Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. It’s your destiny.”

  “I’m glad you have such confidence in me. Last time around, I seem to recall getting myself quite burned with this kind of venture.”

  “Last time was last time. This time is different.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m around this time,” she smirks seductively. “These things require two strong skill sets. Yours is the look, the feel, the crowd, setting the vibe and having the vision. Defining and establishing the brand. Mine is corporate: crunching the numbers and structuring the investment opportunity. Interestingly, they rarely coincide in one individual, but each is vital for the success of this kind of enterprise.”

  I note that we still haven’t discussed the extent of Monique’s involvement, but knowing her, I’m sure she’ll lay out her terms with her usual point-blank, take-it-or-leave-it style.

  “Even so, moving back into this world feels vaguely kamikaze of me”

  “Look, your teaching yoga is sweet—I’ve enjoyed a couple of stretchy classes at Canyon Ranch myself—but the truth is, that’s not your real nature. Who do you think you’re fooling here? You’re pretty far from Gandhi.”

  “Well, I don’t wear a diaper, but still …”

  “Look, I don’t believe in fate—I think we make our own beds—but even so, I’m still absolutely certain that it’s not your destiny to sit around trying to sell wheatgrass shots and the whole peace/love/bliss thing.”

  “That’s not really what I do. I teach poses and breathing and some meditation and—”

  “Whatever. You’re just like Becker.”

  Now she’s got me. “Go on.”

  “You’re both bad boys who are much smarter than the rest of the pack. Sure, you might later acquire a domesticated, civilized veneer, but deep down, you live for all the endless nocturnal adventures: the ones that are only possible for a handsome devil with plenty of charm who, deep down, every girl knows is bad news but still wants anyway.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” She really does have my number.

  “I’m just telling it like it is. Everyone’s always broadcasting exactly who they are if you pay attention.”

  “Oh really? You think so?”

  “Absolutely. Take yourself. I’m surprised you can even publicly bluff your way through that spirituality shit without laughing. You’re about sensuality and sexuality and fun. You may be able to con some socialites, but at least stay honest with yourself. You’re not meant for the yoga mat—you’re meant for the prowl.”

  Maybe it’s that I felt particularly like a fraud around Gigi, or maybe it’s that I’m sick with myself for allowing Phoebe to keep thinking of me as a paragon of virtue. I know in my guts I’m NOT a real teacher. Suddenly, after many months of hibernation, becoming a force in the nightlife scene is starting to look good again.

  I used to dream of Scarface-style money. Dealing with big gobs of cash floating around my desk and out of my secret office safe rather than just billing my current hourly rate. I want to go back to who I was—or more accurately, who I almost was—before everything got so messed up with the investors. And with Shane.

  Shane. Now there’s a thought.

  Obviously, if I came to her now and offered her the position of head chef at my latest theoretical grandiose venture—exactly like I did a year ago—there’s not a jury in the world that would convict her if she murdered me on the spot. But this might be the way I could actually start seriously paying her back.

  If I really could pull this off, if I really could launch this place successfully, seeing it through to completion, then ultimately I could offer her an incredibly swank opportunity. So what if the first lounge scheme fell through—it would now be totally small potatoes compared to this place.

  “You’re a million miles away.” Monique brings me back to the present. She pretends to be amused, but I detect that she’s a little irritated that I’ve drifted away from her personal charms and even more seductive career lures.

  “Sorry. Just thinking about how this could all work.”

  “Oh, it’ll work all right.”

  I know she means raising capital and profit margins, but my thoughts have shifted from my own nightlife fantasies to the possibility of mending things with Shane. I want this. I want this for myself. And the proverbial icing on the cake is it’s my only shot with Shane. Payback of $500 a month simply isn’t going to cut it. Frankly, there’s no way of knowing, but the truth is, unless I make this work, there’s nothing else that could even come close.

  I realize I’m ravenous as the waiter appears with another round and some complimentary appetizers. Monique extends her refilled glass towards me.

  “Here’s to your destiny, Bad Boy,” she toasts.

  Indeed.

  Chapter 15

  My mind whirls with thoughts of my impending moguldom. Monique has a business dinner, so I walk around for a few hours, window-shopping other possible New York venues that I will someday conquer. On a day like today, the city feels like a place where anything and everything is possible.

  Two hours later, I’m hungry again. I swing by Raoul’s in Soho. The restaurant has been there since the ‘70s, but although there’s no more smoking and the artists have all fled the neighborhood, the bistro vibe prevails. As do upscale prices. I treat myself to a thick steak au poivre with crispy frites and fleshy steamed artichokes with thick dipping vinaigrette. Savoring the perfect steak—$37 but worth every penny—I contemplate that, soon, this will be my lifestyle. I take another swig of my single malt, $18 scotch.

  That night, I can barely sleep. My mind is whirling around the possibilities and also the challenges of how the hell I’m going to pull this off. Come morning, as the prelude to my hitting the pavement and the phones at 9 a.m. to make this dream happen, I’m looking forward to another chaste yet subliminally illicit encounter with Phoebe.

  Yet to my complete astonishment, it’s Phil who opens the door.

  “Hiya, how’s it going?” he asks, letting me in. Even Phoebe’s smiling entrance doesn’t totally dispel this ominous beginning.

  “Oh, great, we’re all here, then,” she proclaims. Instantly, I realize this is the theoretical moment I have silently dreaded but thought would never actually happen: Phil’s going to join us for a lesson.

  “Yup, it worked out that I could be here today. Moved my shipper’s meeting to tomorrow,” Phil confirms.

  “Great.” I reply, as we walk to the yoga room. To his credit, Phil at least seems game. He’s willing to give it a shot, more or less.

  Phoebe and I sit cross-legged in our regular places. I see that it’s really uncomfortable for Phil to sit this way, and rather than torture him (which, I admit, crosses my mind as a way of discouraging his future participation), I opt to play the role of good teacher. I offer him a yoga block to sit on the edge of, thereby letting his inflexible hips relax. He’s grateful, and he seems a little surprised that I’ve managed to effectively solve a body problem so easily.

  I direct their breathing, but Phil is wildly restless. He adjusts his outfit. Clears his throat. Fidgets. He can’t sit still. I wait for him to settle, but pretty soon it’s clear that that moment’s never going to happen. If anything, he’s getting further and further from stillness with every shallow, wheezy breath he takes. Unlike me, Phoebe seems to be the soul of patience, glowing with the sheer joy of having Phil’s twitchy presence next to her.

  I don’t know whether to basically give up (as I have with Andrew’s breathing properly) or stop the lesson dead in its tracks and force Phil to breathe through his nose. It would be a total waste of time for Phoebe although she might respect my attention to detail, my commitment to teaching excellence, if I were to be entirely painstaking with Phil and his congested inhales and exhales.

  I flip a mental coin and decide it’s best to move on. After all, I was myself an unaware, inept breather during all my early yo
ga classes. Besides, if I get him moving, at least he’ll start to sweat—that seems like progress, and at the very least, he’ll register that something’s happening.

  Okay, then, it’s time to get this show on the road, time for what, I presume, will be a disastrous Om-ing together. Perhaps the weirdness of “Om”-ing alone will be enough to drive Phil from the room.

  “We’ll do three Oms together. I’ll start, and you’ll immediately join in,” I tell them.

  “Don’t worry about the chanting or the singing quality. It’s simply a way for us to connect with the breath, and with the sound, and with each other. And it’ll frame our lesson at the beginning and end, uniting us in a tradition of yoga practice.”

  “Okey-dokey,” is Phil’s cheery reply. I say nothing. It’s sort of sweet that he’s responding to me, even when I’m used to people just absorbing my directions in silence.

  I start the Oms and Phil surprises me with an extremely hearty (but off-key) contribution. Usually the guys like Janek and Andrew—and frankly, me, back in the day—are less than comfortable making a loud chanting sound. We sort of sneak it in under our breath, barely participating, calculating the minimum sound we can get away with making.

  Not Phil, though. You’d think he was auditioning for the Met with the enthusiasm he puts into his first foray into chanting. Another disturbing thought occurs: What if he actually enjoys the lesson too much? Am I doomed to having him disrupt my spiritually erotic Phoebe vibe on a steady basis? Or can I count on the demands of being the Wire Hanger King to keep him away from our Rumi-infused private practice?

  I quickly learn that Phil has absolutely no affinity toward taking directions regarding his body. For better or worse, he looks to Phoebe for constant visual assistance. I can understand that the first time he’s in Downward Dog and I say, “Raise your right leg to the sky,” that the meaning might take a second to process. He looks to Phoebe and then simply lifts his right leg upward as she does. But twenty seconds later, after I say, “Lower your right leg. Now inhale as you raise your left leg to the sky,” he looks to her again. Phil’s unwilling to take any chances, cautiously looking to Phoebe before swinging his left hindquarters upward. It’s a confidence thing, not wanting to look foolish by making a wrong move. Instead, he winds up looking like he’s mentally deficient.

  I try to get Phil up and standing as soon as possible so that he doesn’t have to strain his neck so much to look at Phoebe for constant input. He’s incredibly stiff—that comes as no surprise—but as we progress, I must admit I like his verve. He’s more than willing to jump right in despite a complete lack of coordination or anything resembling physical grace. The guy has spunk; I’ll give him that. When I say, “Energize your arms in Warrior One,” he gets that concept and it’s like fire could shoot out of his pudgy fingers.

  The funny thing is, more and more, I’m actually liking the dude. He’s not wimping out. I’ve even picked up the pace of the vinyasa because I feel he’s digging it. I can tell he likes the rush of the movement and the music—I’ve moved into light Brazilian on my iPod to give us a little something to move to—and perhaps somehow I’ve touched some latent athlete within. I dimly recall some anecdote of Gigi’s regarding teaching people: if you really work with someone, really accept your student, and offer the best in yourself, something in you changes as well.

  I find myself shifting, trying to make things more attainable for him. Adjusting him as I’d want to be adjusted myself. I hate wimpy assists—dammit, if a teacher’s going to put their hands on me and apply a little pressure, I want them to go the full, safe distance so that I feel something. When it comes time to complete the more cooling poses on the ground, I give him deep but reasonable assists in the forward bends, fully aware of how tight his hamstrings are. I want him to truly feel the potential to open, but God knows, I don’t want them to snap. “Go easy on me, kid,” Phil mutters a little nervously.

  “Don’t worry. This is as far as I’m going,” I reassure him.

  Phil’s sitting down and bending forward. I’ve thrown a blanket on his sweaty back so that I can first use my hands to invite him further forward. Then, I’m sitting back-to-back against him, using the weight of my own body to push him gently forward.

  When it comes time for Corpse Pose, I decide that today, Phil—as a first-timer—gets the use of Phoebe’s eye pillow. I start with my usual move—a tender smoothing of Phoebe’s brow with my thumbs—and then I press down on her shoulders. She breathes a lovely sigh. Then, astonishingly, when I move to Phil, I find myself transfixed by the beauty of his face. Well, beauty might be stretching it considerably, but nonetheless, I feel something when I look at him. Eyes closed, with a stillness stemming perhaps largely from exhaustion, there is still something truly lovely about this bullfrog’s visage at rest. Mind you, it’s Chinese-Guard-Dog-Statue-Beautiful, but beautiful nonetheless.

  We complete with three Oms together, and Phil, if anything, is even more operatic in his enthusiasm. We bow forward with a trio of “Namastes.” Phil waits a respectful moment and then breaks the silence. “Wow, that was really terrific.”

  “I’m glad you liked it,” I reply.

  “Yup. I don’t think I’ve sweated this much since back in the day in Newark. I spent my summers in high school working as a mover,” Phil continues.

  Of course, this is not the profound, spiritually connected response one might hope for, but nonetheless, I’m pleased. Frankly, the fact that I’ve given a workout comparable to moving furniture up five-floor tenement walk-ups gives me a smidgen of satisfaction. It’s the kind of clueless thing I probably said to my first yoga teachers as a compliment, too. More and more, despite myself, I actually find myself liking the bullfrog. Given fifty pounds, forty years, and sixty million dollars, how different are Phil and I really?

  “Did you offer him the tickets?” he asks.

  “Oh, I forgot,” Phoebe replies.

  “What tickets?’ I inquire.

  “For Wicked. You know, the musical. Herb Abromowitz and his wife got them for us. You know the guy from Abe’s Cleaners?”

  I don’t know them, but like most New Yorkers, I’m quite familiar with the “Honest Abe” dry cleaning chain and their annoying, omnipresent ads on local cable.

  “Anyway, I forgot tonight’s a major UNITE meeting, so we can’t go.”

  “Unite?” I ask. Phil doesn’t really seem the type to be involved with any political or humanitarian organizations.

  Phoebe fills me in: “Union of Needletrades, Industrial and Textile Employees—UNITE. Phil’s on the board.”

  “Anyway, I figure you guys like those kind of things—musicals and all—so I figured you’d probably enjoy it,” Phil explains.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “With the hangers and all, I’m on the sidelines of fashion—what a crazy business that is!—but I just figured that it was the kind of thing you might enjoy. And I’ve got two tickets, so you could bring your guy friend or whoever. House seats.”

  Now I get it. Phil assumes that I’m gay and therefore the most appropriate recipient to premium tickets to a hit Broadway musical.

  My eyes meet Phoebe’s. It’s only for a fraction of a second, but we share a look of conspiratorial amusement. Clearly my sexuality is not something they have discussed—or if it is, Phoebe has omitted, or misrepresented, the findings of her own, only slightly more subtle investigation. As to the tickets themselves, well, I’m no stranger to theater, but I’m forced to honestly reply, “Thanks very much, but I teach a big class tonight. I just started, so I wouldn’t want to get a sub at the last minute.”

  “No problem. Some other time. People are always giving us cultural stuff like this. Phoebe’ll tell you how hard it is to get me to get all dressed up and go out at night. Just not my thing.”

  Part of me—and it’s probably just knee-jerk, residual high school homophobia—is briefly tempted to correct Phil and let him know I like the ladies. I stop my
self, though, because: a) it’s stupid and none of his business, and b) it might not work in my favor to let him know the man he leaves his wife with every day, the man who runs his hands all over her body, adjusting and assisting her poses, would very much like to have those hands roam a lot more freely if he could.

  Then it suddenly dawns on me that Phil still thinks I’m gay, and yet throughout, he’s been completely open-minded, allowing me to touch and move and now practically lie down on top of him. The guy is cooler than I thought.

  “Holy Toledo, look at the time. Hon, I gotta run.” Phil pecks Phoebe quickly, then pumps my hand. “This yoga stuff really is all right,” he decides. “I’m away next week, but when I get back, I’m definitely gonna do this again. I’ll try for once a month or so to start.”

  I almost launch into a speech about how steady practice several times a week is necessary for any real progress. But having him around that much is not my goal here. Instead, I just accept the compliment.

  Phil heads off to take a much-needed shower, leaving me and Phoebe alone for our parting moments. Unlike soggy Phil, as usual, she’s simply aglow. Phoebe walks me toward the door, letting me out herself, as is our ritual.

  “Thank you so much,” she gushes. “I understand how demanding it must be to teach a total beginner.”

  “He was pretty fun to teach, actually.”

  We smile. As always, it goes on a bit longer than necessary, the smile substituting for dialogue we’re better off just not saying.

  I can tell Phoebe wants to say something more. “About those tickets …” she begins as I’m waiting for the elevator.

  I cut her off. “Very sweet of you both. Maybe some other time.”

  We smile knowingly. She understands that I’m not insulted by the gay assumption and that I have no need to set the proverbial record “straight” with her husband. And perhaps she shares my sense that it would be strategically unwise as well, potentially interfering not only with our chaste present but also with my barely sublimated fantasies of future dalliances. I enter the elevator, reluctant to leave her serene smile behind.