of me: You two should go out.
I stare at my phone for at least two minutes. Is she crazy? I’m sure she must be running a fever, so I walk to the front desk to check. She assures me she’s fine. I am careful not to say anything because Broker Bert is sitting at his desk with his door wide open only several feet away.
“Are you crazy?” I whisper. She shushes me, just like the meanie yoga teacher. I tell Becky about my good downward dog, and she seems very impressed. Then Becky tells me that she called that physic hotline and has decided to go to beauty school.
Chapter Fourteen
Having had such a great day, I do not feel compelled to eat junk food. I tell Herman that an important part of our spiritual enlightenment has to do with the food we put in our bodies. I even add that I am hopeful Yoga Barbie will give me a nutrition topic soon so I can study it and follow a better diet. I tell him I am in no hurry; however, in the name of effort I make myself a healthy dinner: scrambled eggs, English muffin, and a screwdriver. It seems to be a meal full of protein and nutrients. I love being healthy.
I actually can’t wait to check my e-mail. I’m hopeful/nervous that Yoga Barbie has read my post. Nervous because I really want her to like it and because I am sure it was terrible. Hopeful that just maybe she will like it so much that she’ll decide to go to India to study for a year and will no longer date my boyfriend. Her e-mail reads:
“Dear Nala, once again you amaze me with your simple words of wisdom. How true it is that we tend to overlook those things that are right in front of our faces. You made some great points. On another note, please tell me which evening next week you might be able to come practice with me. I can do any evening, so you let me know, and I will be there. What fun it will be to spend some time chatting with you. Thank you so much for the article. I’m wondering if for next week you can discuss your thoughts on forgiveness. Have a great week, Namaste, Shanza.”
Part of me beams with pride. It’s the same part of me that got a big head over my good downward dog. However, the other part of me, the one that has a conscience and doesn’t want to go to Hell, that part of me, shudders in shame. Go to yoga with her? Yikes! Maybe this has gone far enough, I tell Herman. I mean, even if Ron does come crawling back once I am thin and rich and more enlightened, how could I live with the guilt?
Without thinking, I do an Internet search and find the damn psychic hotline website. I dial the number and hope that I don’t have to go to beauty school too. I get to pick my own psychic. Well, I get to pick one from the ones that are online right now. A nice lady answers the phone to explain the process to me. She is delighted that I am a newbie to the hotline. She tells me that I decide how much I want to spend and then she takes my credit card. She asks if I would like her to keep it on file. I laugh and tell her of course not, this is a onetime thing. She says she understands and then asks me to pick the psychic I would like to speak with. I buckle under pressure. There are so many. Seven at least.
They all look nice. One woman reminds me of my grandma who died when I was little. I don’t pick her because that grandma always smelled like mothballs. I see a young exotic-looking woman with the name “Crystal Visions.” Whoever in the heck can sit there with a straight face and call herself Crystal Visions is either completely crazy or a very good psychic. I quickly read her bio and tell the lady on the phone I would like to talk to Crystal for ten minutes. The lady tells me that Miss Visions is very good and that ten minutes will cost me $47.50. Wow! For that much, I could get a manicure and a pedicure. Or, a bottle of Grey Goose and a cheeseburger. Heck, I could even fill my car up with gas.
I glance at the time. I am pretty sure ten minutes will go fast. I don’t even know what I want to ask her. I start to panic and then decide I will just tell her to tell me what she sees about romance, money, telling lies, and losing weight.
“Do you have a specific question you’d like to ask?” Crystal Visions says.
“Well, not exactly. I was just hoping you could tell me, you know, if there’s anything I need to know.” I was not about to ask her if I was going to Hell for all my lies.
“I see that you are too hard on yourself. Hmmmm…” she says, and I imagine her waving her hand over a crystal ball of some kind, “it appears that you will have some choices ahead of you.”
“What kind of choices?” I ask, hoping she never mentions beauty school.
“Life choices. I also see a man…a much younger man.” I tell her Ron is older than I am, and he is the one I am trying to win back. She tells me I don’t love him. I tell her that is not the point.
“Also,” she adds, before my ten minutes are up, “deceit can come in many forms.”
Holy shit! This woman is on to me. I tell her that doesn’t sound familiar, but I will give it some serious thought, and then she tells me, “It’s very important that you learn to meditate.” I explain to her that I do yoga, but she is hell-bent on telling me how much I need to meditate. She must really be serious because she has gone 1.5 minutes over on our time without charging me.
“OK, I will try it. Really.”
“Good. Call me back and let me know how things are going,” she says, like any old friend who really cares and charges by the minute.
Chapter Fifteen
Meditation is not all it’s cracked up to be. For one thing, I do not feel God intended us (especially me) to sit in one position with our eyes closed for a very long period of time, keeping our minds completely quiet. I will admit that after yoga it is easy for me to keep my eyes closed in the corpse position, and because almost everything on my body is sore, including my hair, it’s easy to fall asleep. However, I usually snore the second sleep hits. I do not think the Buddha found enlightenment from sleeping.
Since I am showing Anna, the carpet sniffer, houses today—ones with hardwood floors—I will not have time to go to my favorite yoga class with Instructor Dawn. I decide, though, that I will try to meditate. Mediation cannot be all that hard now that I am getting so enlightened. I am pretty sure Tony Robbins meditates. Crystal Visions said if I can manage ten minutes a morning I will be miles ahead of the masses. I know that this will be easy. So, before I even have any coffee—because duh, that will make it hard to stay still—I prepare to meditate. I even grab an egg timer because I am sure I will be so good at it that the moments will fly by and I do not want to run late getting to the office this morning.
>
I feed Herman and ask him to wait outside since I do not need him jumping up on my lap when I am deep in meditative bliss. He seems perturbed but goes along with it. I set my egg timer for fifteen minutes since I figure it will take me a few minutes to get settled in. Taking a very deep breath, like in yoga, I get all comfortable and relaxed. This is so easy. I close my eyes and wait for enlightenment. My back itches so I scratch it, but I keep my eyes closed. My mind refuses to sit still. I worry about Herman, wondering if he wants in. I sigh. Already I’m bored. I wonder if Yoga Barbie and Ron meditate. I can’t even imagine him doing yoga, so meditating is out of the question. I laugh. I realize I’m laughing. This is not a sign of deep meditation.
I decide that meditation must have some kind of directions that I am missing, so I resolve to investigate it further when I have more time. The Internet will tell me more. I let Herman in and hurry to shower and get to the office to pull up the properties I will be showing Anna later this morning.
“Your open house flyers are here,” a cheerful Becky tells me. I am guessing she’s at peace with her decision to go to beauty school. I wonder if she’s told Broker Bert. I know he will be heartbroken if she really follows through. Maybe it’s just a phase? Last year I’m pretty sure she was going to be a dental hygienist.
“Yay!” I say, actually feeling the enthusiasm I was planning to fake.
“They turned out great,” she tells me, holding up the top on the pile.
In real estate it’s very easy to get free flyers. If you have a lender—, and you have to have a lender if you’re in real estate—then said lender will be all too happy to provide flyers on your listings. The only catch to this is that your lender gets to promote him or herself on the flyer. And really, what harm is that? After all, said lender is your lender, right? Well, I was torn on this particular listing because I have two lenders I like a lot. One is very good at what he does, and the other one is a heck of a lot of fun to go shopping with, plus she dresses really nice and likes to drink good wine. So, I picked her this time. I like to think I’m very strategic in these decisions, because, when it comes down to it, I have to consider that this is the lender who I will ask to hold the open house with me, and how boring would it be to sit for four hours with a guy who deals with credit scores all day?
Can you imagine how stupid it would be for me to have him do the flyers and then ask her to sit at an open house for four hours with me? Things like this might not seem that important, but they are not trivial matters when you survive on commissions.
“They look great!” I say, smiling at the flyers. Nice layout.
“What kind of refreshments?” Becky asks, almost like she’s considering a visit.
“Don’t know. Helena is making snacks. I’ll bring bottled water.”
Becky looks disappointed, like maybe she hoped I would be hosting a chocolate fountain and champagne bar.
“Oh. Sounds nice. I may stop by.” She says this like she has to.
“OK. That would be nice.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that she can’t afford this house, but I figure she’s just being polite.
Finally the phone rings at my desk. I am ecstatic. Of course Tac is nowhere in sight.
“This is Melissa.”
“Hi. It’s Anna. What address are we meeting at?”
Crap. Is it really that time already? I hurriedly turn my computer on, tell Anna I am waiting for just one call back and that I will text the address to meet at in ten minutes. She buys it, and I frantically search for houses to show her.
The thing is, I really do like real estate. I really do like my clients. Of course, those that aren’t drug dealers, and especially those that dress really nice and/or buy or sell really nice homes. However, and this is not meant to be trite or judgmental, people can sometimes be downright difficult. I remember when I first came to work here and Broker Bert tried his best to toughen me up. I was pretty soft, coming from fashion retail and all. My first buyer was a guy name Manual who spit when he talked. Not always and not a lot, but nonetheless, spitting is spitting no matter how you candy coat it.
I ran Manual all over the place. Actually, all over the place in one area, but still, it was every weekend for a month. Ron was getting irritated because I was spending all these weekends showing houses and never coming home with an offer written. (At least I wasn’t doing yoga with Manuel.) Anyway, after twelve fast-food lunches, who knows how many tanks of gas, and at least twenty-two houses viewed, Manual finally wrote an offer…with another agent. I was heartbroken. In fact, I was ready to go back to Haddock’s and barter with ladies in dressing rooms all over again. There, I might get beat up from day to day, but damn it, at least I got paid, no matter how meagerly. But to work so hard and not make a penny over a guy who once spit on my taco when explaining his state job? It seemed so unacceptable. Still does.
I find the only three houses in the area and price range (with hardwood floors) Anna says she wants. She is already parked in front of the one I asked her to meet me at. She’s looking casual but nice in jeans and a lavender sweater. I tell her how well she pulls off the color. Inside, I can tell she really likes the house.
“How much is this one?” she asks, looking nonchalantly for something to sniff.
“Only one sixty-five,” I tell her, adding, “and it just hit the market this morning.”
We go ahead and look at the others, but really, I can tell she likes the first one. Maybe all this yoga and enlightenment is giving me intuition. I can’t say it’s the meditation, because, well, I haven’t even come close to mastering that one yet.
“I think I’d like to write a full-price offer on the first one,” Anna says, and I remember why I like my job so much.
At home tonight I decide that maybe if I do a few yoga poses, it will be easier to meditate. I pull my mat out and assume my award-winning downward dog. I am talking my way through it as if I am a yoga instructor. This seems to help me, but it’s causing Herman to meow around my face, like maybe I’m hurt. I tell him there is also a cat pose, and then I show it to him. I am positive I saw a grin.
After three more poses, I feel relatively ready to tackle nothing, which is what meditation is supposed to be. Nothing. Between class this morning and this little mini-class, I’m feeling like Super Yogi, and Super Yogi can master meditation in a snap, right? I set my little egg timer, but this time I’m sitting on my yoga mat on the floor. I figure that might work better than the kitchen chair. I close my eyes and relax, sinking my butt bones into the earth. I wait. And wait.
Super Yogi sits there for ten minutes. Every now and then, I forget my purpose and pet Herman when he walks across my lap. I do not know if petting animals during meditation is frowned upon, but I did not open my eyes. I make a note to do a search on meditation. There has got to be more to it than this. I roll up my mat and open some wine.
Chapter Sixteen
While I am not yet an expert in karma, I have heard the term tossed around here and there. Today my mother got a smartphone. Not just any smartphone, but a new iPhone smartphone. I cringe at the possibilities and pray she does not learn to text. Ten minutes later she sends me a text telling me she’s at a class on texting. This is her first try, how’s she doing? I consider not responding. Let her think she’s failed miserably and then maybe she can go back to her old mom-big-square-number non-smart phone. Damn it, she’s blowing me up here.
It’s only 10:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, and I must say, I am looking forward to holding Ernie’s open house. After all, even if another agent sells it, that’s still a big enough commission that I may quit my non-paying blogging job because I won’t even care about winning what’s-his-name back.
I temporarily put my fears of my mother with text capacity aside and check my e-mails. I see one from Shanza:
“Dear Nala, I am SO sorry to hear about the skateboarding accident that will keep you from yoga all month. You never cease to amaze me! Who would think an enlightened, India-trained yogi such as
you would be a skateboarder? You are way too cool! Can’t wait to meet you. How’s the piece on forgiveness coming? I’m really looking forward (for personal reasons) to reading it. Hugs and Namaste, Shanza.”
Oh no. Now, she’s hugging and namasteing me? I feel the guilt in my throat. And no, of course I don’t have a skateboard, but what else could I tell her? Was it my fault she insisted so relentlessly that I come to her studio to practice with her (and probably Ron)? I had to think of something…fast. I cannot be held responsible for the fact that a neighbor kid was doing little tricks on his skateboard outside my home office window.
I show up at the open house before my lender pal so I can put the signs out. I try to get my open house signs at all the major intersections near the house. For Ernie’s house, the plan I carefully cultivated all week was to put a sign at the corner of Auburn and Folsom, on the street off of Folsom, one in front of the house, and then, if I have enough time, one on the corner of Hazel and Main. This is really covering my bases as well as using every single open house sign I own. Open house signs are not cheap.
Ernie is waiting for me in the driveway, and I am extra glad I am on time. Old people waiting in driveways too long cannot be good. Inside, Helena has made a menagerie of treats. There are little slivers of dill and basil atop little crackers and deviled eggs and things I am sure I have seen on the food channel I used to watch before Ron left me for Yoga Barbie. I wonder if there is a connection of some kind.
Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1) Page 6