Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  Look, I’m not the suicidal type—I may drink too much, but overall I think channel surfing is my most destructive vice—yet only that kind of extreme immersion could have gotten me through the misery of losing Shane and my dreams of Step One towards the Big Time. But let’s face it: given my sorry state (both now and then), I have no business teaching anyone anything.

  We arrive at Pastis—in full swing at 1:45 a.m.—and as I enter, I make a mental note of how well their signature red awning works out front. Immediately, Hutch orders a round of drinks and two steak frites, and waves to a group of Brazilian models he thinks he recognizes from a Maxim party. This kind of joint is prime hunting ground: ladies, liquor, bistro fare, and a buoyant, boozy vibe that anything can happen.

  “Dude, did you do the redhead?” Hutch asks me, trying to be cool.

  I glance over her way. “No. I know who you mean, though. She does look a lot like that publicist chick, the one who was obsessed with PETA.”

  “Yeah! That’s who she reminds me of,” Hutch exclaims, totally relieved, as though correctly filing away a one-night stand of mine is as important as confirming the balance sheet of a megamerger. “Ellen was her name, right?”

  “No, Rachel, I think. Or maybe Sarah. Anyway, it was something from the Bible.”

  “Dog, I know it was last month, but you gotta at least try to remember their names.”

  “Great tip, Hutch. Why don’t you start a sideline consulting biz as the Miss Manners of Hooking Up?”

  Hutch smirks. “Genius suggestion. Anyway, let’s get back on track here. So, did Brooke make her first appointment already? She said she was calling you right away. I made it clear you were totally available during the day. FYI, I did NOT mention your whole evening secretarial career.”

  “Look, Hutch, I don’t know if this is such a great idea. Thanks, but I’ll call her tomorrow and take a pass.”

  “What? Are you shitting me?” Already a few scotches into the evening, Hutch’s usual party-boy, laissez-faire attitude vanishes. “Dude, you’ve been fuckin’ sitting on your ass for six months creating flowcharts for assholes like me for barely the minimum wage—what the fuck else are you doing tomorrow morning?”

  Unfortunately, he’s right: I have no excuses, no conflicts. I have nothing to do except channel surf until my cable gets cut off. But still, me as a teacher feels dead wrong.

  “Look, Hutch, I know I’m certified to teach, but yoga’s a little more than that. It’s about having your shit together, and I just don’t.”

  “Exactly. That’s why you need to earn some extra loot—so you can get your shit together. Jesus, Dog. Didn’t they teach you anything about being fucking proactive in that yoga school? What the fuck good is standing on your head if you can’t make a little bread from it?”

  “I know it sounds lame, but I actually try to take yoga, I don’t know … seriously.”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, Dog. I get that you love all that yoga shit. So why don’t you put it to use to bail you out of the hole you’re in and make some money? That’s my definition of enlightenment. Okay—I never thought I’d say this but … forget about the money. You’ve got to do something to get over fucking things up with Shane before you’re fifty, fat, and totally unemployable.”

  In his non-mushy way, he’s doing all he can to get me back on my feet. Hutch is one of the very few people still in my corner of the ring. And the dude’s right. I’m a man overboard, drowning in shark-infested waters and here I am questioning the only hand that’s offering to pull me into the lifeboat. Time to get off my high horse. My decision’s made.

  “Okay, Hutch. Of course, you’re right, man. I’m in.”

  Hutch softens back to Preppy Best Friend. “Sorry to get on your case, bro. You want another round? This one’s on me.”

  “Hutch, I just agreed to teach yoga at 8 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “I know—let’s celebrate.”

  “That means I have to get up in five hours. No offense, but I really don’t think my hanging out with my brother boozehound right now is your best idea ever.”

  Hutch chuckles. “Oh, yeah, maybe you’re right.” Then I smell the sexy, unmistakable scent of a Brazilian supermodel, a soft cloud of South American fragrance appearing nanoseconds before she reaches in to nuzzle Hutch’s neck.

  Like all guys, I know that the visuals around women—the way they look and move—occupy the control center of my brain. But sometimes I think the way they smell—the deep, sweet reality of their perfume—grabs my groin at an even deeper level. (And although I forget every chick’s name in five seconds, I never forget their scent.)

  Hutch kisses Soft Cloud of South American Citrus Fragrance back. It’s obvious he doesn’t need a wingman now.

  “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  I reach for my wallet. Hutch stops me. “You buy once you get paid.” A friend to the end.

  As I put on my coat, Soft Cloud of Citrus kisses him more intently. I head for the door, deciding it would be wise to stop by the bathroom first. Right in my path is one of the hotties from the redhead’s table.

  This little honey dip is smoking hot, but I can tell she knows it. She looks at me with one of those “Don’t Hit on Me” looks that’s probably totally successful at intimidating the mass of sheep-men out there. But I fancy myself a wolf, in fact, like Hutch, an Alpha out on the prowl. (As an aside, I truly believe this is my total true nature, even though it took years of intense practice for me to get over every nerdy impulse in my body to run for cover, totally intimidated by every beautiful woman I meet. In the same way, although I’m perpetually rooting for my inner Bad Boy Hedonist to win the battle for my Sorry Soul, I’m constantly trying to get the former altar boy within to pipe down and just please let me have my goddamn share of guilt-free fun.)

  Steeling my reserves, I don’t wait for permission, or an introduction, or even eye contact or a smile. That’s low status. I walk right up and approach.

  “Hi.” No corny opening line. I give her a strong gaze and just a touch of smile, inviting but not overeager. She does not return it. In fact, her manner is decidedly unfriendly. I do not let this faze me in any way. I smile more warmly to build a little comfort, but she still does not return the smile.

  And then it dawns on me. The redhead I was right about, but one of her party whose back had been to us is, indeed, my biblical adventurer Sarah/Rachel/Rebecka/Leah. In fact, through a blurry alcoholic haze I remember working this exact routine on her, with tremendous one-night-stand success, just two months ago.

  “Hi, there. How have you been?” I try for a breezy, casual feel.

  “Well, if you really wanted to know how I was, you could have called me anytime this fall.”

  I’d like to make a smooth getaway and avoid a scene, as Bible Girl seems about to erupt with Old Testament fury. I already have my coat and scarf on. The bathroom can wait until I’m home.

  “Well, it’s late, and I should be heading out. Happy New Year … Sarah.” I don’t know why I venture a guess at her name. It just sort of slips out of my mouth.

  Bible Girl shakes her head as though I’ve uttered the lamest thing a person could ever say. And then she slaps my face. Somehow the intensity of her vehemence, combined with the slap, is enough to draw the stares of an uncomfortably large number of diners. Then Sarah/Rachel/Rebecka/Leah pauses dramatically and delivers what is, to her, the “smoking gun” of my moral turpitude.

  “It’s Eve, you bastard.”

  Stunned, I fail to even mutter an apology about at least knowing it was something from Genesis. Bible Girl’s about to slap me again for good measure, but Hutch, spying the encounter from his banquette, is already by my side, not so much to break up the fight but out of instinctive fraternal supportiveness. Dropping a wad of cash on the table, he eases me out the door to the street.

  It’s just a slap, but he nonetheless readjusts my coat and scarf, unruffling me from the fracas inside. Somehow it helps
me feel normal again. He follows this with a brotherly pat on the back. He looks to hail a nonexistent cab just as Soft Cloud of Fragrance exits the restaurant with his coat.

  “Dog, we’ve gotta wash that slap away with one more stiff drink. In fact …”

  Hutch produces a sterling silver hip flask—an awfully old-fashioned, preppy affectation from some great-grandfather—and offers me a swig of straight scotch. I exchange the sting of the slap for the sting of the whisky. It’s a good trade.

  Hutch smiles broadly, a shit-eating, bright-eyed smile. I return the flask to Hutch, and he partakes heartily. Then, out of nowhere, he does our crazy wolf howl. I can’t help but laugh. And, bizarrely, in this case, his wail actually helps us grab a cab—except we don’t need it. Hutch has hatched a new plan and ushers us around the corner to Cielo. I murmur further protest, but Hutch will have none of it.

  “Seriously, it’s totally on your way. Besides, it’s just one drink,” Hutch tries to convince me, “and then you’re home.”

  I pause for a moment and then give in. ”You’re right—I just can’t start the new year being bitch slapped.”

  Cielo has got it right when it comes to music and dance. It’s true to its groove: the sunken dance floor is surrounded by banquettes of brown and beige suede, a timeless albeit hipster take on a seventies aesthetic. I wonder where Nicolas, the owner, got those banquettes and start texting him, realizing as I press “Send” that I’m supposedly out of this game. Still, a little information to file away never hurt anyone.

  Two hours later, I look at my watch, and once my eyes refocus enough to tell the hour, I’m more than a little dismayed. It’s 4:15. And I have to be up by 7 am. I find Hutch on an overstuffed sofa, working his best moves on Soft Cloud and a nubile friend of hers, no doubt trying to negotiate some interesting way for the three of them to greet the dawn intertwined.

  “Dude, I gotta go.”

  Hutch barely takes his eyes off the two prized beauties.

  “Call me first thing and let me know how it goes with Brooke.”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh, and one more thing.” I have his attention for a full moment.

  “Whatever you do, Dog—don’t fuck this up!”

  TRIANGLE POSE

  (Utthita Trikonasana)

  Triangle Pose has magic in it, just like that perfect first martini.

  You know, the one that’s completely refreshing with just enough of a sharpness to the alcohol that it somehow feels cleansing, almost medicinal. Pure liquid therapy.

  Stand with your legs about four feet apart. Your heels should be in a straight line with each other. Turn the back foot in slightly. Exhale, bending to let your lower hand rest wherever it lands—most probably on the shin. Your top arm reaches up. Rotate your chest skyward. Hold the pose for a half-dozen breaths, then inhale to lift yourself back up to standing. Repeat the pose on the other side.

  Like that first martini, Triangle Pose invigorates as it loosens you.

  And, to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever woken up feeling like shit from one Triangle too many.

  It’s not like I dream about Shane all the time, but at least in my dreams, I have the pleasure of looking at her again.

  Shane has classic features that veer a few degrees away from Great Beauty towards the better land of Unbelievably Hot and Really Interesting. A slight bump in the aquiline, elegant nose that make it even more worthy of nuzzling. (She will never realize that her so-called “flaws”—like that nose—are actually her best features.)

  It was rare, but every now and then Shane would make an offhand disparaging remark about her appearance—like her nose, or wanting to lose a few pounds, or that her feet were too big—and it always took me aback. For me, she was like one extended Hirshfeld line, a mile-long curve starting with graceful, feminine slope of jaw and endless neck, and gliding sleekly along her perfect frame. But what most draws your attention are her eyes; they contrast their soft, mossy green palette with flashes that are tiger fierce. Interestingly, when still, her lips are actually quite pouty, but more often than not they’re intensely engaged in banter, a kissable blur.

  She’s not someone who suffers fools, but she’s also the person you’d definitely call to bail you out of jail, no questions asked. You always knew she was being real with you and expecting the same in return. Just because she liked you, you felt a little more special, as though someone who had really great taste saw some potential in you that you secretly hoped was really there.

  In short, she was amazing.

  And I fucked it completely up.

  Chapter 3

  Little could prepare one for the grandeur of Brooke Merrington’s apartment building. While I have many friends from college whose families reside on the Upper East Side, mind you, those are not my roots.

  I am a clever enough guy whose dad grills cheeseburgers and flips pancakes. In fact, were it not for scholarships and student loans, my father’s entire earnings would have just about covered my annual Yale tuition, leaving my two sisters empty-bellied, perhaps, but proud. All three of my college roommates were affluent, with the richest by far being Hutch, with his complete Mayflower pedigree and Waspy, untouchable trust fund. He’s at Jefferson Filbank Investments and doing very well as a Master of the Universe-in-training.

  Yet, Hutch’s family wealth was constantly understated, even denied. His father’s an adjunct professor at Columbia Law and on the boards of a bunch of financial concerns, while his mother works with several charities. Despite the respectable townhouse in the 90s address, sometimes things were so genteelly shabby in their pad that I half wondered if maybe all the money was gone. Perhaps, somehow, mismanagement (or inbreeding) had left them with little more than maintenance money and Waspily downplayed chic. Brooke’s lobby, however, while smacking of Old Money, has no such air of restraint. It reeks of ready cash.

  I give my name and destination to the doorman. I throw in that I’m Brooke’s new yoga instructor, trying, I suppose, to bond with him as a “man of the people” and not of Park Avenue. “Of course, sir,” he nods, dialing up, confirming everything. “Very good. I’ll send him up,” he concludes.

  Yet the doorman—his brass plate reveals his name to be Wallace—seems hesitant. “Is something wrong?” I ask. He considers for a moment, then decides to level with me.

  “Forgive me, sir, but this is your first time here, correct? I’ve known Ms. Merrington for quite some time and have a sense of how she likes things.”

  “I see,” I reply, not sure where this is going. Wallace seems kindly, but I’m confused.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but might I suggest that Ms. Merrington can be, well, quite particular about certain things.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure I get it, but …”

  “Sir, may I speak freely? Your pants are wrinkled. Your hair is uncombed, and your collar has dandruff on it. And I believe your shirt is on inside out. Ms. Merrington will make note of such things.”

  I’m stunned. No one’s paid this much attention to my appearance since my mother on my first day of school.

  “I’m sorry, I guess, but I’m not sure what I can do about any of it, though,” I stumble, now feeling totally outclassed by both the lobby and the doorman.

  “Jimmy, stand in for a moment,” Wallace signals to his second in command. “Follow me,” he continues, leading me down the hall to a private door and alcove.

  From his modest doormen’s locker, Wallace offers me a comb. Over the years, I have perfected my “just rolled out of bed” style by, more often than not, just rolling out of bed. I’ve cultivated the look since I’ve found that ladies like my messy hair—it’s an excuse to run their fingers through it. More important, it’s yet another component to my whole strategy: nothing works better in a wolf’s quest for getting laid than looking like you’ve just gotten laid. While my general dishevelment successfully reads as insouciantly sexy to most chicks on a night out clubbing, Wallace rea
cts to my cowlick with the quiet but intense horror most folks reserve for pedophilia.

  He dusts off my collar, whisks my sweats under the iron, and even insists on swapping my T-shirt for a fresh one of his own. He urges me to quickly shave with a disposable razor and is quite vehement about my using a little mouthwash.

  “Better go again,” he insists after round one with Listerine, “just to be safe.”

  Wallace spritzes me with two dashes of his discrete Green Irish Tweed, no doubt to remove the alcoholic fumes seeping through my pores. Then, following my three-minute, Jeevesian makeover, Wallace—looking me over like a good horse trader—silently deems me presentable.

  Entering Brooke’s apartment, I get it at once. I’m completely grateful to Wallace. It’s like the Museum of the Wealthy—everything perfectly in place and on well-lit display. Without his help, I fear that the apartment itself might oust me. More than a bone marrow transplant between mismatched donors, a scraggly boozehound like me is an abomination to this environment.

  Unlike the gilded excesses the tacky Trump likes to display in the press, this place—despite both Trump’s and Brooke’s shared fetish for gold—is relatively tasteful. While indulging in opulence, it remains on the safe side of tacky, and yet I can still entertain myself by speculating on just how many things one could uselessly plate in gold—toothpicks, cell phones, chopsticks, nail clippers, staplers—purely for the hell of it. And I wonder if Brooke has purchased all of them.

  The tuxedoed butler has left me alone for a few moments, so I look around a bit more. I am very careful not to touch anything or allow myself to be in a position that might be embarrassing should Brooke appear from behind a secret passageway in the wall. It’s that kind of an apartment; rotate a torchiere accidentally, and who knows what will happen.