Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  I smell Brooke’s jasmine fragrance (she’s wearing Joy—a scent I remember from a particularly label-dropping fashion victim I “dated”) a moment before she appears. I am caught behaving well, as I admire a gold-framed family portrait of two girls and their mother.

  “My mother, myself, and my half sister, Phoebe,” Brooke offers, extending her hand. Her smile is warmer than her phone voice. Her eyes are bright. She’s a woman in her late forties (I suppose), maybe early fifties, entirely trim, perfectly composed, with a society woman’s photogenic profile. Her shoulder-length brown hair bounces nicely in the perfect bob. She’s wearing clothes that might be appropriate for yoga, but somehow she looks so put together, so composed, that I wonder if she’ll mind sweating or only want to do poses that won’t muss her hair.

  “Welcome,” Brooke says to me. “Can Gerard get you anything?”

  Tuxedoed Gerard has miraculously reappeared—Is Brooke telepathic? Does Gerard have a cochlear implant?—and I question for a second if she will object to my own plastic bottle of water. Will it be offensive to Brooke if I sip from that instead of a Waterford goblet?

  “Madame, the flowers for tonight’s dinner have arrived,” Gerard informs Brooke.

  “Finally,” Brooke replies. “I’m sorry,” she says to me. “This will only take a moment, but it’s rather urgent.”

  She leads—on Park Avenue, Brooke is clearly used to being the trailblazer—followed by Gerard and me, directing us toward an alcove where twenty buckets overflowing with dozens of white roses await her inspection.

  “These will not do.”

  “What shall I tell the florist, Madame?”

  “That she failed to deliver what I wanted and that she must correct the problem before the caterer arrives,” Brooke commands, and Gerard vanishes. Brooke mutters something about “never again” with icy formality. I half wonder if Brooke will have Gerard take the florist out in a rowboat in the Central Park reservoir.

  “You didn’t want white roses?” I ask. It seems a rather large error to send several dozen blooms if that’s the case.

  “I wanted Iceberg white roses. These are French Lace.”

  They are among the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen, transforming the harsh fluorescent hallway outside the service elevator into an urban garden overflowing with snowy, long-stemmed beauty. Brooke notices my small reaction.

  “Icebergs are unscented,” she explains. “Even if I wanted scented, these are far too fragrant. And Icebergs are pure white. The little blush of pink on the edges marks these as a different hybrid. Now that I look at them, they’re probably Nicoles.”

  As she ushers me into her sitting room, I make a mental note that Brooke wants her roses, by any other name, not to smell as sweet.

  The flower debacle soundly behind her, she gives her attention to our meeting. “I’ve been told you’re a wonderful teacher,” she says. “I had just started with someone else, but after three weeks my instructor abandoned me for India. So, naturally, I was quite pleased when Jason”—God, it’s so funny to hear Hutch called by his given Christian first name—“mentioned he had a Yale friend who was certified to teach.”

  On his way to his trainer this morning, Hutch called because he figured that any old-school bonding might require some explanation about my unconventional career path. In other words, why I’m not a banker, a lawyer, or living off a trust fund, but rather a failed nightlife impresario/temp. Between sit-ups, Hutch fed me my lines, offering that I should be deliberately vague and mutter something about “weathering the storm of this difficult economy.” I realize that this suggests that my capital gains have been marginally reduced rather than that my cell phone’s about to be cut off, but I follow my drinking buddy’s, and now yoga mentor’s, advice.

  Brooke nods sympathetically. “Yes, these are very challenging times. I’m sure Jason has told you we alternate summers in East Hampton and in Europe. Quite frankly, with things so rocky financially for everyone we know, I’m not sure we’re going to be able to rent out the villa in Tuscany this year.”

  While it’s rather trippy that anyone with a spare villa in Tuscany feels that they can bond with me about economic woes, I do not mention this—or the fact that my Chinatown landlord, ever the charmer, cornered me in the hall at 6:30 this morning. Instead, as I assume any good yoga teacher should, I ask Brooke about any health issues she might have.

  “My right hip has some stiffness. Actually, that’s part of the reason I wanted to start again. I know they replace them like used car parts these days, but I’d prefer to avoid surgery.”

  “We can definitely try.”

  “And of course, I’m interested in weight loss.”

  I glance at her with sincere incredulity. Brooke seems perfectly trim, her body as sleek and tailored as a racing yacht.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re obviously amazingly fit.”

  “You’re being kind.”

  “No, I honestly don’t think you need to lose any weight. We’ll definitely add more strength and length through practicing, but you seem quite toned already.”

  “There’s no need to be reassuring. I expect you to be totally ruthless with me. I want to tone here, here, and here.” She pinches aspects of nonexistent fat on her belly, thigh, and backside. “And although no one promises spot reduction but plastic surgeons, I still cling to the hope that we might be able to accomplish something.”

  Her conviction and delivery are so direct that I realize that arguing about her imaginary cellulite would be pointless. Dangerous, even. This is a woman who brings new meaning to the cliché about stopping to smell the roses: Brooke stops to smell them, then sends them back to the florist for being too fragrant. Instead, I’m inspired to utter a rare statement of smiling, neutral politesse: “Yoga certainly is a wonderful workout.”

  “Well, then,” Brooke says, rising. “Why don’t we get started?”

  I realize that she’s very accomplished at this, interviewing someone in a manner so relaxed and polite that it belies the fact that she is concisely stating her expectations while confirming that you are the right one to fulfill them. It is interview masquerading as chitchat.

  I follow her through the apartment’s labyrinthine corridors. Brooke has a vast room—I realize that it’s twice the size, in fact, of my entire apartment—devoted to exercise. Half of the room is filled with free weights and exercise machines. Satisfied, I unfurl the mat, but she stops me. “No, not here.”

  She opens another door, and we enter a smaller room (this one also still larger than my apartment). She’s clearly had this room decorated exclusively for yoga and meditation. There’s some kind of celadon-colored wallpaper that looks incredibly expensive, finely patterned but with a sense of texture. The floor is sisal. There’s a very beautiful Japanese fountain offering the constant, soft sound of a ripple of water flowing over rocks and stones. Orchids are tastefully displayed. The entire room is a Zen fantasy of soothing tones, textures, and sounds. It’s incredibly calculated, but it works. I do feel calmer within seconds. (Obviously, I am on compulsive autopilot re: creating a vibe. Even though I don’t see myself opening a club ever again, much less a Japanese tearoom, I can’t help but make a million mental notes on her décor.)

  Brooke has all her yoga equipment neatly stacked in a corner: mats, blankets, foam blocks, a strap. She turns on the Bose CD player and your basic New Age music starts to play. Brooke doesn’t like to waste time, I realize. We sit and I direct her breathing, inviting her to deepen it. We center, chant three Oms together, and move through some easy stretches.

  My hands-on assists in the yoga poses are purposefully gentle in the beginning, becoming stronger as we continue. Gigi has taught me how to use my hands well, yet at first I am hesitant about touching Brooke. Her body is perfectly shapely—her formfitting outfit could almost be considered revealing—and yet her inherent aloofness seems to discourage human contact. “Look, but don’t even think about touchin
g,” proclaims her hyper-manicured appearance.

  It’s only when we get to Triangle that my hands significantly alter Brooke’s energy in a pose. I stand beside her, rotating the slim barrel of her socialite ribcage upward so that her heart center yearns skyward. As I do this—and I do this very gently and with deliberate slowness so that she can feel the motion as an opening, not a correction—she lets out an audible sigh.

  The sigh is not an intellectual response; the brain’s understanding comes second. The sigh Brooke lets slip is purely physiological. It’s simple, anatomical release like a lover’s moan. This is the first moment Brooke and I have shared that hasn’t felt controlled, scripted even.

  Although we continue practicing, there are no more moments when I feel that Brooke releases nearly as much as she did in Triangle Pose. Perhaps, taken aback by having let go, she wills herself not to lose control like that again.

  Although the mat and the other props I brought have not been needed, for Corpse Pose I have had the foresight to bring an eye pillow to place on her eyes as she rests. Before running out my door this morning, I also grabbed some rather terrific-smelling massage oil a rather steamy “bodyworker” had left behind in my pad. I put some on my hands like Gigi does, briskly rubbing the palms against each other. My hands hover inches above Brooke’s face so that the warmed fragrance encourages her to breathe deeply as I perform a few simple massage strokes to her brow, neck, and shoulders. Brooke seems pleasantly surprised by this—clearly I have given her something her other teacher had not—and drifts off into Savasana.

  Brooke’s so composed in her Upper East Side persona that, for all I know, while resting perfectly still, she might be planning the agenda for her next committee meeting (or maybe just listing other people she can fire by midmorning). There is a moment, however, where I notice that at rest, her face does have an imperial beauty to it. A bit cold perhaps, like a profile on a coin, but nonetheless, the features are admirable.

  I glance at my watch a handful of times to be certain that exactly ten minutes have passed. Leading her from Corpse Pose, I make sure my voice is at its most soothing. I realize, as I do so, that this low, whispery softness is something one only uses to awaken a lover. Brooke gently stirs and comes to sit for our final Oms together.

  Opening her eyes, she smiles and thanks me. Immediately, I can tell I’ve passed her test. “That was lovely,” she declares, gently rising.

  Exiting the yoga room, I follow her back towards the sitting area of our interview.

  “How do Tuesdays and Thursdays at this time work for you?” she asks me.

  I’m too startled to even play coy. I have no imaginary datebook to check. I labor at The Sweatshop in the evening, and I take yoga classes during the day. I have absolutely no morning obligations whatsoever.

  “Fine,” I reply. Brooke opens a Chippendale desk drawer and produces a checkbook. She confirms the spelling of my last name, adding, almost as an afterthought, “Jason didn’t tell me what your rate was.”

  I realize I do not have a rate. I haven’t thought that far ahead. Somehow, my gut tells me I needn’t fear; Brooke is way ahead of me when it comes to these kinds of transactions.

  “I’m very comfortable paying you what I paid my last yoga instructor. Frankly, I think you’re much better. It’s a little more than my trainer, but …” She hands me a check. “This will be for ten lessons. That should cover us until the first week of February.”

  I nod, looking at the check. Brooke has written it out for $1,500. $1,500! That’s $150 a lesson. It’s six times what I make an hour temping—more, considering that no taxes are taken out of it. Now, I know that one $1,500 check is too small a shovel to dig myself out of my $120,000 hole. Even if I were to take the high road and sign over the full amount to Shane, that would only dust ten percent off my debt to her. I’m no lottery winner, but nonetheless, this allows me to start scraping away at the basics—shelter, food, cell phone, and martinis—that my urban survival requires.

  “I have a great feeling that you’re going to be quite a success as a teacher,” Brooke tells me. “You’re just the sort of person I feel quite comfortable recommending to my set of friends.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all,” Brooke smiles. “It’ll be my pleasure to help establish you with the right kind of clients. And, of course, I’m looking forward to getting back into shape.”

  I don’t respond with a compliment. I sense she doesn’t want or need one. And I do not want to be sent away, like the white roses, never to return in the service elevator.

  The fifteen hundred feels like helium lifting my wallet’s heavy heart. I will teach Brooke, even if it means indulging her quest to remove the shadow of a micron of that hyper-resilient fat molecule that can somehow avoid liposuction (much less the human eye).

  Knowing that I can travel home and give my landlord a check—albeit one he will have to hold for a few days—I’m astonished at my sudden burst of good fortune.

  MOUNTAIN POSE

  (Tadasana)

  At first, just like with Corpse Pose, I thought they were kidding. What’s the big deal about standing? But then one day, Gigi drew my attention to my feet. To the subtle shifting of the weight and the balance. I zeroed in on what she was saying, grooving on the intricacies of simply standing.

  Big toes touch. A little space between the heels. Legs active, thighs and kneecaps lift. Shoulder blades melt down the back. Slight tuck of the tailbone. Head gently floats on the neck. Face softens. Finally, I got it. It’s not just hanging out, as if you’re waiting to get the bartender’s attention. There’s an awareness of what you’re doing that makes all the difference in the world.

  Mountain Pose becomes a home base where you feel grounded, secure, and able to take on the world. Even the strongest of us have moments where we need to reconnect with our reserves of inner strength, our own inner mountain.

  Indeed, it’s entirely how you stand—be it presiding over a board meeting or cruising a late-night lounge—that distinguishes the Alpha from the pack, the Wolves from the Sheep.

  Shane practically takes a swing at me when I tell her that I think her crab cakes are a little too salty. Annoyed, she takes a bite herself. Then another, to pause and consider. “Okay. Maybe you’re right.”

  We’re still just friends at this point in my story. Shane’s recently arrived in the city and through a buddy of mine has found some survival gig as a cater waiter. Ambitious as always, two weeks into the job she’s tried to convince the chef to let her get into the kitchen.

  “Is that what they make you wear?” I ask offhandedly, eying her catering uniform.

  “No. It’s completely my choice to wear an ill-fitting, gender-concealing white oxford shirt with sad black pants and flats. Soon, every hot young girl in the club scene will be copying this exact outfit.”

  She returns to the kitchen and I go back to channel surfing.

  Ten minutes later, Shane’s whipped up three more crab-cake variations, each with different seasonings. She waits expectantly as I sample them.

  “This one is totally awesome. Definitely perfect.”

  Shane smiles as I finish off the platter. “Even though that’s coming from someone who’s pretty much always hungry, I’m still relieved.”

  “Well, I may be an omnivore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have taste.”

  Chapter 4

  Thanks to Brooke, for this month, at least, the rent is paid. (Okay, technically it’s actually October’s rent, but at least it’s a start.) On second thought, given my paltry Sweatshop wages versus my massive debt, since my plastic is long maxed out, it seems far wiser to be at least reachable by phone and email and enjoy the benefits of electricity and cable, even if it means eviction. To celebrate I treat myself to dumplings from a Chinatown storefront dive (five for two dollars), check my email, and then nap until a few hours later, when Hutch calls me back.

  “I’m like th
e greatest pimp daddy of all time,” he boasts. “On Sunday you’re coming with me to Honey’s brunch.” (“Honey” is what everyone, including Hutch, calls his mother.)

  “I thought you said those things were geriatric conventions. I’d rather sleep in, thanks.”

  “Dude, we’re onto a goldmine here. We’ve got to go trolling for more clients for you.”

  “Bonus check bounce? Is it the commission you’re after?”

  “I already asked Honey if she wants to take yoga with you, but she’s so into her Pilates instructor, it isn’t funny.”

  “Maybe they’re banging.”

  “Dude, we are so totally not going there. Anyway, she said I could bring you to her Sunday shindig, and you could ‘tastefully’ work the room. Just like she lets all her divorced friends who need sugar daddies.”

  “You make me sound like an escort.”

  “Hell, the classy ones make great money. No joke. Listen, I gotta hop. Biz calls.” And then, just as unceremoniously, he’s off the line.

  Until I face the 4:00 lash of The Sweatshop, the day is mine, so I take Gigi’s noon class at Thank Heaven. She’s brilliant as always.

  Part of what I love so much—and what got me hooked on Thank Heaven—is that this style of yoga means that no two classes are alike. Yes, there’s a basic sequencing from easier poses to more difficult, from warming up, to sun salutes, to standing poses, then revolved ones and so forth. But unlike my former weight routine, NOTHING is ever the same here. I’ve yet to see Gigi substantially repeat a class, and I’ve been coming almost daily now for two years.

  During every class of hers I take, I try to commit to memory her sequencing of poses, but within ten minutes, I’m forced to abandon that entirely. Beyond the physical challenge, I’m too lost in the movement to analyze it midflow. It would be like graphing a Miles Davis concert rather than just letting it wash over and through you.