Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  As for this pose’s goddess energy, if my hips do feel more open afterward, for me, this kind of vulnerability feels more like, well, pain.

  “Equally excellent,” I honestly reply, as I taste a fourth variation of a mushroom polenta hors d’oeuvre Shane’s perfecting.

  “But which is your favorite? And do you think I should go with the square cut or the diamond shape?”

  I have been happily drafted into the role of food taster, although I’m beginning to wonder how many extra workouts I’m going to have to put in to balance out Shane’s creativity and perfectionism. Andrea has gotten Shane her first catering gig and, fully in character, Shane has swung into action full force. It’s for a very small affair—a christening or bris of Andrea’s brother’s latest offspring in Brooklyn—and the budget is minimal at best, but Shane is treating it like a White House dinner. I spy at least three dumpling possibilities and five crostini variations cooling on her kitchen counter. I’m all for passionate and sensual excess, but even my stomach has its limits.

  “Diamonds, definitely. And maybe the one with the roasted red peppers on top.” Shane considers this, taking a second bite herself. As with her crab cakes, she’s always striving for perfection.

  “Relax, Chef,” I say, cleansing my palette with a sip of sauvignon blanc. “Everything is absolutely killer. You are a culinary goddess. They are going to be blown away.”

  Shane smiles and seems to genuinely relax a bit. The oven timer rings.

  “Let’s hope,” she says, removing two trays of mini cheesecakes from the oven. “I just hope you’ve saved room for dessert.”

  Chapter 6

  Phoebe lives merely five blocks from her sister, but everything about the apartment is more modest, more human scaled. Although I am once again let in by a servant, Phoebe’s is Bernice, a Jamaican woman of about fifty with a warm smile and sweet eyes who wears street clothes as she goes about her housekeeping chores.

  When Phoebe enters, I am surprised. Unconsciously, I had been expecting a Brooke-clone, and while Phoebe is also delicate, they bear little resemblance to each other, whatever strands of DNA they might share. Whereas Brooke seems like polished stainless steel (sorry, make that platinum), Phoebe is pearly, soft, and vulnerable, smelling of tea roses, just like the first girl I made out with in junior high. She smiles, tilting her face upward slightly. She wears a little makeup and a touch of lipstick even though it’s early morning. It’s endearing somehow, and totally unnecessary. Her skin is perfect, with her thick black hair tied back in a ponytail. Unlike Brooke, Phoebe seems actually waiting for me to take the lead.

  “Where would you like us to work together?” I ask.

  I realize as I travel through Phoebe’s apartment, that although it’s similar in size to her sister’s, it’s designed not to intimidate, but to welcome. It’s upscale but slightly overstuffed and cozy. Phoebe leads me into an empty corner room, sun-drenched with light from windows in front and on the side. She’s done little to the room—there are only a few pieces of furniture on the hardwood floors—but it has a simple, serene feel that I like. She sits down on her mat and I face her.

  “Have you done any yoga?” I ask her.

  “Yes,” she tells me. “On and off for several years, but now it’s time I got serious about it. Brooke thought you were a wonderful teacher, so I was excited to meet you. I really want to improve my practice.”

  “That’s great,” I say, beaming back a smile, one I hope is not too inappropriately broad. “Let’s begin.”

  We start to move through Sun Salutations together, and I’m impressed with her practice. She’s an ideal student: She knows many of the poses, but her form is often slightly askew. Her gracefulness is lovely—she moves very fluidly and with ease—but her muscular strength could be increased. I find myself making mental notes about future practices with her and poses I want to try. Once again, the teaching possibilities excite me.

  And at the same time, I’m increasingly drawn to her physically. When I take class, I work against being distracted by feminine curves. In fact, half the time at Thank Heaven, I practice with my eyes closed, tuning into my breath, bones, and muscles and away from the distracting hotties. But now, I cannot focus my attention away from Phoebe. In fact, my job requires steadily observing and touching her.

  When I place my hands to frame the sides of her torso in Triangle Pose, as I did with Brooke, I realize that my fingertips are perilously close to her breasts. I am appropriate, yes, in my touching, but I am also a half inch away from caressing her as a lover would.

  My hands linger for a beat, and then I retreat, allowing her to move back into Warrior II. For better or worse, I know that in another minute, we will be doing Triangle on the other side, and for five breaths, I will again have my fingers so close to roaming where they would so willingly travel.

  Despite myself, my nose is saturated with her tea-rose innocence, and my hands are eager to turn rogue. I am one step away from actually moving my fingers toward lightly cupping her breasts, a step that—if I lingered for more than a breath—would clearly be an advance and not an assist, or an accident. (You can’t put a plate of lamb chops in front of a wolf and not expect him to nibble.)

  Damn it, but I’m suddenly aware of how remarkably conflicted I’ve become in the last half hour. Part of my brain—the part I usually listen to—just wants to give in and make a move on Phoebe in the most obvious and hedonistic way. And yet there’s that other part of me—some combination of common decency, common sense, a touch of residual Catholic guilt, all combined with Hutch’s “don’t fuck this up” warning—that hovers over me like Mother Marie Arthur during sixth grade catechism classes, reiterating that this is my student AND this is my new career.

  Fortunately, before I get the chance to see if I’ll listen to the angel or the devil perched on either shoulder, in walks a barrel-chested, squat man in his sixties, loudly clearing the phlegm in his throat.

  “Phoebe told me not to eat anything first, but I was starving,” he says. He licks his lips and brushes away crumbs and powdered sugar from his mouth, clearly having polished off a Krispy Kreme or three outside the door.

  “That’s all right, honey.” The lovely Phoebe smiles beatifically at this strange, omnivorous beast who’s intruded on our session. This vinyl-scratching, needle-lifting interruption of our flow leaves me startled, especially when, astonishingly, Phoebe says, “Let me introduce my husband, Phil.”

  Phil pumps my hand heartily—“Nice grip.” I suppose he thinks that teaching yoga would make me limp-wristed. I can’t help myself and automatically reply, “Thanks. My dad was a Marine.” Somehow the semi-non sequitur makes sense to Phil, reassuring him that I didn’t arrive here on a carpet of lotus petals.

  Phil takes a farewell bite of his Krispy Kreme, wincing slightly, and draws his hand to his lower back.

  Phoebe asks, “Phil, is your back bothering you again?”

  “Same old shit, honey. What ya gonna do? Part of growing old.”

  With Phoebe in her late thirties, at most early forties (every million in net worth seems to be able to subtract a few years, it seems), and Phil in his late sixties, they are easily more than twenty, perhaps closer to thirty, years apart in age. And that’s not the only difference. Phoebe is luminous, fit, and effortlessly upscale. Annoying self-help reference aside, she is from Venus, whereas Phil … Phil, I learn soon enough, is from Newark. It’s no doubt my attraction to Phoebe that makes me player-hate Phil, but I can’t help but see him as heavy-handed Darwinian proof that we did indeed descend from the apes.

  “Okay, then, let’s have at it!” Phil says. He smacks his hands together as though he were about to carve a turkey. Unfortunately, beyond my bewilderment that somehow the lovely Phoebe has anything to do with this squat bullfrog, I have no idea how to teach them together.

  For one thing, Phoebe and I have already been working for forty minutes. Phoebe is completely warmed up, whereas Phil probab
ly hasn’t been warm from exercise in thirty years. For another, not only do they have such obviously different bodies, but Phil plainly has never done any yoga.

  Suddenly, Phil’s tracksuit pocket begins to buzz, and he whips out his cell phone. After three seconds, he covers the receiver, mouthing, “Gotta take this. Next time.” He exits the room.

  Phoebe smiles at me, and, by way of explanation, she says, “I really want Phil to try yoga. He’s just so tense with business. It’s not good for a man his age. I’d like him to join us when he’s in town, if that’s all right. He’s in Detroit for half the week with his business.”

  I ask what he does for a living.

  “Phil is Joan Crawford’s nightmare.”

  “Excuse me?” Phoebe smiles. Clearly this is a question she’s asked often and thus has a standard, witty reply at the ready.

  “He’s the country’s largest manufacturer of wire hangers.”

  She reads my confused look.

  “I’m sorry. My decorator came up with that one. It’s a reference to Mommy Dearest. You know, with Faye Dunaway. The whole ‘no wire hangers’ obsession Joan Crawford had.”

  I still don’t get it, exactly, but I do get her bigger point: this is a gay yardstick, and Phoebe is taking my measurement, as it were.

  “Anyway, my decorator and his staff always bring it up. But I realize that’s not your … world.”

  And as metrosexual as I may be, it’s just not. I realize, just as I’m trying to get a read on her, Phoebe’s confirming my straightness. (Incidentally, more than anything else, over time I’ve found that a general cluelessness is the most convincing proof of my heterosexuality.)

  We complete the rest of the lesson without incident or overture. After the last twist, Phoebe asks if I mind if she takes Goddess Pose. Her feet come together and her knees diamond to the side with a sense of real grace, confirming again how open her hips are. In this restorative pose, she’s even more vulnerable.

  I lightly slip blankets under each of her thighs to prevent the pose from becoming too much of a strain. I gently move my fingers across her brow to smooth away nonexistent frown lines. I lean in to place the eye pillow above her eyes. God help me but I find her physical and emotional openness utterly irresistible. I resist all temptation completely, however—not because I am ethical, but only because I am very aware that her husband lurks in some other corner of the apartment. Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past Phil to barge back in now, interrupting the final rest, wondering if he can cram in five minutes of yoga (McYoga, as it were, no doubt while munching on an Egg McMuffin) before a factory inspection.

  He does not appear, however, until after the ten minutes of rest are complete and Phoebe and I have Om-ed together. It seems that he’s been waiting respectfully outside the door, peeking his head in only when normal conversation has resumed.

  “I have to head to Detroit tonight, babe,” he tells Phoebe. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday at the latest.” They quickly discuss travel and appointment logistics as Phil writes me a check from their joint account. He hands it to me and pumps my hand again.

  “I don’t know about this yoga stuff, son—I used to play a lot of ball growing up—but Phoebe swears by it. We’ll give it a shot next time.”

  I smile and thank them. Phoebe walks me to the door. “It’s so great to be able to share the practice with someone who understands,” she confides. “Phil is wonderful, but he just doesn’t connect on … this level. It’s so delightful to be able to have this kind of exchange, this kind of sharing, with someone who’s so spiritually open and sensitive like yourself.”

  “Thank you” is what I say. If she only knew, is what I think. I was this close to feeling her up, and somehow she thinks I’m a swami. I’m simultaneously the Jekyll and Hyde of desire, and yet Phoebe can only see my most chaste, alleged guru self and not my inner, ever-ravenous, lusty wolf.

  “Anyway,” she stops, embarrassed. “Listen to me prattle on. I’m sure you have other appointments.” She has the complete yoga glow now, her hair slightly mussed and her face relaxed and even softer, sweeter than when I entered. (In all candor, it’s similar to the “Just Fucked” look—tousled but blissful—that’s nearly impossible to resist.)

  As the oaken doors shut, out of the power of Phoebe’s sight and scent, I once again recall Hutch’s prophetic warning, one I’ve been trying to tattoo to the center of my forehead since, well, yesterday: “Don’t fuck this up.”

  For me, “don’t fuck this up!” has a thousand times more resonance than any chant to Shiva, Ganesh, or any other multi-armed deity.

  “Don’t fuck this up … don’t fuck this up … don’t fuck this up,” I continue softly intoning, nodding politely past the doorman’s wary eye at my prayerful mutterings.

  Why am I here at Happy Ending, a dimly lit Lower East Side former Asian “erotic” massage parlor and now hipster hangout, at 2 a.m.? With Andrew’s first lesson scheduled for tomorrow at 9 a.m., it’s officially a School Night. I ponder this as I search for Hutch. Although it has two levels, Happy Ending is small enough that I can quickly find Hutch in one of the set-in Red Velvet booths, holding court like Sinatra. I file away a mental note on how effectively the small locale enables two DJs to work simultaneously, creating different vibes. But I am not here to take compulsive nightlife notes tonight.

  My rationale for hitting the town begins with my vibe first getting thrashed around 6 p.m. Usually The Sweatshop is just a general buzzkill downer, but tonight hit a new low. Slamming me with a stack of papers, Diane barks, “The cover sheet says the banker wants to see you before you start this. Mergers on twenty-five.”

  Glancing at the name, I see the presentation is from a nubile new banker named Paloma Christensen. (Note: I only pass muster with the names here because everyone signs their request sheet and also has a nameplate on their cubicle.) Paloma is some super-exotic, international combo (I think perhaps Brazilian and Danish) of beauty and brains. Even across the vast floor of Presentations, she’s caught my eye whenever she drops off a project for Diane to send our way.

  It’s 10 p.m. and the twenty-fifth floor has a different energy than it does during the day. Almost all the secretaries are long gone, back to their families in Queens and Brooklyn, and most of the bankers have vanished as well. There’s only a handful of folks involved with all-nighter work ahead, and the energy is a mix of Red Bull, Spartan camaraderie, and battle-against-time desperation.

  Paloma looks up when I tap on her office door. She’s totally gorgeous, more supermodel than banker. She even manages to make her conservative business suit look hot.

  “You wanted to see me?” I inquire.

  She nods, directing me to come over and signaling for the stack of papers. She goes through them, indicating a few specific graphics she wants embedded in her charts. Fortunately, it’s all within New Template parameters—although honestly, even if she wanted an orgy of font violations, I’d have committed Presentations hara-kiri for her. Her irresistible continent-spanning accent would leave me no choice.

  Paloma’s reached the last flowchart, and maybe it’s just that I’m a little dizzy from her terrific-smelling hair and whatever discrete fragrance she must have recently splashed on her neck, but when she looks up at me to signal we’re through, I smile seductively. I pause to see if she smiles back. She does.

  I’ve never asked anyone out from The Sweatshop before—it’s 90 percent dudes and the few ladies seem mostly married or martyred. Trust me: Paloma is the only babe in this neck of the woods. But what the hell, why not?

  “I … I wonder if I could get your number?” I ask with confidence

  Paloma smiles back again. “Sure. Of course.”

  “Great,” I reply, grinning at this conquest even here.

  “But didn’t I already put it on the request sheet? It’s extension 2810.”

  She double-checks the top sheet, reshuffles the papers, and hands everything back to me, a ch
eerful, efficient gesture of dismissal. She doesn’t look up to notice the tail between my legs as I depart.

  I suppose I could pursue further and clarify that I wanted her digits in order to ask her out, but especially since she will probably have at least one or two sets of revisions tonight for me, it seems too pathetic. We are not, after all, in a tavern setting, and my behavior is already inappropriate.

  Descending to the Stygian depths of Presentations, I remind myself that if we were in a club or a bar, I’d totally have a shot with Paloma. I might even score more than just a number at closing.

  When it comes to chicks, I am a realist. And while I do damn well out in the field, I admit I also get shot down plenty. Rejection is part of the game. In fact, rejection is what makes it a game. But it’s one thing to have a woman say, not in so many words, “Nope—not you. Not interested in what you’re offering.” It’s another thing entirely to not even register as a potential sex object, like a crushed fifth grader bringing flowers to his teacher.

  Slouching in my cubicle, I realize that to Paloma, I’m massively far from being a Player, much less Big Time. Here, I am a Sweatshop Eunuch, one who can only service her by excelling in Excel.

  Maybe my Paloma moment alone would have necessitated a nightcap. But frankly, the reason why it took almost no arm-twisting on Hutch’s 11:50 p.m. call to get me here was that my “accidental” intake of Shane’s Facebook profile reveals a startling change: her status reveals she’s “in a relationship” and even offers the dude’s name. After a moment where I take this in, I click on the link, but from the moment I look at his profile, I can only think of him as Frame Boy.

  Frame Boy looks exactly like the kind of guy whose picture is in the frame when you buy it. Handsome in a solid, decidedly All-American way, but not so pretty or contrived as to make him a model/actor and therefore unsuitable for framing, even as your best-looking relative. I learn that he’s a year older than Shane, straight, single, likes Björk, Sigur Rós, Neil Young, the Rolling Stones, blah blah blah. Contemplating how and why Frame Boy and Shane are suddenly “in a relationship” while I’m permanently exiled from her life sends a rush of current through me. I hate him. And so I have to go out—immediately. Hence, my presence here now at the doubly ironically named Happy Ending.