by Edward Vilga
Slogging in at The Sweatshop at 4 p.m., while I’m still invigorated from the yoga, more than ever before, my heart isn’t in it. Well, my heart was NEVER in it, not for a millisecond, but nonetheless, I realize that I am even more resentful of the sixty-odd hours I will have to work here to match Brooke’s blessed check.
Facebook is blocked on computers here, so whenever those odd intervals occur where I’m waiting for an assignment, I surf. I google Becker compulsively. I’m not so much interested in the gossip column stuff—of course he’s going to be at some premiere or gala at the Met whenever he’s in town—but instead, I focus on his latest corporate exploits. I monitor his progress from afar, keen on knowing how, where, and why he’s expanding his empire. (Once again, like an alcoholic touring taverns, but swearing he’ll never touch another drop, I’m hooked. With over a hundred grand in debt from Failure #1, the last thing I need is to contemplate getting back on the horse that threw me. In this case, that horse should be shot.)
Sometime in my early teens, something of The Grill’s greasy residue must have seeped into my blood—or maybe it’s just genetic. It was never a conscious decision—I never woke up one morning and said, “I shall become a barkeep!”—but somehow the role of tavern owner and host just made sense for me. It seems I can’t live without the excitement of the party vibe at its peak, that amazing “plugged in” feeling of being at the very center and source of where my community congregates. I realize that for some smarter guys, that rush can be found on the floor of the Senate or ringing the bell on Wall Street. For me, it’s in the electricity and energy that are created by the right lighting, music, and crowd in the wee hours of the morning.
These dreams, however, are NOT supported by my paternal role model. Growing up, it’s not like Pop gave all that much thought to my future; certainly he never thought his boy would go off to a fancy college. In fact, having failed to explain to Pop the concept of “need-blind admission,” I practically got into a fistfight with him in order to get him to sign the required financial aid forms. (He did, but only because of Mom’s gentle persuasion.) Only when I got to Yale did Pop even begin to “get” what it all meant.
I don’t know if my randomly assigned first-year roommate Calvin Goldstein’s parents—they had been grooming Calvin for the Ivies since his Scarsdale birth—took Pop aside for a Freshman Orientation field trip to set him straight on the correlation between income and higher education. Nonetheless, by sophomore year, no one was more in favor of setting me on the fast track towards a joint MBA/law degree than Pop. And other than me, probably no one is more disappointed that six years later, I’m working for the Calvin Goldsteins of the world as a temp.
My self-tutorial in Failed Banker/Failed Becker Wannabe, however, is interrupted as Diane approaches my desk. A fifty-something Staten Island matron who runs Presentations with the intensity and commitment of a Crusader of Investment Banking Spreadsheets, Diane knows how to invoke the corporate lash. Indeed, Diane is amazingly immune to my charms. Beyond accurate data input in the New Template, there’s nothing she wants from me.
This past New Year’s Eve, some lame multinational merger required a bunch of Excel charts reformatted to the New Template. She refused to release me (or anyone) one minute before the 4-to-midnight shift expired on December 31st. So up until 11:59 p.m. on December 31st, when I could join Hutch and posse mid-plastering, I clicked my mouse and converted shades of grey, navy, and crimson into slight variations of themselves so that a $2 billion merger (one apparently vitally contingent on color-coding) could roll forward as scheduled.
Diane offers me a smile that we both know is totally fake.
“Please make sure that the pie graphs are 3-D,” is all she says as she hands me a presentation to work on. I note with chagrin that the junior banker who created it is Nathaniel Phelps, a cliché nerd (with pimples even), since I believe he harbors a targeted resentment towards me. Nathaniel—aka “Pimples”—was probably high school bully target #1 and as such, as he rises towards potentially stratospheric income levels, the world must suffer his nasal wrath.
Five minutes into charting and color-coding his presentation, Nathaniel is literally breathing down my neck, appearing out of nowhere to complain, “No—you’ve got to put the Earnings Ratio column in a larger font.”
What I want to say is, “I did not attend your high school, Pimples, but if I had, I swear I would definitely have been the jock who said, ‘Hey, leave the kid alone.’” Instead, I reply, “Sorry, Nate. No can do. That’s just not allowed in The New Template.” FYI, I honestly couldn’t give a flying fuck whether the font sizes correspond—although if I did this of my accord, Diane would have me publicly crucified, no doubt complaining that I wasn’t bleeding in the right shade of New Template Crimson. Honestly, it’s just hard to resist when someone’s chain is just so easily jerkable.
Before I know it, Pimples has brought over Diane to plead his case. The two of them hover over my desk, negotiating whether it might be enough just to bold the column (that’s allowed) or to select another New-Template-approved color (that’s debatable). Finally, sensing perhaps that Pimples will stop at nothing save the Supreme Court or the CEO to get his way, she authorizes me to bump up the font two points. Such is life at The Sweatshop.
I honestly like Hutch’s parents. Every time I inquire after Hutch’s father, I learn he’s on a rafting trip in the Amazon or at the base camp of Everest. From his example, it seems there’s very little to do at the top other than attend a few board meetings a year and appreciate the miracle of compound interest.
Hutch’s mother, Honey, could star in an Emily Post instructional video for good manners and breeding, but an undercurrent of wry amusement runs beneath her every smooth move. You can see the wicked gleam in her eye—one that Hutch inherited and has made the cornerstone of his rakish charm. Honey’s not bad looking for a mom either, a cozy, fifty-something bottle blonde with a bourbon-soaked laugh. And, for an Über-WASP affair, the food is reasonable.
I’m standing at the bar, waiting for the uniformed bartender to refresh my vodka martini, when a Traffic-Stopping brunette crosses my path.
“Jesus,” I hear a husky bass voice with an upscale accent mutter next to me. I turn and see this mountain of a man—sixties, craggily featured, elegantly dressed—scoping out Traffic Stopper. We acknowledge each other.
There’s a momentary crisis at the bar. They’re out of champagne, but the bartender protests that he can’t leave his station to secure replacements.
“Allow me,” says the Mountain. “I think I can manage to fill in for a few moments.” The grateful bartender scoots off to the kitchen to replenish the bubbly. The Mountain deftly mixes two martinis with an almost balletic swiftness and elegance, shaking and serving them with such aplomb as to make them a breezy sacrament. I take my martini from the Mountain as he raises his glass. Already, he’s my hero.
“Cheers,” he offers. “Here’s to the lady.”
“Who is she?” I inquire.
“Nicky Tremaine. Third wife of a colleague.”
A man of about a hundred and twenty helps Traffic Stopper with a fur coat. She really is stunning, wearing some kind of supremely upscale, amazingly clingy dress that seems just about to deconstruct. I can’t help but stare at the two of them. She exudes life-transforming sexuality; he radiates the need for life support.
“Tremaine really must be doing well to afford that.”
I don’t know what to say. In some ways, we are acknowledging the obvious, but spelling out the relationship seems like I might be transgressing on Hutch’s assurances of my “tasteful” behavior.
“Andrew,” says the Mountain, as he extends his hand. “Andrew Harding.” I introduce myself back. Andrew’s impressive, without being stuffy or arrogant. He wears his man-of-the-world confidence in a way that includes you, rather than intimidates. And he makes a fantastic martini. The guy has got game to spare.
Andrew refreshes the white
wine spritzer of a grandmotherly woman of seventy in a bright pink Chanel suit, disguising, I fancy, his manly distaste for diluting something as viable as alcohol. Then he resumes conversation with me, dismissing the heartfelt thanks of the bartender returning to his post.
Andrew is—like many in his circuit, I’m learning—quite adept at polite conversation that gets your stats down quickly. He deftly elicits that my connection to the hostess is via college roommate Hutch, and if he reads Page Six on the sly, at least, unlike Monique, he doesn’t snort.
I inquire about him, and he sidesteps the question, as if I’ll come to my senses in a moment and recognize him. He smiles and says he’s involved with a handful of companies. (In other words, I feel like I’ve asked Lady Gaga at a cocktail party if she has something to do with entertainment.) I leave well enough alone, especially when the rather cute catering waitress offering us a plate of shrimp catches his ever-roving eye. (FYI, I tend to avoid yuppie house parties like the plague, as I live in terror that some urbanite less on my side than Hutch will hire Shane’s fledging catering operation.) Without exerting any visible effort, Andrew lures the cute little caterer toward him with the strength of his charisma. It’s almost mystical, like Dracula captivating a spellbound virgin, the way this very cute, early twenties cater-chick is transfixed by Andrew.
Andrew’s appeal runs way beyond looks and even beyond his wealth. He radiates a striking confidence, perhaps stemming from worldly assets, but manifesting as personal charisma. He’s a Matterhorn of a man, a cuter Kissinger, a corporate Nicholson. I, of the infinitely lower income bracket, sadly have no such wealth or power to trade upon.
When I look into the mirror, I see a face that, if not destined for the cover of GQ, is at least formed along a mode that most people would label traditionally handsome. Mind you, I am not particularly vain about my appearance. I know that I am lucky and that while super-athletic yoga keeps me in fine shape, I have good genes to start with. Hutch even has a running joke about it. He suggests that my universal response for any praise or criticism should be: “My father was a Marine.”
Why am I always on time (no matter the hangover)? My father was a Marine. Why am I so commitment-phobic (i.e., such an asshole)? My father was a Marine. Why do I have such a workout ethic (i.e., obsession) about being strong and fit and having pumped biceps? My father was a Marine. Why can Andrew bond with me about being a virile man of the world? One guess: My father was a Marine. Take that Marine gene pool, refine it through four years of Yale, and add a half-dozen years of player training on the field and you’ve got … well, the compelling disaster that is me.
Andrew’s inquiries as to the waitress, namely Aspiring Allison, and her fledgling (make that nonexistent) acting career are cut short by the arrival of a stunning blonde. “Hello, darling,” Andrew intones. “Shrimp puff?”
The blonde (hovering just a few years over my own late twenties) declines politely, displaying no reaction other than the pure pleasure of returning to Andrew’s side. He kisses her with the perfect display of public passion. Andrew introduces me to his “lovely bride,” and Danielle smiles sweetly and extends her hand. I barely notice that Aspiring Allison has taken her cue and vanished.
Danielle has the graceful, gravity-free glide of the former ballerina I later learn she was, with the long mane of hair and freshly scrubbed quality of the horsey set. I do not read Town & Country, but if she has not graced the cover, I’m sure the editors are pursuing her ardently. While Andrew is a supernova of charisma compared to the geriatric Tremaine, I can barely suppress the desire to compliment him slyly with, “You must be doing well, Andy, Old Boy, to afford this amazingly hot young thing.”
Suddenly, I have a new life goal, besides being Becker. I also want to be Andrew: confident, charismatic, worldly, and while hovering in his baronial sixties, still able to have a woman as hot as Danielle craving him (not to mention sampling little canapés like Aspiring Allison on the side). Somehow, the idea of settling down—albeit in my sixties—doesn’t seem that bad. Basically, Andrew’s another Becker, triumphing in the world of finance rather than nightlife and luxury, offering a lusty Model of Maturity I can actually appreciate, even envy.
Andrew shares my scanty biographical details with Danielle, then reveals for the first time that he’s been shopping for a yoga teacher, no doubt as part of some conjugal New Year’s resolution. (I’m right: a breezy but probative interview technique thrives among the upper social stratum) Danielle, ever the former dancer, adores yoga and sparkles at the notion that I start teaching Andrew. As a capper, when Andrew mentions Brooke Merrington’s name, she practically genuflects.
Almost immediately, it’s settled. We make an appointment, I get their address, and they’re off to another function. The party is winding down, so I seek out Hutch and share my good news about scoring a new client.
Allison returns with a tray of mini-quesadillas, deeply engrossing Hutch with her search for a representative monologue. When Hutch leans one arm against the wall, cozily framing them close together, I merely nod to him and he to me, as I take off toward home.
Leaving the party, I check my cell for messages. Brooke has called twice (as always, she seems vaguely irritated that I’m not waiting by the phone for her). On the phone, she’s her usual polite, direct self. “I’ve spoken to my sister, Phoebe, and she’d like to start taking yoga with you. Tomorrow morning at 7:30 would be good for her.” She doesn’t ask, mind you, if I’m available, but when I call back, I tell her that I am and that I’m grateful.
“I also dropped by Epitome today,” she tells me. “The new spa on Madison.”
“Uh huh,” I reply, wondering if they offer a deluxe treatment for invisible fat cells. I can see it: Invisible Fat Removal by highly trained laser/sonar/herbal aestheticians at $350 an hour. Destroy the fat you cannot see—the most dangerous kind—before it blossoms into visibility.
“I’ve known the owner, Marguerite, for years,” Brooke says, “and I strongly suggested they hire you for some classes. She’d like you to call her and arrange a meeting.”
I stroll down Park Avenue, reflecting on my fate. Somehow, in less than three days, I have gone from being one step shy of becoming a Homeless Hipster to (with Phoebe’s presumably commensurate check tomorrow) suddenly having three clients, each paying $300 a week for yoga. Even without counting potential income from Epitome, I realize that this is a far cry from financial security, but I feel quite prosperous. This is only three clients, and only mornings, but if it proves sustainable, then I am miraculously halfway to a six-figure income. After six months of self-pity (which pays surprisingly poorly), the perfect solution has fallen into my lap.
Do other people know about this yoga-teaching goldmine, I wonder? I almost feel I must be quiet about it; otherwise, New York will suddenly be flooded with waiters and temps bursting into yoga schools so they can get these cushy Park Avenue gigs.
Of course, I realize that, for once in my life, I have been lucky. I have been hired because I have a well-connected friend in Hutch and, in Andrew’s case, bolstered by my Marine-scioned mien. But I also know that I can do this: I can teach well. Brooke’s lesson showed me that.
Yes, I am truly a yoga teacher. I am a guru, albeit one in a muscle tee, making—for me—big bucks on Park Avenue.
Walking along, out of nowhere, into my head comes the only advice my father ever gave me, taken from a World War II Nat King Cole song: “Straighten up and fly right.” For once, maybe I am.
HANDSTAND
(Adho Muka Vriksasana)
I learned early on that most yoga poses are about showing off.
You find something amazing you can do, and suddenly, Shazam—you’re a guru, ready for your groupies. Handstand’s great for that. (Although it does go to show you just how far the original Yoga Dudes were willing to go in their quest for enlightenment. They wanted to change their perspective on life so much that they experimented with doing that quite literally, flipp
ing themselves upside down for spiritual kicks.)
Practice handstand a few inches from the wall, coming from up downward dog. One leg lifts, and the other follows. Arms have to stay straight, and shoulder blades should gather together on the back. In time, you can flirt more and more with moving away from the wall and trying to balance on your own. Every second you hold the pose is challenging.
In the end, who needs enlightenment when a good head rush will do?
“You are such an idiot!” is what I hear as I come crashing down and splash Shane.
I’ve persuaded her to snap my picture with her camera phone as I attempt to nail a handstand on the beach at Montauk. Without a nice yoga studio floor, it’s a lot harder than I thought. The wet sand has a lot of give to it, plus I’ve got to land the pose before too big a wave comes crashing through. The only advantage is that when I tumble down, the ocean is a bit more forgiving than a hardwood floor—and infinitely more than Shane getting splashed!
“Why are we doing this again?” Shane asks, but she’s laughing.
“Facebook. And because I can!”
Somehow, the elements of earth, water, and air cooperate, and I find my balance. Shane gets the shot.
“Wait, I’ve got an idea!” she shouts. “Just hold it!”
“Easier said than done!” I yell. But somehow I’m steady.
Grabbing the lobster-red suburban dad who’s been watching us, she steps beside me for him to get our picture. She puts one arm around my feet, pretending to lean on them but actually assisting my balance. Then a decent wave comes crashing through and I get a mouthful of salt water.
But Lobster Dad got the shot. It’s the perfect photo. Me upside down and smiling. Shane goofy and beautiful. The wave about to hit. For the rest of the summer, both of us use it as our Facebook profile photo.