Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  Twenty minutes later, while Hutch is saying his goodbyes, Andrea and I find ourselves in line together at the coat check.

  “Found image, huh?” I inquire.

  “Yup, technically that’s true,” is Andrea’s reply. I see the afterglow of Celeste’s attention has rendered her unnaturally talkative. “I was helping Shane throw out lots of her junk, and I rescued the photo strip from the trash.”

  It’s only then that I remember where the photo in Andrea’s image comes from, and it’s the corniest of the corny: four old school photo booth strips, ones Shane and I took together at Otto’s Shrunken Head, a tiki bar on 14th Street between Avenues A and B. That joint is about as gnarly as decent folks want to get, but Shane and I had a fantastic night there playing the porn video games and getting blasted on zombies. Nothing happened between us back then, but zombified or not, I vividly remember posing for those photos at three in the morning. Although a lot of rum was involved, it was almost a Hallmark moment. I never thought about those photos again, but still … Shane’s tossing them in the trash hits me surprisingly hard.

  “I was inspired by the Warhol Times Square photo booth images he did with Holly Solomon, and of course with his appropriated images in general,” Andrea continues. She’s quoting from her Artist Statement, totally unconcerned that what she’s appropriating are some of my best memories.

  “Did you ask Shane if she minded?” I ask her.

  Andrea stares at me for a moment. She looks as though I’m asking whether the Pope minded Michelangelo dabbing some paint on the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling. “Of course, she didn’t mind. She was throwing them out. I cut you out of the picture anyway, so why on earth would she care about my making art out of her trash?”

  The next morning, as I emerge from the subway and walk the two Upper East Side blocks toward Epitome, I almost feel like calling out “Dead Man Walking.” Maybe Brooke’s recommendation is so powerful that even if no one comes to my classes and I just spend the time standing on my head all by myself, Marguerite still won’t give me the ax. Or, better yet, perhaps Jasmine can be summoned back from her higher plane of consciousness to restore bliss to the class she was so unjustly dismissed from, a class I am clearly driving straight into the ground. Confidence-inducing thoughts such as these fill my brain as I walk toward Epitome, a scant seven minutes before the class is to begin. I have timed my entrance to the last second so as to minimize the awkward absence of students in the room.

  Strolling toward my class, I’m stopped by one of the front desk people, “Martina” according to her nametag—God, how I wish all women would wear them—who seems a little frantic. “I’m sorry, but what’s your cutoff policy?” Martina asks.

  “Excuse me?”

  “How many students will you let into the room?”

  “I don’t know. Why, is there a problem?”

  “Well, Gary closes Cardio Funk off at fifty.”

  “I’m a little confused. How many people are signed up?”

  “Forty-two and we’ve got at least ten more in line.” Is this a parallel universe? I’m besting the ineffable Jasmine, even in February, when New Year’s resolutions have long faded.

  Martina follows me toward the studio. Upon entering, the room bristles with excitement as though a prizefight, rather than a yoga class, was about to begin. The volume rises once I’m spotted, generating a marked increase in whispering. It’s actually tricky to count the students, as people are still entering the room—including Gay Gary, a resurrected student, who, if not lured by my straightness or by the improved quality of my class, is here at least because suddenly it apparently is the place to be at 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday night.

  Slinky Brunette shoots me a huge smile and an awkward little “please notice me” wave. I also realize that even though she’s about to begin exercising, for the first time ever in class her face is lightly made-up.

  And then the obvious hits me. Two things have changed: Obviously, with my Grand Central profile, I am suddenly chic, cool, and happening. Simultaneously, Gay Gary has been hard at work, or else his report back to Slinky Brunette has done its trick in the ladies locker room. Fully branded as straight and single and enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame, I’m now fresh meat—and given my sweatshirt, I’m also fresh, Ivy-League meat—thrown into a cage of rich, hungry tigresses. Suddenly, I’m starting to feel uncomfortable for entirely different reasons.

  Less easily distracted and more focused on desk duties, Martina does a quick head count. “There are forty-four students in the room. I think we can let in a grand total of fifty. That should be the absolute maximum. Same as Gary’s class.”

  Satisfied, she scurries to the front desk to make sure my new Sold Out policy is strictly enforced.

  Strolling to my place at the front of the room, I notice one student decidedly not present: Jasmine-Fan is nowhere to be seen, no doubt too troubled by my new success to continue her gloating. I almost miss her.

  In a last-ditch effort to try not to lose the presumed handful of remaining students from last week, I’ve gone to great lengths to prepare today’s class. In fact, I worked on it over the last three days, going through it first once, and then a second time, each day to make sure my pacing wouldn’t be thrown off so that I’d only get to half of what I’d planned. Each time I practiced this class, I knew in my heart that it was just a last-ditch, semimasochistic effort to have a decent final Epitome moment before the inevitable firing for teaching classes no one wants to attend.

  Eight hours of preparation to teach a one-hour class is admittedly an impractical ratio, but fortunately it works: For the first time, I teach a class that’s actually decent. In fact, it’s pretty challenging, more in a slog-through-it, boot-camp way than in a more Gigi-inspirational or Calypso-choreographed sense, but still, for the first time, I can honestly say it doesn’t suck. I’ve kept the poses simple. I leave students in them for just long enough to make them challenging, but keep things moving enough to build up a flow. I am teaching the most basic, no-frills yoga class, but I’ll be damned if I don’t offer one that delivers a workout.

  Most remarkable of all, I find that the energy of the room does shift in the way it should during a good yoga class. We move from slow warm-ups to more intense, faster sequences, finally doing lingering, meditative poses. As individuals, and as a group, the class has been brought from one vibe (frantic, post-work clamor) to another (sweat-drenched calm). They can feel it, and so can I. Finally … I’ve managed to do my job here.

  When class ends, the ladies thank me and congratulate me on the photo in Grand Central. No one even bothers to play coy about having seen it. In fact, the most brazen students actually bring in copies for me to sign. I find this slightly odd but, bolstered by my newfound self esteem as a decent teacher of group classes, I comply.

  It’s quite a journey from a lonely nine students to signing autographs for a packed house of fifty. Weirder still, I’ve leapfrogged my way up the teaching hierarchy; rather than training for years and perfecting my teaching, thanks to Gay Gary’s gossiping and one tremendously effective photo spread via Brooke, I’ve catapulted from novice instructor right to Rock Star.

  Chapter 13

  What do you get your fuck buddy on Valentine’s Day?

  Do you just ignore the holiday, knowing that it only applies to those saps who define themselves as “in a relationship”? Together, do you laugh at the notion of it all, amused by the idea that people actually shop for heart-shaped objects and purchase corny greeting cards? Do you give each other ironic gifts? Or sexually provocative ones, underscoring the carnal nature of things between you, while at the same time gesturing offhandedly toward the sentimental?

  When Valentine’s Day arrives, I have purchased nothing for Monique, mostly because I have no idea of when the mood will strike either one of us to hook up again. Monique is such a no-nonsense realist that even the purchase of a box of waxy Russell Stover chocolates from my Duane Reade seems lik
e overkill. Worse, it might offend her that I have, on some level, crossed a line and violated the nature of our understanding.

  When Monique calls me at 10:24 p.m. on February 14th, I’ve frankly forgotten about the holiday. It’s just another Tuesday night. And yet it’s late, and just the sound of her voice—even the flash of her name on my caller ID—has the Pavlovian effect of getting me horny. As always, without hesitation or fuss, all is arranged in minutes. Within fifteen minutes, she’s arrived and we’re doing it.

  I’m not prepared for what happens next. After we have a solid round or two of going at each other with our usual conviction and gusto, Monique pauses to say she’s hungry.

  I realize that Monique probably does enjoy the full range of human functions and activities, but in our limited hookup bubble together, I guess I’ve forgotten that she might do things like eat and drink. “My fridge is pretty empty. Sorry,” I apologize.

  She laughs, “I thought it would be.” In fact, the entire contents of my kitchen are some beer, a frozen bottle of vodka, and, if I’m lucky, in the cupboard there are a few boxes of ramen noodle and mac and cheese packages gathering dust.

  “I have some menus in the drawer by the sink.”

  “I guess we could order in, but I’d rather go out, actually.”

  I don’t know why this startles me. I know Monique has an outside life, but other than the time we first met on New Years (at some event I’ve entirely forgotten about, thanks to the amnesiac properties of the fermented potato), I’ve never seen her anywhere but in my apartment.

  “Well, I guess we could,” I concede.

  I realize that it’s not that shocking a notion: people who are hooking up can actually go out in public and be seen together—in fact, it happens all the time. And yet, this takes our relationship, such as it is, if not to a new level, at least to a new location.

  “Look,” Monique interjects, as always cutting to the chase. “This is not us ‘going out on a date.’ I’m not interested in changing our situation in the least. God knows, I’m not dragging you to a late-night justice of the peace. After twelve hours at the office and another two screwing you, what this is, is me—desperately needing something more substantial than the yogurt I had for breakfast—totally starving.”

  I realize that I, too, could go for something right about now. “Sold. Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere bistro-y. It’s a shame Florent is closed. Maybe Blue Ribbon? They close at 4 still, right?”

  Perfect. Arguably the finest late-night dining experience in the country, Blue Ribbon’s the place where all the serious chefs go when they close their own kitchens, knowing they can indulge in lobster and caviar, or a perfect hamburger and a beer. It’s so un-yoga, but true carnivore that I am, I am craving some medium-rare red meat.

  We arrive at Blue Ribbon close to 1 a.m. It’s still packed, mostly with couples, all needing a late-night bite to eat. The difference is most of the couples are, in fact, couples, rather than two fuck buddies who happen to be out dining on a sappy, greeting-card-industry-created holiday. Fortunately, since they only take reservations for groups of five or more, there’s a table waiting for us. I have to admit, at this hour one could do worse than a downtown, dark, candlelit, bistro with stellar cuisine and wine.

  I order our steaks, and then Monique takes the liberty of ordering our wine—she’s much more of a connoisseur than I am—and besides, as long as I’m on top most of the time, I think it’s kind of hot when she’s in take charge mode, especially when the focus is our mutual pleasure.

  “I didn’t want to say anything yet, but I think I might have something that’ll interest you,” she teases.

  “Okay, what?” I reply, assuming she’s got some fetish for sex in public places she wants to indulge.

  “I’ll let you know when it’s more concrete, but I think I might have found a way for you to get back into the game.” Ah, she’s talking nightlife again.

  “Monique, I am so out of the game, it ain’t even funny.”

  “We’ll see,” she says, minx-like, as our food arrives.

  And simultaneously, it’s just then that it happens—the thing I want most of all and the thing that I’m totally dreading happens … Shane appears.

  She’s with the guy from her Facebook profile: Frame Boy. And they are being seated two tables away from us.

  I realize that Blue Ribbon is at the very top of the list of places one might run into Shane. The Bromberg Brothers own eight acclaimed restaurants, and like all food fanatics in the restaurant world, Shane’s drawn to this brasserie’s late-night magic just as much as I am. It’s not like Shane and I ever divided the map of Manhattan or crafted a list of Mine and Her restaurants and hangouts, but if we had, this one would have been the most contested.

  Monique’s talking to me when I catch Shane at the very periphery of my vision. The voltage of my surprise is enough to draw Shane’s attention right to my gaze. She stops whatever cheerful sentence she was in the middle of, and freezes. We’re only one bistro table apart from each other, a distance of probably only four feet, and that, combined with the unexpectedness of the moment, makes it all the more stunning.

  Neither of us says anything until I break the silence with a brilliant opener. “Hi.”

  “Hi, ” Shane replies. This is more face-to-face dialogue than we’ve had in months. I want to view this as a promising beginning despite the complete lack of emotion in Shane’s face.

  “You look amazing.” I don’t know why I lead with a compliment, but I do, probably because it’s true and it’s all I’m thinking, given that I’m not thinking.

  Shane does indeed look amazing. She’s dressed in a typically Shane way. Nothing about the outfit is calculated to be sexy, but somehow it comes across that way when she puts it on. Maybe it’s just the effect Shane has on clothes, on everything maybe. In fact, until the moment she saw me, in her easy laughter with Frame Boy, she was every bit as vivid and passionate in her conversation—frankly in everything—as I remember. Like Gigi’s, her enthusiasm splashes around her companions like a drink your favorite bartender has purposefully overfilled, a little messy but joyful, lifting the energy of everyone around her up a notch.

  Shane does not respond to the compliment. She does not look away from me either, although I can’t tell if this is good or bad. I wonder if she’s feeling the same rush of adrenaline that I am. What is that response called? Oh yes, fight or flight. Are those the choices that Shane’s contemplating now, or is something else on her mind? Exacerbating the awkwardness, I continue in the same vein of unacknowledged, unwanted compliments.

  “I like your hair that way,” I tell her.

  Shane’s hair—once the fastest-growing, wildest mane of anyone I know—is now cut quite short, in an asymmetrical bob of sorts. It looks both very chic and very tossed-off casual. It might be a cut that cost $350 on Madison Avenue (hairstylists used to always stop her and offer to work on her for their books), or she might have done it impulsively herself.

  Why I’m going down this banal conversational path, I have no idea. I realize that given our history, a few cheesy compliments will do exactly nothing toward patching things up, but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. I speak them to fill the silence, and because, other than endlessly apologizing for our past, I can’t think of anything else to say.

  Monique clears her throat. I suppose I’ve been rude, completely disregarding Monique in favor of Shane, the tall, cool drink of a girl seated one table away.

  “I’m sorry. Monique, this is Shane. Shane, Monique.”

  Shane gives her a nod that’s just polite enough to extend basic courtesy to Monique without offering me an ounce of encouragement. Frame Boy steps up to the plate to introduce himself around. I can barely register his name, as I’m finding it particularly hard to focus. I give him the once-over. Frame Boy reeks of dependability and sincerity. If he were running for office, you’d feel compelled
to vote for him. I realize at once that in the flesh, even more than in his photo, I totally hate him.

  The silence is beyond painful, but what small talk is there to make? There is probably no one with a lower opinion of me than Shane—and it doesn’t speak well of me to know that there’s probably no one else who knows me as well. Shane looks away and leans in toward Frame Boy. She whispers something and then he looks at me (in a very unfriendly way) and whispers something back. She nods, and they stand up to leave, putting on their coats.

  Monique, trying to help, leaps in. “Look, this is silly. You guys don’t have to go. Can’t we all just have dinner in the same restaurant? Maybe there’s another table in back, if you want more privacy.”

  Shane puts on her hat now. It’s an authentic Peruvian cap, all handwoven and organic looking, but it’s also deeply silly, with tassels and earflaps. It looks like something a child in Lapland might wear. Somehow, its cuteness on her makes this moment all the more ridiculous and tragic. Just as our steaks arrive, Monique makes a fatal, last-ditch effort to save the day.

  “Can’t we all be grown-ups about this? Look, I have no idea what the story is between you two, but I just don’t know why this has to be such an enormously dramatic ‘Big Deal.’”

  “No, you’re right,” Shane counters. “It’s never a big deal. Nothing is with him. That’s the problem.”

  “Shane, I—” Words fail me, but it’s no matter. Her glare, as she and Frame Boy head toward the exit, stops me completely. Spontaneously, she turns for one parting jab before heading into the cold.

  “But then again, what was it …? Your ‘place is placeless, a trace of the traceless,’” Shane says quietly, making air quotes. She shakes her head lightly at my bullshit Grand Central quote. And then she’s gone.