by Edward Vilga
When we get to Ardha Chandrasana—the Half Moon Pose I shared unsuccessfully with Phoebe—Janek’s wildly into it. He takes only a few seconds and needs just a few words of alignment advice (“Make sure the fingers on the ground are about ten inches forward of the little toe so that your arm falls right under your shoulder.”) and he’s lifting and soaring. He holds the pose for about three seconds, and then he falters—he hasn’t learned how to balance in it yet—but without asking, he immediately reestablishes the shape.
I’m impressed. There’s nothing I admire more in a yoga practice (or in a dude) than being gutsy and risk-taking. You fall down in a pose, mutter “Fuck that” silently, and get back up. It’s the embodiment of everything I believe in.
I decide to throw in two or three poses that I’m pretty confident he won’t be able to do just yet, just to show him what lies ahead. (And I admit, also to establish clearly that in this territory, I’m the Big Dog.) I pick some arm balances, which rely on upper-body strength but also require coordination, open hips, and abdominal control. He manages to hover in Crow Pose—something I couldn’t do at all when I started—and holds the shape for a breath or two and then falls. He laughs good naturedly when he tumbles out of the shape, but again, is not so amused as to disguise that he’s slightly pissed at himself. Of course, as before, he tries again without being asked.
Best of all, I realize, is that this is totally uncomplicated: there are no confessional Andrew anecdotes, there’s no Phoebe sexual tension, no Brooke weight-loss hauteur. It’s just yoga. I’m teaching him what I know, I’m sharing the power and movement and beauty of the shapes, and he’s eating it up. And that is absolutely awesome.
Just before rest, as Janek lies on his back and brings one knee into his chest and then off to the side for a twist, I give him a deep assist. One hand sculpts the head of his arm bone in and down to the ground, and the other catches the top edge of his hip. I direct him to exhale deeply, and as he does, I move the top of his shoulder and his hip away from each other, lengthening out the torso. With my other students, I’ve totally held back here, using maybe ten percent of the pressure I could put into this. With Janek, I go to about forty percent of my leaning-in strength, asking, “Is that okay?”
“Dude, that’s fucking awesome,” he answers.
I smile, pleased that I can add a touch more. Releasing, I direct him to center himself so that I can offer him the same assist on the other side.
After a solid ten minutes in rest, when Janek sits up again, his Om-ing is louder and a thousand times less self-conscious. Even if I weren’t already confident that the session had gone really well, this seals the deal. When normal conversation resumes, I’m pleased at how totally sold Janek is.
“Wow, I had no idea it would be this tough a workout,” he comments.
“And it only gets more intense and interesting, especially when you know the poses well,” I reply.
“Awesome. I already feel a thousand times looser. And I feel really relaxed yet ready to go to work.”
“It’s just the beginning,” I assure him. “We’ll be able to do some really cool shit together. Seriously, dude, you’re going to have a killer practice in no time.”
I realize that I’ve lost any trace of guru-speak, but I don’t care. Forget the Rumi riffs, I’m back to just being one dude hanging with another dude, doing whacked physical shit—stunts almost, like drunken barroom dares—and if it leaves us feeling a little calmer and mellowed out but still pumped, that’s doubly cool.
Janek asks my fee, and when I tell him $1,500 for ten sessions, he pauses for a second (I fear he’s going to bargain me down; he is, after all, a super-successful merchant.) but he counters with, “How about $2,850 for twenty?” He’s asking for a five-percent discount for purchasing a larger package (effectively, one free), but since this means more immediate cash in my pocket, I’m overjoyed. As always, whenever anyone pays me for an honest moment’s work, I feel like I’ve won something at the track.
As I grab my coat, there’s none of the prom-date awkwardness when I’m leaving Phoebe or the calculated precision of a Brooke meeting. Impulsively, we do the whole grab-each-other’s-hand, then pull in for a brief manly chest bump, as though we’re two dudes after a Saturday pickup game of b-ball at the park. This is probably not how most gurus leave their disciples, but what the hell; I’m soaring high on the dual wings of yoga and male bonding.
I saunter out of Janek’s loft even richer than I thought I’d be, already brainstorming things I can work on with him for next time.
Like Hutch and me going out on the town, Janek and I have a perfect camaraderie, a completely simpatico symbiosis. I feel like the Yoga Gods have given me a brother. Finally, a yoga client who’s actually all about the yoga.
Blessed with Janek’s check, I’m one step closer to solvency than I ever dreamed possible. Nothing will be disconnected this week, and barring eviction, I’m stable for the moment. It’s a sad comment on my last six months, but my new barely-crawling-out of-quicksand status makes me feel quite rich. And thus, I feel empowered to spontaneously quit The Sweatshop.
I wish the scene had more drama. There really aren’t any Norma Rae conditions I can protest against. Diane isn’t even that big a bitch: she just doesn’t like me, probably for all the right reasons, too. But with Janek’s check and with a client every morning, more than ever before, this gig seems like a total waste of time.
When I tell Diane that I’m quitting, she has pretty much no response. She just nods, glancing at the scheduling spreadsheet on her computer.
“Your next scheduled shift is four days from now. Shouldn’t be a problem to replace you.”
“Okay, then. Thanks for everything.”
Diane says nothing. No inquiries into what I’m doing or where I’m going, much less your standard “cake break and good luck” farewell moment. I may be a player at night and a guru by day, but here, I’m less than a cog.
And I’m definitely less than a memorable red-blooded man, too. Departing, I bump into Paloma in the elevator, chatting with Pimples and another nameless dweeb from Mergers. I try to catch her eye, but she doesn’t really recognize me, and—engrossed in the more virile discussion of the market—she smiles only in my general vicinity. She’s probably a nice girl, I think, with civilized and sweet autopilot manners, but since, apparently, I am grossly deficient in banker-level testosterone, I don’t even register on her sexual radar.
I exit the building as Dwayne, a tall, gay, black actor who’s been working on and off at The Sweatshop for years returns from his cigarette break.
“You cutting out early, Dawg?” he smiles with dazzling teeth.
“More like forever,” I reply, prepping to toss my laminated ID into the lobby trashcan.
“Whoa, there,” Dwayne counters. “You never know, my friend. What’d you get? A national? A part on a soap?”
I like Dwayne—he’s a good guy, and more than once, he’s showed me how to convert a column of text or globally replace embedded logos —but I’ve made it a point to reveal NOTHING about myself to anyone here. The world of all the would-be actors (stage to screen) and dancers (ballet to Broadway) and singers (opera to rock) sharing their grandiose dreams while word processing seem far too precarious and suicidal to bond with. So I don’t bother to correct Dwayne, particularly as—however nice a guy he may be—I’m convinced I’ll never see him again.
“The first time I got a national tour, I said the same thing myself,” he continues. “But trust me, Bro, nothing—not even me in Cats—lasts forever.”
I smile and thank Dwayne, departing with a brotherly backslap hug.
The instant I hit the street, however, I throw my Sweatshop badge into the trash. And as I’m walking home, except for a mild boost of elated freedom akin to a Snow Day, I’ve almost forgotten about The Sweatshop entirely. Diane … Pimples … Paloma … I hardly knew ye.
Walking home past the bridge gallery—where
the smoke-blowing hipster couple has been replaced with a gorgeous stained glass of modern Madonnas—for better or worse, my illusions of prosperity allow my thoughts to turn to Shane. Staring into the closed exhibit, I hold my daily pointless reminiscence vigil.
I want to believe that I can make it up to her somehow. At least, I want to try. Even if she’ll never forgive me personally, at least I can solve some of the more tangible problems—like the $15,000 I owe her—as a start. I know that the few hundred I might be able to send won’t matter much towards the fifteen grand, but at least it’s something. That’s what you’re supposed to do if you’re trying to be a good guy—right? Make things right with your ex. So I call her.
I freeze for just a moment after the beep and flirt with hanging up, but screwing up my courage, plunge in. “Hi, it’s me—but please just listen to this one. I haven’t called since September, and I promise I won’t call again if you want … Okay, the thing is, I know I can never make things up to you, but I want to start paying you back some of the money I owe you. It’s the least I can do. Things are going a little better for me now. It’s only a couple hundred, but I’m going to send you something next month, too, and—”
Shane picks up. “Don’t bother” is all she says before hanging up.
Fuck. This did not go well.
I stroll along for thirty minutes, dazed.
Once the heart-racing sting of Shane’s hang-up starts to dull, I realize I’ve also added a further complication into the already messed-up situation. Now that she’s said “no” to my offer of repayment, is it better or worse to execute it? Will she regard it as disrespectful if I do, or, on the other hand, will it be viewed as another one of my broken commitments, another sterling example of my lack of follow-through, if I don’t?
And how should I pay? I wonder if Shane is hotheaded enough to throw away perfectly good cash—dollars she is rightfully owed—just because she despises the source.
I opt for a check—I want to know if she cashes it—and spend two hours figuring out what the accompanying letter should say. I draft numerous lame opening lines like “I know I can never make up for …” or “Please accept this even though I’m an asshole.” Even the short and financially focused “More to come” feels wrong.
In the end, I enclose the check in a blank greeting card—an incredibly neutral Ansel Adams landscape I pick up at an upscale stationers—but I write nothing additional inside. Frankly, Shane’s made it clear that there’s nothing more to be said.
SUN SALUTES
(Surya Namaskar)
Sun salutes might feel like a kid’s game except for the fact that pretty soon you’ll be dripping with sweat, and at that point, kids—unlike yogis—usually have enough sense to go back to the video arcade.
There’s a rhythm of deep inhales and exhales as you rise and fall and move through the handful of shapes. And there’s your basic Western push-up in the middle of all of it, guaranteed to appeal to the Gym Set.
It’s this rhythm, this changing and escalating repetition, that warms you up and that builds strength and flexibility. Getting lost in it, you fall into your breath and (one hopes) out of your thoughts.
Frankly, that’s the beauty of most rhythms, good or bad, that we establish: you don’t have to think. Like some murky jazzy composition best listened to in the wee hours, several scotches into the night, habits will take over and drive you safely home—or on the other hand, they’ll lead you to that dangerous, secret place you unfortunately know all too well.
From the moment I spy the “For Lease” sign, I know “this is the one” for my first venture.
I insist on unveiling the space for her in the most memorable way possible, complete with blindfold and theatrical announcement. “Here it is … Our first place together!”
Shane rushes into my arms for a lingering hug that teeters delicately between camaraderie and budding romance, overjoyed by our nascent collaboration.
Plunging in wholeheartedly, we meet every morning, and I always bring her the same Starbucks order—cappuccino with double espresso shots, one Sugar in the Raw on the side—without fail. Once, when our branch is inexplicably out of Sugar in the Raw, I travel five blocks just to get things exactly right for her morning brew.
And when things blow apart and the latte boy (who has a definite crush on Shane himself) still automatically hands me two of our drinks, I decide rather than explain things to him, it’s simply best to avoid that Starbucks altogether.
Chapter 10
I show up twenty minutes early to teach my second class at Epitome, determined that it will be better than my first one. From the moment I enter the room, however, I sense the energy is different. Last week, the class was packed; you could feel people struggling to make sure they got in before it was too full. This week, there isn’t the same “got to find a spot” panic. Not at all. Sadly, there’s plenty of room. Five minutes before class starts, I count fifteen students. In the next few minutes, there’s a trickle of latecomers. We’re up to nineteen. Nineteen left from thirty-six! What happened to the seventeen other people who were here last week? I’ve lost 45 percent of my—I guess, make that Jasmine’s—audience. And I notice that Gay Muscle T-shirt Guy is not in attendance; I’ve even lost a student who wasn’t paying.
Even at Thank Heaven, I’ve noticed that numbers go up and down, but usually there’s an obvious reason, like a holiday or a hurricane, when a popular teacher’s class is reduced by half. Hard-core yogis make it a point of showing up to practice. Nothing can deter us from our Downward Dogs.
Unfortunately, of all the students who remain, front row center is Jasmine-Fan, whose gloating smile really gets on my nerves. Even if my debacle doesn’t bring about the resurrection of her beloved Jasmine, you can feel her excitement over my failure—and, I suppose, my potential firing. Very Slinky Brunette slips in ten minutes into the class. My feelings are mixed. I hate for a hot little lamb like this to see me looking so lame with this scanty class. On the other hand, at least she brings my numbers up to an even twenty.
As things move along, I feel that this class is perhaps marginally better than the last, but only by the merest fraction. I’m still a D-minus group teacher: fumbling for words, uneven in pacing, uninspired in my choreography, and offering zero spiritual insight or inspiration. It’s just an endless downhill slide into sweaty boredom.
I end on time, and almost as soon as the last Om evaporates, Gay Muscle T-shirt Gary busts in. He’s managed to keep his minions quieter outside the door than they were last week, which is particularly impressive given that his followers seems to have gained in numbers. In fact, I recognize three or four little Upper East Side honey dippers who took my class last week, who are now in his fold. I don’t know what sucks more: the fact that my class stinks or that I’m letting yoga get trumped by Gay Disco Cardio Funk. Before I can drown in any more self-pity, however, he’s blasting Britney Spears or Rihanna or Beyonce or some other disco diva. I think it best I scurry away.
The elevator door closes as I approach but then reopens; Slinky Brunette has held it for me. I don’t want to share the ride, but there’s no reason I can think of not to enter the elevator with her and descend. I have no idea what to say to Slinky Brunette. Why is she even back in my class? She doesn’t seem like a moron—so why can’t she tell that it sucks? We don’t know each other well enough to have much to say, and the confinement of the elevator space serves to extend the awkward silence as we drop to the ground.
Peripheral glances reconfirm that she really is pretty great looking. But I know that if I start something with her, even a casual drink, it’s not going to be a good thing. Not if I want to keep myself well behaved at Epitome.
Slinky turns on her cell phone in the elevator, and just as we exit, it rings. She takes the call, saving us that next uncomfortable moment of stretching the elevator awkwardness towards the street. She’s engrossed in her girl-talk conversation, so I smile and wave “bye” and she
returns the gesture with slightly more enthusiasm than I put into mine. (I am sulking away in failure, after all.) Tail between my legs, I’m astonished at how eager I am to get away from an interested, hot woman.
And then the last part of the rhythm of my new life falls into place as well: dialing up Monique, now officially my “fuck buddy.”
I begin thinking about her on the subway, maybe just out of lust, but also as a way of moving beyond my self-pity and disappointment with myself and the dismal class I floundered through.
It’s not like I have that much guilt about screwing around with Monique. Don’t get me wrong—there are lots of times I wish I could just shake away all the remaining “decent values” my parents and Catholic school did their best to instill in me and fully embrace the carefree, playboy persona I’ve worked hard to perfect. God knows, Monique and I are both full-grown adults who know exactly what we’re doing, and when it comes to street smarts, she’s more than a match for me. Even if there are some rather strong yoga suggestions towards a celibate lifestyle, unlike with my altar-boy upbringing, there’s no official sexual “Dos and Don’ts” sin list to consult.
What’s mostly weighing on my mind is that I am aware that this will be my third encounter with Monique. I realize I’m entering dangerous territory here. Can Monique—can any woman—really be a fuck buddy? And if so, for how long?
I wonder … but truthfully, given the 45 percent drop-off rate of my class, I don’t care. When Monique shows up at my door, ready to screw my brains out after the merest ten- or twenty-word, superficially polite banter—mind you that, and the fact that no currency is exchanged, are the only ways I can tell that I haven’t hired a gorgeous hooker with an MBA—frankly, I’ve never been happier to see anyone.
In my first few lessons with Brooke, I asked her if there was anything in particular she wanted to do. Brooke’s serene answer—“I’ll leave it in your capable hands”—provided no information. But in today’s lesson, I finally say something that sparks her interest. I say it randomly, too, almost as a thought to myself: “Maybe today we’ll focus on the core.”