How to Be Single

by Liz Tuccillo

  Serena smiled. She poured the mashed bananas into the batter and stirred them together.

  “Now, speaking of fireworks, Swami Durgananda, tell me. Have you been thinking a lot about sex lately?”

  Serena looked up from her stirring. She wasn’t sure if she had heard right. By his expression, which was serious and unembarrassed, it seemed like this was a normal spiritual question. She turned to the cabinets. While her back was to him, she admitted, “Well, actually, yes. I have been thinking a lot about it. Like not being able to think of anything else, really.” She pulled out three loaf pans from a top shelf and brought them to the counter. She tried not to look at Swami Swaroopananda, but couldn’t resist. She peeked up and he was smiling at her.

  “You shouldn’t be ashamed, that’s part of the process. Your mind is just reacting to your body’s desires. It will quiet down soon enough.”

  “I hope so. It’s just like when I’m fasting. I can’t stop reading cookbooks the whole time.” She poured the batter into the loaf pans and pushed them one by one into the oven. Serena looked at the clock. It was only 5:30. She had no idea she could make banana bread that fast. There were still thirty minutes before meditation.

  “I guess I’ll go in and start, you know. Meditating.”

  Swami Swaroopananda closed his book. “Don’t rush off. Why don’t you sit for a moment. Let’s talk some more. Where are you from?”

  Serena smiled and shyly sat on the stool next to Swami Swaroopananda, also known as Swami Swaroop. He looked at Serena closely, and for the next thirty minutes he asked her questions about her family, the jobs she’d had, and what her favorite music used to be. In the basement of this yoga center, the smell of banana bread in the oven, as she sat next to a man wearing a bright orange dress, both of them basically bald, Serena realized she hadn’t been on this great a date in years.

  By the following Monday, Serena was baking fresh, yeasted, wake-up-early-so-you-can-make-the-dough-let-it-rise-and-punch-it-down-and-then-do-it-all-over-again bread. And he would always be there, sometimes reading, sometimes watching, but always talking to her. By the end of the week, they were mixing and kneading together.

  For that past week and a half, Serena couldn’t think about anything else but him. The beatific, blissed-out expression on her face, which might have been construed as spiritual awakening, was really just dumb puppy love. All day long, all night long, she thought about seeing him the next morning. And then in the morning, when she was with him, it wasn’t so much that she was talking and listening to him as she was absorbing him. During meditation and yoga and chanting and working, she was supposed to be trying to become one with God. But instead, each morning as she made the most elaborate altar offering plates in the history of the Jayananda Yoga Center, Serena was becoming at one with Swami Swaroop. The way he said things, the opinions he had, seemed so in tune with how she thought and felt that when the words came out of his mouth and hit her ears it was like they mutated into a warm ooze that spread throughout her brain.

  It was joy. For every minute that she was with him, she felt the undeniable sensation of joy. The thought of adding sex to this intense emotion had almost become too much for her to fathom. Almost too much for her to fathom. And in the meantime, the entire yoga center was gaining weight, gorging at breakfast on hot bread, walnut loafs, and muffins.

  On Thursday, at 4:30 in the morning, as she walked into the kitchen, Serena looked for him, her heart beating fast, worried that for some reason he wouldn’t be there. But he was standing by the counter. He smiled shyly at her. Long gone were the formal greetings of “Good morning, Swami Swaroop” and “Good morning, Swami Durga.” They had now been replaced by two people who met each other in the morning by beaming wordlessly at each other.

  All the kneading and rising and mixing had to lead to something. And on this morning, Swami Swaroop walked up to Serena, took her by the shoulders, looked to make sure no one else was around, and kissed her on the lips. Serena wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, deeply. Now, her eyes closed and her body finally touching his, Serena finally saw the white light, the one everyone talks about, of unity, peace, and divine happiness. Finally.

  So Serena still got up at 4:30 in the morning, but the altar plate went back to being a few dried-up grapes and a couple of figs. They had finally figured out what else they could be doing during that time, and they were doing it everywhere they could get away with it: the pantry closet, the furnace room, the basement. If Serena was the kind of girl who could get out of control over a couple of buffalo wings, you can imagine what she was like now that she was having sex with someone she was madly in love with. Eventually, they couldn’t wait until the morning, and were recklessly finding places to meet during the day as well. When Swami Swaroop took the center’s van to Hunts Point to do grocery shopping, of course he needed help and why not ask Swami Durgananda? So there, too, in the back of the van on the side of a road in some industrial wasteland in the South Bronx they unleashed their forbidden swami love. It may have taken a vow of celibacy to do it, but Serena finally had a sex life. Her dry spell was officially over.

  Back in Rio

  When they talked about this samba school party, I had an image of a dance school with mirrored walls and ballet barres, and maybe some streamers draped around and some punch in a punch bowl, with instructors available to teach the newcomers samba. But no. Flavia, Alan, Caroline, Anna and Frederico, Georgia, and I drove in the minivan to one of the poorest neighborhoods, called Estácio, far from the fancy tourist areas of Ipanema and Leblon. We parked by a massive concrete structure that looked like it used to be an airport hangar, except that it was painted blue and white and covered in beautiful graffiti artwork of stars and beams of light. In big white graffiti letters was the name of the samba school, G.R.E.S. Estácio de Sá. People were pouring into the place, and we joined the flood into what can only be described as a huge high school dance and block party combined. The place was the size of a football field. Everyone was walking around with plastic cups of beer, and the floor was already littered with empty cups and cans. The excitement of knowing I was about to witness something that most tourists would never get to see already had my heart racing.

  But that was nothing compared to what the drums would do to me. From the moment we entered, the loudest, most vibrant drums I’d ever heard shook the building, cutting right through my heart. From a raised set of bleachers about forty drummers were whipping the crowd into a frenzy.

  We made our way up some stairs to a little VIP balcony that looked out over the entire scene. At the far end of the hangar were two singers on a raised stage, shouting out joyfully. This was not the crowd of young people at Lapa, dressed up for a night on the town. These were men in jeans and tshirts, shorts and sneakers. There were women wearing some of the tightest jeans I have ever seen stretched over a human form, and some skirts that were so short I wanted to throw a jacket over them and send them to their rooms without supper. It’s true what they say, the Brazilian women do have the most beautiful butts, and tonight they were all on display. Most people were sambaing, talking, drinking beer. And there were others dressed in red and white outfits just milling about. I wasn’t quite sure what this place was, and what we were doing there, but I knew I would never have gotten to see it if it weren’t for our new best friend, Flavia.

  “I don’t understand: why do you call it a samba school?” I asked loudly, over the drums.

  “Each neighborhood has a school where they drum and do samba. Each school picks a song that they’re going to do at Carnival, and then they compete with all the others.”

  “So they’re kind of like neighborhood teams?”

  “Yes, exactly. This one is my samba school. And in a few minutes they are going to present for the first time the song they’ll be competing with at Carnival.” Flavia looked down to where the masses of people were and suddenly smiled. “There’s Marco!”

  Marco looked up and saw Flavia and waved.
Flavia turned to me, a tough smirk on her face. “I don’t mind that he’s here,” she said, trying not to seem at all happy. She motioned for him to come up the stairs. “I better go and make sure the bouncers let him up.”

  I looked over at the drummers and tried to find Anna. This was her samba school, too, and she was going to be drumming with them tonight.

  The song they were playing stopped, and the drums began again, slow at first, it seemed, to get everyone’s attention. People started to move toward the center of the room, the whole space newly energized. Frederico turned to us and said, “Come, let’s go on the dance floor.” Georgia, Frederico, Alan, and I made our way down the stairs. The drums were now at full speed and the whole space was pulsating, jumping, in united celebration.

  We all began dancing. Well, Frederico and Alan began dancing. Georgia and I sort of wiggled around a bit, trying to shake our asses as best as possible, but the samba is really not a dance you can fake. Then the dancers paraded out. There were dozens of them, and the crowd parted, making a wide lane for them to dance through. They were all wearing their “team” costume: red and white sequins. The women came out first, in tiny red skirts and high, high heels, dancing so fast, their lower bodies moving so rapidly, it seemed that they were vibrating in some kind of sexual ecstasy. Their arms were flying around, their legs were whirling, and their asses were shaking so fast they could have whipped butter.

  Following the young gorgeous women, in their tiny skirts and their bikini tops, were the little old ladies. They were also dressed in red and white, but their outfits were knee-length skirts, short-sleeved tops, and hats. They came out in a single line and formed a frame around the young women, or more accurately, a defensive perimeter against any wolves who might come in and devour these beauties whole.

  They danced like women who had seen it all. They no longer needed to shake their asses and wave their arms around, though I’m sure they had done their share of that. Now, they more paraded about. I don’t know what the rest of their lives were like, and I’d hate to imagine how difficult they were, but I knew that at this moment, they were in the midst of celebration. They were red and white peacocks strutting and prancing for everyone to see, proud of themselves and their neighborhood and their song.

  Georgia, Frederico, and Alan had meanwhile gone to get beers. As they were waiting in line, far away from the dance floor, Frederico leaned over to Georgia and said, “You don’t need to look for someone to kiss you, beautiful Georgia. I would be happy to make love to you any time you ask.”

  And at that, engaged Frederico kissed single, horny Georgia, as Anna’s dear brother Alan laughed and drank his beer. Frederico was sexy, young, Brazilian, and gorgeous. Georgia’s revenge fantasy had been to come to Brazil and steal someone away from his wife. Now Georgia had her chance; Frederico was the male Melea and he wanted her. Georgia, new to dating, still instinctively understood one of the cardinal rules of being single: We ladies have to have each other’s backs.

  So Georgia gently pushed Frederico away and said they should get back to the party. It was then that Georgia answered the question of who was looking out for the women in Rio—and sadly, the answer was her. Then she turned back to Alan and put her finger right in his face. “And you. Shame on you. You’re her brother.”

  We all met up when we rejoined Flavia and Marco on the balcony. The queen and king of the samba school were now dancing down the center of the madness, the man in a crisp white suit and a white hat, the woman in a red gown and a crown. People were swirling flags around them as they danced separately, and then together, hand in hand.

  Just then something flew into the air from down below. I didn’t see what it was, but Flavia grasped her face and stumbled a few steps backward. Caroline was right there, holding Flavia’s arm and asking what happened. On the floor near Flavia was a full can of beer. Someone had thrown it up toward us either in wild abandon or with a more malevolent intent. Either way, Flavia was the one who ended up getting hit in the face. Caroline sat her on a chair, and I watched as tough, deep-throated Flavia scrunched her lips up in a smirk and tried not to cry.

  Everyone was trying to figure out what the hell happened, as Flavia’s eye started to swell up. Caroline had gone to get her some ice, and Georgia was rubbing her back. Anna was now there, and when she saw what had happened she got down on her knees and started to stroke Flavia’s hair. But Flavia just leaned over and picked up the offending can of beer and put it to her eye, to stop the swelling. Marco stood there a little helplessly. This woman, whom he barely knew, was hurt but he wasn’t quite sure what to do or what his role should be. So he just sort of paced around, running his fingers through his hair. After the shock wore off, Flavia told everyone that she was fine. Anna suggested it was time to leave, and we piled into the minibus—Georgia, Flavia, Marco, Alan, Anna, Frederico, and myself.

  So, considering it was Rio and it was three in the morning, the only reasonable thing to do was go to Pizzaria Guanabara, a local restaurant. As we walked in, I saw grown-up men and women, completely sober and well dressed, all gathered civilly eating pizza as if it were eight at night, some with their children.

  We all sat down and talked and tried to make Flavia laugh, while she iced her puffy eye. She was a good sport in the truest sense of the word, not a trace of self-pity. Looking at her, I felt I had learned something else about how to be single: There are some nights you might have to take a can of beer to the face. That’s just the way it is, and it’s best not to be a wimp about it.

  Flavia started to fold herself gradually into Marco, leaning into him as he put his arm around her. He had found his place, encouraging her body to nuzzle against his and draping his arm around her, letting her feel protected. She may be the toughest, coolest girl in Rio, but she had been wounded, ambushed. No matter how many girlfriends were around to help at that moment, nothing would beat the feeling of a strong chest against her cheek and muscular arms enveloping her.

  Later, when we dropped them off at Flavia’s house, Marco helped her out of the van, and put his arm around her sweetly. One more thing about being single: On the unfortunate night when you’re the one who gets the can to the face, you never know who might be there, ready and willing to comfort you.

  When Alan finally dropped us off at the hotel, the only ones left were Georgia and me. Georgia looked at Alan and said, one last time, “Shame on you.”

  “You’re having sex with a fellow swami?” Ruby asked, confused. She and Alice had been summoned by Serena to a diner on Twenty-fourth and Eighth, and frankly, they all felt a little embarrassed. Not because of Serena’s admission of swami sex, but because Serena looked like one of those Hare Krishna people that you never even see anymore at the airports—and everyone was staring at them.

  Ruby added, “Didn’t you just take a vow of celibacy?”

  “And didn’t you have sex before taking your vow, like—never?” Alice asked, not very tactfully.

  “I hadn’t had sex for four years.”

  Ruby looked at Serena with great sympathy. Alice kept interrogating the witness.

  “So, you have no sex, take a vow of celibacy, and now you’re having sex?”

  “It’s not like that,” Serena said, defensively. “I fell in love. I could have fallen in love with someone I met at a coffee shop, or at a class at school—I just happened to fall in love with someone I met being a swami. This is big, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

  The ladies didn’t know what to say to this. They were still trying to ignore the fact that everyone was staring at Serena.

  “Well,” Ruby said, “I guess priests and nuns fall in love all the time.”

  Alice took a sip of her Diet Coke. “And it’s not like any of this is real, right? It’s kind of a make-believe religion, isn’t it? No one is going to tell you that you’ve sinned and you’re going to hell or anything?”

  “Hindus don’t believe in hell. Just karma.”

  Alice picked at Ruby’s french fries.
“So if you break your vows, do you believe that in the next life you would come back as an ant or something?”

  “More like a hooker, probably,” Serena said, guiltily.

  Alice laughed. “It’s true, you’d probably come back as a dirty street whore.”

  Serena wasn’t amused. “I called you guys because Julie is gone and I have no one else I can talk to. I made this really big commitment and I think I made the wrong choice.”

  The ladies sobered up.

  Alice asked, “Have you asked him how he feels?”

  Serena put her head in her hands. “He feels guilty. He feels terrible.”

  Ruby jumped in. “Does he want to leave the church? I mean, temple, or whatever you call it?”

  “He’s not sure. He said this has never happened to him before.”

  Alice grabbed two french fries and stuffed them in her mouth. “If it really is love, you two should forget everything and go for it. It’s love, for God’s sake. That’s a miracle. Nothing else matters.”

  “But it doesn’t really mean anything. There are lots of people who fall in love and can’t make it work. In the Hindu religion they talk a lot about how this whole world, this existence is an illusion. I’d probably fall in love with anyone who was the first person I slept with in four years. He’s been a swami for eight years. How can I talk to him about this when there’s no guarantee it will work out? Falling in love doesn’t mean anything.”

  Alice hoped Serena had a point. She hoped being in love didn’t mean anything. She hoped respect and kindness and a little Brad Pitt would win the day for her and Jim. Maybe being in love is just infatuation and passion and no one should make a big life decision based on that.

  Ruby thought about all the men she thought she was in love with, with whom she had fantastic sex, and with whom it didn’t work out. They all meant nothing to her now. Serena was right. It is an illusion. Before the words got out of Ruby’s mouth, Alice had said them.