by Edward Vilga
Hutch and I hold court amongst some acquaintances and new nightlife friends as he pours me a refill from the bottle of Ketel One he’s purchased. As we clink glasses, I spot two totally hot women by the bar. I nudge him, and he concurs.
“You want Heidi, right?” he confirms. “Heidi” is so nicknamed because she’s woven her red hair into two cute pigtails, all very naughty schoolgirl.
I nod. He knows me well.
Heidi has one of those archetypal bimbette names (Heather, maybe? Crystal? Bambi?) that I’m forgetting as she’s saying it.
I learn Heidi has to get up early—it turns out that she and the brunette are paralegals—and that’s fine with me. It’s 1:30 in the morning, I’ve gotten this little lamb’s number, and I can be home and asleep by 2:15. All is well in the world.
For now, I will resist the urge to strangle Pimples and Diane at The Sweatshop. I will smile calmly for my masters. And I will continue to behave myself around Phoebe and the Epitome ladies and any other young yoga lovely who comes across me in my guru guise, accepting that (as in The Sweatshop) I must exist as an asexual being. But, thankfully, that is a role I only have to play during daylight hours.
At night, here with Hutch, the wolf still prowls.
TREE POSE
(Vriksasana)
Balance poses are like having a super-moody chick as a fuck buddy; you never know when you’re going to get exactly what you want or go away empty-handed, maybe even slapped. Either way, you’re never really on solid ground—just like in Tree Pose.
Standing firm on one leg, lift the other foot to the inner thigh. Hands to heart in prayer. Or, you can lift them overhead.
Gigi showed me that the nature of a tree is to be stable but flexible, to bend with the wind and the elements. Being balanced means being strong enough inside yourself that whatever life throws at you, you still stay chill. No matter what, you never lose your cool.
If they don’t have the ability to dance with their environment, even the mightiest oaks end up snapping like twigs.
I have been drafted into working as a waiter at Shane’s first gig, the one for Andrea’s Brooklyn sibling. Actually, that’s not true; I not only volunteered, it was also my idea. Although she sincerely tried to scale it down, Shane’s vision exceeded the micro-budget, and rather than compromise, she was totally prepared to take the financial loss and serve everything exactly as she wanted. Realizing she’d take less of a hit with a staff she didn’t have to pay, I nominated myself and then even roped Hutch into the mix. As a huge Shane fan, my buddy, who now makes God knows how much in finance, eagerly drew upon memories of several high school summers spent bussing tables in Nantucket. (Apparently, a little service-industry labor is part of his family’s required rite of passage before one becomes a banker and joins the yacht club.)
Shane pulls it off like a total pro. Nothing riles her. From the lack of counter space to the medieval dishwasher situation, she deftly solves every problem. And absolutely everyone notices that the food—rather than being forgettable post-church-service stomach filler—is extraordinary. Person after person compliments her, and since Shane’s forgotten to have business cards printed up, a half-dozen times I notice her giving out her phone number to potential clients.
After the party ends, when it’s just Shane, Hutch, and me in the kitchen, as we’re cleaning up while nibbling on leftovers and sharing her triumph, I produce a bottle of icy Prosecco I’ve squirreled away in the fridge. Hutch and I raise our glasses to her.
“Here’s to us,” Shane beams, as we all three clink glasses.
Chapter 7
The next morning, I arrive at Andrew’s building, noting that its lobby is even grander than Brooke’s. It features marble floors, plush crimson rugs, bouquets of flowers more overflowing than most people’s wedding arrangements, and crystal chandeliers that somehow manage not to be tacky.
The white-gloved doorman confirms my arrival. I have learned my presentation lessons, and although I’m still clad in cotton sweats and a T-shirt, underneath my overcoat, I am scrubbed and polished and buffed. Another White-Gloved Dude leads me down a hallway that’s the size of half a city block, to the last set of elevators. The elevator opens directly outside Andrew’s apartment. I buzz.
I’m expecting another tuxedoed butler like Brooke’s Gerard, but the Lord of the Manor himself opens the door. Once again, Andrew’s burly energy immediately spills over and takes up all the space between us. I’m dealing with a big bear of a man, handsome in a rough-hewn way, with an energy that belies the fact that he must be hovering somewhere in his late sixties.
His voice is like a deep, cheerful foghorn. “Hey there, kiddo. Come on in.” He speaks at the perfect volume, but you sense that his chest and vocal chords would prefer bellowing out orders, like a ship’s captain standing at one end of the boat, calling to his crew.
I’m struck that Andrew—the owner or CEO of several Fortune 500 companies—wears a black T-shirt and black boxer brief underwear, both by Ralph Lauren, and nothing else. I suppose this is his idea of a yoga outfit, and while it wouldn’t work for a public class, I guess that it’s probably fine for a home practice. I am momentarily thrown off by the contrast between the building’s desire to demonstrate power, wealth, and unassailable solidity, and this boisterous resident’s cheerful presence in his skivvies.
Andrew ushers me into his den. Like the man himself, the room has an easy dignity, an understated elegance born of confidence. We chat for just a moment before Danielle floats in. An Upper East Side angel, Danielle extends her hand with a pleasant “Good morning.”
“Andrew, there were a few hang-ups again this morning, ” Danielle says.
“Really. What did the caller ID say?” Andrew asks, seemingly unruffled.
“The usual: ‘private.’”
“It’s a mystery to me, darling.”
“No matter. Have a wonderful lesson. Don’t forget, we have drinks with the Templemans tonight and then the museum benefit.”
Andrew kisses her. As before, it’s an appropriate kiss, but sexy: gentlemanly, yet with passion. You can tell by the way she hovers near him, reluctant to leave and savoring the raw vitality of his presence, that not only is she in love with him, but things must also be pretty hot in the bedroom.
Danielle glides away, her blonde mane flashing behind her. Seconds after the thoroughbred has left the stable, just as the sound of the door slams shut, Andrew sighs deeply, then launches in.
“Damn it all, kid—what am I going to do?”
“I’m sorry, sir?” Why am I calling him “sir”? I guess because he’s calling me “kid.”
“Please, call me Andrew. About all the chaos in my personal life.” Barely one exhale after Danielle’s out of earshot, Andrew gushes forth, drawing me into his confidence. “This is my fourth marriage, and this time I really want it to work. I don’t want another explosive situation. It’s only been two months, well, six weeks actually, with Danni—we just got back from a month in Venice—and already, I know things are going to get complicated. I can feel it. Christ, why is my life so goddamn crazy?”
In the next fifteen minutes, along with mini-biographies of his four children (who are, he points out, all at least a decade or two older than his new bride), I learn all about Andrew’s first three failed marriages and his current temptations. When he throws in, as an aside, that it usually takes five years and remarriage before his ex-wives fully forgive him, I wonder if that’s a universal adulterer’s yardstick I can apply towards a potential Shane reconciliation, realizing simultaneously that even an eight-figure divorce settlement wouldn’t accelerate Shane’s stages of forgiveness. Perhaps not even a medieval form of payback would suffice for me to get back into her good graces.
“The lawyer on the Cincinnati merger keeps wanting to get together ‘after hours,’” Andrew confides. “Made it clear she expects nothing, but frankly, they always do. Maybe not at first, but after a little while that cha
nges. Anyway, she’s great looking. Probably just turned forty, but in amazing shape. Funny, smart. Another natural blonde, which I love. Christ, it’s a bitch.”
“It sounds difficult, sir—I mean, Andrew.”
“You’ve no idea. And then there’s Gloria de la Monterone, whom I dated for a few months after wife #2. Anyway, she’s single again, and she keeps calling me at the office. Wants to take me to lunch at Per Se to talk about her investments, which I offered to do after she got screwed in the last settlement. But an investment lunch inches away from a five-star hotel … we all know what that means.”
Actually, no woman has ever tried to get me into bed via a $375 per person, nine-course lunch to discuss her portfolio (although I confess I’d go through a lot to sup at Thomas Keller’s latest triumph) But, of course, I get the general picture.
“Kid, what am I going to do?” he implores me. “I don’t know how much longer I can remain on the straight and narrow. I love Danielle, but why does my life have to be this complicated?”
Frankly, I’m completely fascinated by Andrew’s stories—past dalliances, celebrity mentions, his extreme prowling—but even more strongly taken aback by his overflowing candor. Soon, we’re forty-five minutes into our time together, and Andrew and I have yet to do a pose. That is, unless I count his offhand Tadasana, his organic Mountain Pose while he spoke to Danielle. His strong shoulders are majorly tight, but still he does not collapse his front body. He stands tall.
Right now, however, he is one very chatty mountain. There’s no easy way of interrupting him. He clearly needs to talk, to spill out his entire saga. Beyond our unspoken bond as wolves—he the senior pack leader, me the young Turk nipping at his heels, eager to follow him down the trail—perhaps I’m the first moderately appropriate candidate to hear his confessions. Maybe there’s no one else in the Forbes 500 he trusts. It makes me grateful for Hutch. While we’ve perfected our player bravado, he’s often said after a night on the town: “Shit, Dude, I tell you everything. We’re like those chicks on The Golden Girls.” I have my wingman.
We are interrupted by a phone call—clearly business, as Andrew bellows some measured “buy/sell” decisions into the receiver, like Nero deciding the thumbs-up or thumbs-down fate of a gladiator, though here it’s a conglomerate. Once he’s hung up and before he can launch into more of his love travails, I inquire if he wants to do any poses. Looking at his watch, he shakes his head. “Next time, kid. Next time.” He writes out a check.
“So this was the first, then. Let’s do twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday at 9:30 a.m.” Then the mountain moves towards me, handing me the check and once again shaking my hand with a firmness that makes no question of his authority in the world. “Thanks a lot, kid. I already feel better,” he tells me.
Despite his Everest stature in the world, in Andrew’s eyes, I see real vulnerability and genuine confusion about his complicated love life. Beyond his massive wealth and his worldly confidence and reservoirs of assets, one thing is clear: Andrew is authentically in pain.
As I gather my unused yoga props, Andrew turns away, tossing off his T-shirt and briefs to head, I presume, to the shower. I’m struck by his total unselfconsciousness, his King of the Forest stroll towards his inner lair, no doubt to some marble waterfall he washes himself under, and then to some rock on which he suns himself dry.
I show myself out. I admit to some mixed feelings about being paid $150 to listen to this Captain of Industry spill about his love life but nonetheless head straight to the ATM.
I know that $150 is nothing to Andrew. It’s a fourth of the price of a bottle of Chateau D’Yquem at dinner. It’s the pocket on an Armani suit at Barneys. It’s probably what he tips his limo driver for getting him to an illicit rendezvous between board meetings. To him, it’s meaningless. And I certainly was more than willing to actually teach him. God knows, cash is cash. But I really do hope that next time, there might actually be some yoga involved in the yoga lesson.
At The Sweatshop, I flirt with dropping Andrew’s name to Pimples, as I feel I’m sure he must have a serial killer-style shrine to every billionaire in New York. Unfortunately, I find myself drifting off as Pimples is berating me for not using spell-check properly.
“You’ve got to go under Options and de-select ‘Ignore all caps and caps with numbers.’ Otherwise, this kind of bullshit mistake is going to keep happening!” he rants.
I look down at the source of his rage: FISCA, instead of FICA, is circled in bold red over and over with repeated fury. Okay, it’s a mistake, but hardly deserving the outrage of genocide.
I look up at Nathaniel, feeling that I can spare an apology, but find myself staring at his skin instead. Apparently, this new deadline and my typos have caused another constellation of zits to erupt on his right cheek. I lose focus while trying to figure out if it’s stress alone, all-nighter snack food, or just the lack of a skin care regime that aggravates his condition.
“Is that clear?” Pimples asks me angrily.
A thousand times more so than your skin, I think.
“As crystal,” I reply.
When I arrive home, I casually sift through the day’s overdue bills and junk mail. There’s an almost too-cute invitation from my nephews and nieces for my dad’s sixtieth birthday party next month at The Grill. I try not to be a bad absentee uncle—I’m still not sure what I’m supposed to do with the quarterly photos my sisters mail me of their expanding broods—but I tack the invite up on the fridge, as I call Mom for our twice-weekly chat.
As she’s encouraging me to make the trip upstate, however, another piece of mail completely grabs my eye: a postcard with Shane’s face on the front. Beyond the fact that it features Shane’s face, the image itself is rather startling. It’s an invite from Andrea’s gallery for another group show of up-and-coming artists. Andrea’s taken an image of Shane’s face and doctored and manipulated it, rendering the body in with broad strokes and hand-drawn outlines, as though she were painting in frosting. Like a John Currin painting, Andrea’s image manages to be both beautiful and repellant at the same time. No matter how it’s morphed, though, it is still unmistakably Shane’s face staring out at me. I skim the dates and the location, knowing full well that I can never attend this event.
Bringing the postcard further into the light, I study the image more deeply. There’s something particularly familiar about Andrea’s work. Somehow, I know I’ve seen this image before. Unable to toss it in the trash, I stick the invite to my fridge with a magnet, refocusing my attention on tales of Mom’s triumph with the Red Hat Lady’s clothing drive.
Next time, when Andrew lets me in, I’m not at all surprised by the sight of him wearing his Ralph Lauren black undies and T-shirt, reading a copy of The Financial Times. In fact, it stirs vaguely paternal feelings in me, as if I’m checking in with my dad at some exclusive men’s club. (This is, of course, pure fantasy, as the closest my dad the grill-scraper and I ever got to a gentlemen’s club was the local Dunkin’ Donuts when he’d pick me up from junior high swim practice.)
“Danielle is out for the morning already,” Andrew begins. “Something about one of her committees.”
This time, taking a major proactive stride towards doing some poses, before he can really launch in, I direct Andrew to sit on the yoga mat so that we can begin with some breathing together. Not surprisingly, however, he listens to my instructions, takes one single deep breath, and rather than watching his breath silently for a few moments as directed, startles me by breaking the silence and immediately plunging into conversation.
“So, I told you about Gloria de la Monterone, right? The whole lunch at Per Se. Well, call me an idiot, but when she phoned me for the third time and messengered over the recommendations of her new portfolio manager, I felt compelled to respond. I mean, buying technology stocks in this economy—Ridiculous! Of course, everything started out perfectly fine. She was completely receptive to all of my business recommendations, and really,
I feel I saved her a fortune. Of course, we lingered for one, two, three martinis together. She was getting a little too frisky—playing footsie under the table. Starting to rub her foot towards my crotch—that sort of thing.”
There’s no escaping what’s about to happen. He’s going to share everything. And frankly, it’s not that I mind hearing the details, but it’s disorienting. I’m here to teach, and yet I’m starting to feel like I’ve been transported to the most lavish locker room in the world.
Thinking quickly, I remember that today I’ve brought a yoga block, a sturdy piece of lightweight foam that’s about the size of a small shoebox. The block is supremely useful; it can help the stiff achieve many shapes they couldn’t otherwise get near. More importantly, blocks are fantastic for assisting restful, restorative shapes in which the prop does most of the work. In a way, restorative poses are sort of like having a trust fund; you get all the benefits of the money without having to actually earn it by the sweat of your brow.
With Andrew lying down on his back with his knees bent, I slip the block underneath his sacrum, and Voilà—he’s in a real yoga pose. And it’s a pose he can hang out in for five, ten, even fifteen minutes. Although I’ve spent all of thirty seconds getting him into this shape, I can tell he’s totally chafing at the bit and more than eager to get on with his story.