Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  Kari my lender friend rings the doorbell, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard it from this side. She is very nice to Ernie and Helena and they both tell her how impressive her flyers are. They act like she painstakingly took each picture herself and typeset the verbiage. I do not point out that I did all that myself because I am not that kind of person.

  So here we are, the four of us, waiting for people to come visit this lovely home and buy it on the spot. I have a blank offer in my car, just in case. Finally, just when the German/English disconnection is exhausting all of us, the doorbell rings. It’s Becky. She smiles sheepishly, which is not at all how she normally smiles, so I ask her what’s wrong. She asks me if I can show her around. Like I said, Becky cannot afford to buy this house, so I figure something else is on her mind.

  “And this is the first guest bathroom,” I tell her, knowing we are far enough away to talk privately.

  “Well, I would have been here sooner,” she tells me, “but someone knocked down all your open house signs.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face. Tac. Would he do that when so recently I consoled him like a real friend? I feel faint.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t just the wind?” I ask her, certain there must be some kind of mistake.

  Becky, checking her facts like always, peers out the window in the first guest bedroom that is located right across from the first guest bathroom and seems to be surveying the trees.

  “It’s not windy out”

  “Well, it’s not Tac’s area, so I wonder who it is.”

  “Are you sticking up for him?” Suddenly Becky acts like she just discovered gold or something.

  “Eww. No. Of course not. I’m just saying, he was down in the dumps yesterday, so I highly doubt he’d come around just to irritate me.”

  Becky smiles this kind of know-it-all smile and shrugs. “Well, I kinda think that’s exactly why he’d do it.”

  She doesn’t even give me a chance to respond before heading down the long hallway that practically requires a road map. Will he be pulling my hair on the playground next?

  “Did you put them back up?” I ask, grasping for straws. She only shakes her head up and down and then disappears to see what treats Helena has prepared.

  Overall, I think the open house went well. Poor Ernie and Helena both looked tuckered out by the time 4:00 p.m. rolled around. Kari and I helped Helena clean up the snacks, and Ernie sat on the couch in that first living room area and fell fast asleep. We had twelve people. That isn’t so bad for a house in this price range, even though the twelve weren’t all single individuals. I like to say it was twelve, though, because it sounds like we were much busier than say four groups with a various number of people, which is pretty much what it was.

  Sure, there was the one lady who was alone (and seriously medicated) and the one group of six Russians, but overall, the math prevails, and I tell Helena we had about twelve people through, and she seems happy. A dozen people have to be worth a dozen eggs that she herself deviled. I see the magic in numbers. I think she does too. We both smile. I hug her good-bye and leave softly so as not to wake up sleeping Ernie. I am going to pick up my signs and look for evidence. Maybe I will see some traces of arrogance on them and then know for sure it was Tac.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By the time Sunday afternoon rolls around, I have exactly seventeen texts from my mother. I was fully prepared to wait her out. All I had to do was consider the consequences. Talk about waking a sleeping giant. Is giving my mom an indication that she has immediate 24/7 access to me smart in any language or location? Of course not. I scurried to think of texting etiquette that I could share with her. It was my only hope.

  “So you got them?” She sounded like she was waiting for some kind of award.

  “Yes, Mom, all seventeen of them.”

  “Well then, why didn’t you text me back so I could see it working?”

  I was not falling for this ploy. She already stated in text number eleven that her text teacher verified her texting success, so I was not biting.

  “Mom, I don’t just play around on text. I only use it for emergencies.” I lie through my teeth and seriously feel my nose getting bigger.

  “Well, if you want to play any games, just let me know.”

  Suddenly the need for both yoga and vodka overtake me, and I am sure by now the studio is closed.

  I am in the office early Monday. This whole thing about my open house signs is driving me nuts. Tac is here already, sitting at his desk all prim and proper. I gave up my good, morning yoga class for the late afternoon one so I could catch Tac in his lie.

  “So, how was your weekend, Melissa?” he says, all sly and sincere.

  “It was great. Really, really great,” I tell him, showing more teeth than I knew I had. He looks a little concerned about my health or something, and then nods, looking back at his computer. There’s no way I can let this go. I had one man lie to me, but this? He’s barely a man—an old boy, at best. Who cares if he has good hair and nice eyes?

  “Why do you ask, Tac? What were you up to?” I say it like Sherlock Holmes after a good hit of morphine. It was Ron who told me Holmes did morphine…why, I cannot remember.

  “Ah…” he stutters, and I am sure I have him just where I want him, “I was with my grandma in hospice in Reno.”

  I am the most horrible person on the planet. I swallow hard and force some kind of stupid smile that is mostly a pathetic attempt to show I am really not the evil, lying, blog-faker that I am. I am not at all sure he buys it as he shakes his head and turns back to his computer. I am definitely going to Hell.

  Later that day, Tac is gone and I find Becky in the mailroom. It’s actually a misnomer because the mail room is really a lunchroom with a coffee machine, a copy machine, and yes, the mail boxes for us few agents. However, it is also a room we are more than welcome (and even encouraged) to sit in and mail things like flyers about our listings and houses we’ve sold, to people who will throw them away. But, hopefully first catching our name, or at the very least, the extra effort we spent on using a glossy oversized postcard to begin with.

  Becky is making copies of something.

  “So, no luck on the open house?” she asks without really looking over at me.

  “Not really. I hope the open house sign thing didn’t hurt.”

  “Did you find out anything?” she asked, now turning to eyeball me.

  “No. But it wasn’t Tac, that much I know.”

  Now she turns full-body and looks at me like I just swallowed her goldfish.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was gone all weekend,” I tell her, adjusting my know-it-all posture.

  Becky smiles and nods her head.

  “What?” I ask her.

  “He wrote three offers that day. One just down the street from your open house. That’s what I’m copying right now.”

  I hate Tac.

  How does one write about forgiveness when one has not come even remotely close to mastering it? At this very moment I am seething at the thought of Tac knocking down my open house signs so I might not have any visitors, thus blowing my chance at selling the house that would finally and ultimately make up for drug dealing Luke Tucker. And the thought that Tac might have lied to me about being with his grandmother in hospice? I’d stab him with my letter opener before I forgave him.

  Then there’s Ron, who has a male menopause infatuation with a yoga instructor who I am growing quite fond of myself…for completely different reasons. But still, this guy, who I gave my best, child-producing years to, is sprung on a girl half his years who does a mean backbend and looks like a Barbie doll.

  I’m not even going to think about Luke Tucker any more than I already do. I mean, forgiving my mother for sending me texts five times a day is bad enough. Thank God she’s not a drug dealer.

  I add extra vodka to my orange juice, which I have supplemented with a slice of orange, because I know how very importa
nt it is to get my vitamin C. Herman is snoring and being completely non-supportive.

  “Forgiveness. Letting people who hurt us off the hook is not easy. And why should we forgive them? After all, weren’t they the ones who did something wrong in the first place? When I think back on the recent injustices I’ve been victim toit turns my stomach, it makes me pause for a moment in quiet meditation. Maybe that’s what forgiveness really is. Pausing, stopping, letting the world slow down long enough to realize what’s really important. Is unfaithfulness worth torturing yourself over, wondering what you did wrong, when it wasn’t even you that was unfaithful? And what about open house signs, when someone steps on your territory, isn’t it all really just about fear and ego? Ultimately, isn’t all of it about fear and ego? If we weren’t afraid of being lonely, left behind or left out, would we really harbor any resentment toward those we are resenting? I find downward dog a perfect pose to let go of the baggage that tends to weigh us down. Let your head hang and release all your worries. Let them drift into the cosmos. Stay connected to your breath; forgive someone today.”

  I clean up the grammar, delete the unenlightened parts that I had to write to get them off my chest, and read it over again. Wow. I’m pretty good. In fact, I guess this idea of forgiving might make some sense. Researching the importance of forgiveness online earlier—because quite frankly, I couldn’t find a single perk to it—I discovered that when we hold on to anger, it’s we who suffer. That’s an interesting perspective. I’m really starting to think this Buddha guy knew some stuff. I eat my orange slice and contemplate life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Becky got a juicer. Normally, Becky is not the type to show off. Sure, she wears cute clothes on her younger, thinner body, but she doesn’t show off the fact that she’s younger and thinner, only that she has exceptional taste in clothing. And who can really fault her for that? Not me. However, I do detect a hint of arrogance when hearing about her new juicer.

  “Good morning,” I say, not at all prepared for a head-on attack.

  “Oh, my God! I bought a juicer this weekend and have started this new cleanse…guaranteed to make you lose five to ten pounds in ten days!” She’s glowing, and I decide we can no longer be friends.

  “What brought all this up?” I ask, trying not to sounds as curious as I am. The mean, naughty, horrible me wants to grab her by the collar of her soft pink cardigan and choke her until she gives me every last detail about this stupid juicer and new diet. But instead, I collect my thoughts and try to remain calm.

  “Oh, we went to a home show, you know, and they have a bunch of booths.”

  That reminds me. Becky and her boyfriend bought a house last year. I was not the agent, but she said it was because it was really her boyfriend who was buying it, but since she’s his girlfriend, she had a say in the house, just not the agent. He used his brother who is licensed and has a state job. It was his only sale that year if I recall. I don’t keep track, because I am not that kind of person.

  “So why the sudden interest in juicing or weight loss?”

  I try not to glare at her thin thighs. Doesn’t she understand that I am the enlightened one? I am the one who goes to yoga and tries to meditate and…hello? Writes spiritual blogs. I decide I can’t unfriend her just because she is young and naïve and considers herself evolved.

  “I don’t know. We just saw the demo and it seemed like a good idea to eat more fruits and vegetables. And it makes it so easy!”

  She goes on rambling about carrots and celery and blueberry smoothies, but I lose interest when I see Tac stroll to his desk from the mail room with a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s whistling. God, I hate his phoniness. I excuse myself from Becky, but not before telling her I already planned on buying that same exact juicer next weekend.

  “Hey there, Melissa,” he practically sings, and I think I throw up a little in my mouth. Sign tosser.

  “Hi, Tac. So, how is your dear sweet grandmother?” I ask, trying not to sound too facetious, you know, just in case. He stops whistling and assumes a thoughtful expression.

  “She’s good. My mother said I need to come back up this weekend, though.”

  I cannot decide if I should call him on his bluff. After all, if his grandmother really is dying, I would certainly burn in Hell for all eternity for calling him a liar.

  “Becky says you wrote three offers over the weekend?” I say, pulling my ace-in-the-hole out and throwing it at his face. He looks tan.

  “Oh, you girls chatting about ol’ Tac, eh?”

  Eww. His arrogance is over the top. He definitely has insecurity issues.

  “Actually, no, we were talking about who knocked down my signs,” I say, doing my best mountain pose, glaring right into his sneaky green eyes.

  “Someone knocked down your signs? Bummer deal!”

  “So you know nothing about it?” I ask, not trusting a word that comes out of his mouth.

  “Scout’s honor, kiddo. I showed a few houses, wrote a few offers, and headed up to Reno. Honest.” He turns around as if to notify me the conversation is over, case closed, innocent until proven guilty. I cannot tell if he’s lying or not, but I am also wondering what kind of hair conditioner he uses.

  I did not feel like going to nice/mean yoga today. However, the fact that Becky is now juicing, putting her miles ahead of my healthy diet/thin-seeking thighs, I feel I have no choice but to show up. How bad can it be? I’ve been several times now, so my body is becoming more and more flexible, and I barely drank last night. Plus, I have to remember the orange slice.

  I am relieved that nice/mean yoga instructor seems tired. Perhaps she’s been doing too many backbends or needs to start juicing. I toss my hair back in an all-knowing shrug. My hair is almost long enough to make a real ponytail, but for now, it is more like a puppy tail. It barely wiggles when I shake my head.

  “Remember, with warrior two, you are a proud warrior. Hold your arms straight; deepen the bend in your front leg.” Meanie yoga instructor says this to the class, but she is looking right at me, attempting to make my trembling bent leg bend even more. I fall down. At this moment, I hate her more than Tac and Ron and my mom’s new smart-phone all rolled up into one.

  “It’s OK to fall in our practice like we fall in life,” meanie warrior woman says. Nice cover for pushing me down and then acting like she didn’t do it on purpose. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and try not to hurt her with my laser glare. I am still feeling like a warrior, but one that has been knocked from her horse, all sprawled out on her yoga mat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My mother has only sent me seven texts today. Suddenly, I am worried that she’s fallen prey to sexting with strangers. I am deeply concerned and make a mental note to call her later. Maybe tomorrow. In the meantime, I am more sore than usual from yoga and find it interesting that I crave wine more often on the days I do morning yoga. Worth thinking about. Tomorrow. Opening my e-mail, I see one from Shanza Barbie.

  “Dear Nala, It’s almost as if you are inside my head, the things you say. I have to tell you, your article on forgiveness really hit home for me. I won’t bore you with details, but I will share that the man I am rather serious about lied to me. It wasn’t a lie that caused any damage per se (just that he had been in a relationship when we met, which I did not know), but it’s given me room to wonder if he’s trustworthy. And of course, a relationship must be built on honesty, as I’m sure you agree. Anyway, your thoughts made me realize that I can and should forgive him, so I thank you for that. I’m hoping you can discuss karma as you see it, next? Warmly, Shanza.”

  Suddenly, I am sure I will throw up. Maybe the combination of an empty stomach, my big fall in yoga, and now this. I wonder if she’s on to me. The way she verified that honesty is important sounded like a setup to me. And, holy crap, is she telling me that my article actually made her forgive Ron for not telling her about me? This is not good. She was ready to send him running back into my almost toned arms, and I’m the on
e who changed her mind?

  And she wants me to talk about karma? Look no further, Yoga Barbie, this is karma right here.

  I fall asleep and dream about Herman drowning and the Buddha trying to save him, but he can’t because Tac pushed down all the signs that lead to the pool.

  I am thrilled beyond words that Anna’s offer in Citrus Heights got accepted. That means I have an escrow. Geez, if I can get approval on Kim’s short sale soon that will be two escrows, and then guess who will be whistling around the office? Anna wants to meet at the house so she can take measurements. While I feel it’s a bit premature—after all, anything can happen in escrow—I appreciate her optimism and agree to meet her there at noon. In the meantime, I go to Dawn’s class, where I am complimented on my one-legged bow pose. I really am coming along, and I think I might even be the “teacher’s pet,” but it’s too soon to say for sure.

  “Are you so excited?” I ask an eager Anna, who is already examining the siding with her eagle eyes.

  “I really am!” she says.

  Just then we notice a thin, small dog hiding under a shrub.

  “Oh puppy!” Anna says, bending down and holding her hand out. The dog cowers back.

  I explain to Anna that the house she’s buying is a foreclosure. Sadly, when families are forced to move from not paying their mortgage, sometimes they have nowhere to put their pets and they just leave them there. This breaks Anna’s heart. We can now see this is a little weenie dog. No wonder he looks thin; he’s extra long and short.

  “What should we do?” Anna asks, seriously concerned. The dog is now sniffing her hand. Now she knows how we all feel.

  “Well, I guess we could take him to the pound,” I say, thinking about how Ron said that when we first found skinny Herman hanging out in front of my condo.