Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  Brooke’s eyes light up. “Could we? Are there yoga poses for that?”

  “Sure,” I reply, a little frightened by the new gleam in her eye.

  “I have been trying everything to tone my stomach”—mind you, her stomach is so flat you could cut a diamond on it—“so if we could work on that I’d be very grateful.”

  Jocks are always doing endless crunches and sit-ups. I used to be one of them. But the yoga stuff involves really deep access to your core. It’s about a thousand times harder to learn the way to access the abdominals in certain poses than it is to slug through a sit-up marathon.

  Throughout today’s lesson, I make almost everything a little harder by giving variations, like one leg lifted in the push-up moment of the Sun Salute, that tax the abdominals. For the first time, tiny beads of sweat appear on Brooke’s brow. To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure she was capable of sweating; it seems like the kind of thing she’d have outsourced or perhaps have had a tasteful operation to remove her plebeian sweat glands.

  I marvel at the ferocity with which Brooke approaches yoga today. If I told her it would strengthen her abs to ritually sacrifice her butler Gerard to the God of the Internal Obliques, she’d race to the kitchen for a carving knife. (Actually, she’d probably ring for Gerard to bring her one and then use it to eviscerate him.)

  For a grand finale to the abdominal focus, I bring Brooke up into headstand against the wall—she can’t quite come up by herself or balance yet, so I assist—but once she’s up, she’s reasonably steady against the wall, so I introduce the abdominal connection when coming down.

  Previously, after a few moments in headstand—only very gradually increasing the length of time in the shape so as not to strain those smaller vertebrae in the neck—I’d direct Brooke to gently soften her knees into her chest and descend. Today, I direct her to explore lowering straight legs together.

  When you’re coming down from headstand, slowly lowering your legs out straight and together is about one thousand times more difficult then just bending them and swiftly descending. It not only takes tremendous strength in the abs, it also takes a great degree of control, even more so because one must maintain balance.

  For the first attempt, I direct Brooke to explore the sensation a bit by just dipping the legs a few inches and then bringing them back up. “Eventually, you’ll be able to bring the legs straight down all the way, which, believe me, is about as tough as doing a few hundred sit-ups.”

  Brooke mutters something. I can’t quite hear her since she’s upside down and concentrating.

  “Okay, time to come on down. You can soften the knees in and—”

  “No. I’d like to continue.”

  By now, I can see that her face is beet red from both the strain and effort in the abs, but also from being inverted for much longer than usual. I don’t mind her exhausting herself so much, but I am concerned that this might be a strain on her neck. Fortunately, on her third lowering-down attempt, she loses it. Collapsing, she softly tumbles out of the shape.

  The moment she has her breath back, she asks, “Could you show me how you’d lower with straight legs, please?”

  I’m happy to demonstrate. It’s rather impressive anyway but much more so now that she knows just how difficult it is to lower or lift with the legs outstretched.

  “What you find,” I explain, “is that it becomes much more difficult the lower you bring the legs. The first quarter of the arc—where you were working—is comparatively easy and more of a balance challenge. It’s here”—I travel halfway—“where it gets very exciting and here”—I travel three-quarters of the way down—“that’s really like being punched in the gut.”

  I instantly realize that describing something as “being punched in the gut” is deeply inconsistent with the positive, friendly imagery we’re trained to use as yoga teachers, but it just slips out. Unfortunately, there isn’t a pleasant way of describing the feeling (“challenging,” “intense”) that’s not watered-down bullshit. This is core abdominal, gut-wrenching stuff. It’s impossible to make it seem beautiful, graceful, or effortless until you’ve totally perfected it.

  I finish, lowering down super-slowly so that Brooke can savor my physical prowess. I realize that this demo was not only instructive but deeply satisfying to my ego, and frankly, I’m okay with that. My superior core strength is something that Brooke cannot buy outright, although that must drive her crazy.

  “All right then, let’s move on to some backbending.”

  “I’d rather not, actually.” Until this moment, Brooke’s been a completely compliant student. Mind you, Brooke says this in a way that’s perfectly polite, but it’s clear that “no” is not an acceptable answer. “I’d like to try the headstand with straight legs again.”

  I’m a bit startled, and stumped. Thus far, none of my students have requested a pose that’s so beyond their range, much less requested returning to it for third helpings. Janek’s passionate, but he knows when it’s time to move on.

  “I am concerned about your neck,” I tell her. “It can be a strain to—”

  “I assure you my neck is quite fine. Will you assist me in coming up?”

  What can I say? Brooke is soon up, finding her balance and ready to again explore the lowering of the straight legs and their tug on the abs. This time, her face is redder than before. She manages three sweeps with the legs up and down, and on the fourth one, she surpasses her own record, getting almost a very shaky third of the way down before collapsing, exhausted.

  The room becomes utterly silent and yet charged with energy, with the two of us sitting and simply breathing as Brooke regains her imperial composure. After her breath stills and her face loses its redness, she waits a moment and then reopens her eyes.

  “One more time.”

  Christ, I really hadn’t anticipated this. I thought just doing rigorous yoga would be enough in the fight against Invisible Fat Cells. Apparently, I’ve revealed a new miracle ab-toning treatment, and Brooke wants to gorge herself on it.

  Brooke’s and my eyes meet. If I say “no” to her, I’m sure she will find another instructor who will let her do headstand sit-ups for hours on end, perhaps exclusive of all other poses.

  “Last round,” I say, “and we’ll save some more for next time.” She tacitly agrees as she bounces up yet again.

  This time, Brooke only has enough juice to do two of the lifting leg movements and collapses on the third one. She’s totally wiped out.

  She doesn’t fight me now. I’m forced to abandon the heart-opening backbends I’d planned (After all, on Park Avenue, who needs an open heart if you’ve got washboard abs?) and take the energy down to simple cooling poses and more restorative shapes. God knows, Brooke has done enough for today.

  We finish on time (of course), and unlike at the end of our last few lessons, rather than politely dismissing me, Brooke walks me toward the door herself. I feel that this is an honor reserved for first-time visitors (probably to make sure they don’t steal anything) and special guests she doesn’t want to part with. I feel as desired as only the finest plastic surgeons must be: the ones for whom, no matter how much money you have, you still might have to wait months in order to secure an appointment.

  “I particularly enjoyed our lesson this time,” Brooke tells me.

  “A little too much,” I want to say, but instead I merely smile. Brooke’s too smooth to say directly, “And next time we need to do this again, and even more of it.” She knows that I’m not so inept as not to realize that my job depends on it.

  Chapter 11

  In the ludicrously posh locker room at Epitome—a true manifestation of “them that’s got shall get,” with fluffy fresh towels and every toiletry imaginable offered for free, as though the Rockefellers cannot afford their own grooming products—I hang up my coat. Somehow Gay Tank Top guy sneaks up on me.

  “You go there?” he asks through over-bleached teeth and a January tan. I
realize he’s referring to my crummy, desperately faded Yale sweatshirt as I remove it to reveal my crisp, black, clean teaching T-shirt underneath.

  “Yup.” Again, I hate admitting this, but there’s no point in lying. But still, it makes me uncomfortable. Frankly, so does Gary. And yet, even though something about Gary definitely creeps me out—it’s not the gay thing; it’s more his generally airbrushed, spray-tanned style—I actually am happy to see him because maybe this means he’s going to take my class this week. Anything to up the attendance so as not to be fired for being Jasmine manqué.

  “Want to grab a drink later?” he asks me.

  This takes me by surprise. Is this a colleague thing … or is he asking me out? I don’t want to appear unfriendly, but I really hadn’t been expecting this.

  “I would. But I have to check in with a friend first. We might have plans.”

  He nods as though he’s aware of just how capricious my imaginary friend can be.

  “That’s cool. I was thinking maybe The Townhouse. Or is that too old school?”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Whatever. I don’t really hang out in this part of town.”

  “A downtown guy then?”

  “More or less.”

  “How about G then? Or Barracuda?”

  “Never been, but sure, I guess. Anyplace where the vodka’s cold is fine with me.” He looks at me for a moment, clearly looking for some sign of recognition, which I don’t deliver. Then it becomes crystal clear to me—he’s naming gay bars and clubs to see if I know them. Fortunately, my authentic ignorance of his scene, and the delay of my recognizing his game, establishes my team. Once again, general cluelessness confirms heterosexuality. He gets it. And in true postmodern fashion, he sees me getting him getting it. We could probably save time by just wearing nametags with sexual preferences and relationship stats, but for now the labeling is complete.

  He smiles, but his reaction is mixed. He’s seemingly satisfied to have an answer although I sense slight disappointment that I’m not one of The Boys. I’ve got to admire him though because at least Gay Tank Top Gary has the guts to double-check his research and ask me to my face.

  “So, you’re straight then?”

  “Yup.”

  “Girlfriend? Single?”

  “Very, very single. And happy that way.”

  “I hear you.”

  “All right, then,” I say, heading toward the exit. “I’ll see you in class.”

  “Actually, I’m gonna pass today. My rotator cuff’s been acting up.”

  Wow—so, he’s really here an hour-and-a-half early just to get the 411 on my sexual inclinations? It’s kind of flattering … and kind of creepy.

  “Later, then,” I say, almost wanting to do something jock-like to underscore my straightness. I can’t think of anything that’s not ridiculous, so I head off to class.

  Moments later, as I’m shutting the door, I see Gay Gary and Slinky Brunette talking. It’s a pretty obvious interchange to read (even for me): he’s reporting back to her about our conversation. It’s like the high school-girl tactic of having a friend do a little undercover work to see whether her far-off crush from geometry class might feel the same way. Except in this case, it’s whether I’m into chicks or dudes. Again, it’s kind of flattering and kind of creepy. Maybe I should have paid more attention to that sexual harassment video after all.

  I do, however, proceed to teach my best Epitome class ever. Hours of preparing it at home have paid off. Indeed, as a group instructor, I am rapidly approaching adequate. How lucky, I think, for the nine students in attendance. If I continue this rate of inversely increasing my performance while decreasing attendance, next week’s three students should have the time of their lives.

  Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment but I can’t stop myself. Removing the postcard from the fridge, I glance at it to find Andrea’s website, logging on to see if there are other works depicting Shane or even other people we know together.

  I read through Andrea’s Artist Statement. It’s VERY slick and quite well written although very much teetering on the brink of art-historical hubris, with references to her own work alongside seminal artists. Andrea does speak a bit about her process of finding images from a wide range of sources and then creating original canvases from them, but she provides no further clues as to the source of that haunting Shane image. Like a parent displaying a bad report card to shame a truant child, unable to either frame the postcard or toss it away, I repost it on my fridge.

  When Brooke tells me that her dealer wants to start taking class with me, for a second I think, “Is Brooke confessing a drug problem?” but then I realize I’ve misheard: she’s talking about an antiques dealer.

  Linney Mooney operates his biz out of a townhouse between Madison and Park, reserving the top two floors for his private residence. The office I’m ushered through is standard “Rich People” décor: plush velvet upholstery and silken drapes with lots ruffles and overhanging swag. Tons of Louis XIV and Biedermeier furniture. Antique paintings of terriers and pheasants and pale Revolutionary War children who look simultaneously mawkish and ghoulish all at once. All very safe, predictable, and status-screeching décor.

  When you get to Linney’s private floors, however, although the decor is probably equally pricey, you see how much darker, quirkier, and twisted his own taste really is. Every inch of the wall is covered with framed objects ranging from interesting nudes to primitive oils he later tells me were drawn by mental patients. Seemingly casually decorated shelves overflow with interesting objects ranging from Jurassic fossils to animal skulls, from Mexican Day of the Dead paraphernalia to grim Civil War memorabilia. He tends to like things a little worn and rough with recurring themes like crucifixes, both pictorial and sculptural, all with an exposed Sacred Heart crowned with thorns. There are enough of them—and lots of other trippy religious icons chosen for their beauty and perhaps blood-dripping irony—that this might be Mel Gibson’s pied-à-terre, were it not for the simultaneous inclusion of various Mapplethorpe prints and other homoerotic art.

  I like Linney from the moment I meet him. Brooke arranges things so I teach him twice a week, during his lunch hour. In his sixties, he’s highly energized, his compact form probably once quite fit despite a terrible hip injury that he refuses to have operated on. Fortunately, thanks to my sessions with Andrew, I have mastered the art of yoga-lite.

  Linney is more fun than any of the other Park Avenue types. Openly gay, super-queeny, and flirty with me in the most obvious and, therefore, most harmless, of ways.

  “Oh, God, I hate all you cute young straight boys,” is the first thing he says to me. I’m kind of stumped for a response. “Well, not really—life is better with you than without you,” he continues, “but still … it seems needlessly cruel of Brooke to send me someone like you.”

  He’s smiling, and I realize it’s all a compliment, so I try to surf above and around it. “I’ll do my best not to be too tortuous,” I reassure him.

  “Don’t hold yourself back, Blue Eyes. Are your lashes dyed?”

  “No,” I say laughing.

  “Interesting,” he replies. “They remind me of a Shetland pony Brooke had when she was a toddler.”

  Truly, these are the strangest compliments I’ve ever received. “You knew Brooke growing up?”

  “Peripherally. Our families were briefly intertwined. Brooke’s was of course far, far richer—unlike moi, beyond the need to work. But we shared many rarefied childhood moments together about a century ago.”

  Linney’s hip injury limits our practice, but he’s actually a highly sensitive student. He’s so graceful that I have a moment of wondering if he has a dance background. Then Linney casually mentions, during an easy hip-rotating move I give him to loosen things up, that this reminds him of being a go-go boy in the West Village in the ‘60s.

  “Excuse me?” I really hadn’t seen this one coming.

 
“Oh, back in the day, I had a few moves of my own, dear boy. I wasn’t always this obtuse mound of flesh.”

  “You’re hardly that.”

  “You’re being kind. I’m very aware that my days of entertaining the crowds in a G-string are a thing of the very distant past. However, I think you might look rather smashing in my old G-string. I believe it’s in the bottom left drawer of my desk, if you’d care to try it on.”

  I laugh, and so does he.

  When it comes time for final rest, he lets go with an amazing sweetness. In his still features, I can totally see the naughty, seventeen-year-old go-go boy escaping from summers on Über-WASP Nantucket to frolic in the West Village, gleefully driving his crusty relations utterly insane.

  When we finish, Linney smiles and grabs my offered arm in an assist to help him come smoothly up from the floor. “You certainly know how to sweep a guy off his feet, Blue Eyes,” he smiles as he writes me a check.

  “Aw shucks, Go-Go,” I reply, ducking it into my pocket. He stops me, taking the check back.

  “In the trade, it’s more like this,” he counters as he tucks the check into the safe part of the top of my underwear as though tipping a stripper.

  It’s a naughty gesture, but since it’s not going anywhere, it’s pretty hilarious. We both chuckle as he clasps me benevolently on the shoulder. “See you Friday.”

  FLYING CROW

  (Eka Pada Galavasana)

  If you want to intimidate someone with a yoga pose, just bust into Flying Crow.

  I pretty much guarantee that no matter who your target is, they won’t be able to do it without a ton of practice.

  Your hip needs to be very open, so that rules out a ton of guys. You need real arm and ab strength, which defeats most of the chicks. And even if you’re challenging some strangely flexible, buff hermaphrodite, they’ll still have to deal with balancing. But once you do nail it, it looks spectacular, like some gravity-defying move out of The Matrix.