Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  “Phil’s okay.” I don’t know why I say that. It just sort of comes out, this semi-random endorsement of her husband.

  She smiles again. “He definitely has his moments,” is her cryptic reply.

  “See you on Thursday?” I say.

  “Absolutely,” she says.

  Liking Phil, yet wanting Phoebe all to myself; enjoying teaching him, yet hoping his attendance doesn’t become a habit—it’s a mixed bag of motivations. As I depart, I’m reminded of a line from Hafiz, Rumi’s spiritual cohort: “This teaching business sure ain’t easy.”

  One more reason—thanks to Monique—that it might just be a good thing I’m contemplating getting back in the Game.

  Chapter 16

  I had never felt that I had a future in stand-up comedy until I’d approached five different banks for loans. I am practically laughed out of all of them.

  It’s not hard to understand why. My personal credit is terrible. I have no assets that could even vaguely be considered as collateral. I lack any financial track record of business successes. And I am hoping to use their money for a ludicrously speculative venture. When asked about my experience in this realm, I can boast only of my tremendous success in hitting on hotties and my spectacular failure of last year. (Of course, I do not say these things, and frankly, by this point in the interview and application process, my fate’s long since been sealed; there’s no way any reputable institution is going to loan me money for this, or anything else for that matter.)

  That leaves the dismal task of hunting down investors, and although my life seems drenched with rich people, I know that they are a difficult quarry. Like the exotic Tibetan snow lion, successfully getting a rich person to invest in a personal project like this has probably never been captured on film.

  I won’t ask Hutch—I can’t afford to risk my only continuous, thriving relationship by doing business together, and frankly, I don’t think he’s got that kind of loot sitting around just yet. I don’t know what he’s making now—low- to mid-six figures, probably—but a few years of that does not a spare $3.8 million make. Besides, I don’t want to discuss this with Hutch just yet. I’m not sure why, maybe because he’ll talk me out of it, but mostly because I think he’ll be really into it and disappointed if I fail (again).

  Brooke, I feel, would view it as a tremendous breach of breeding. Her Marie Antoinette-ness would make such a conversation unthinkable.

  Phoebe thinks of me as a spiritual guru. I’m not sure how she’d handle the news that I’m more interested in resurrecting the spirit of Studio 54 than in Sufi Mysticism.

  Andrew? Well, maybe, but it just seems so outside his sphere. I don’t know if he’s even been to a club since the El Morocco, or the Stork Club, or something else with Rita Hayworth and Jock Whitney. And besides … it vaguely feels like asking my dad for money (would that my real dad had that kind of loot).

  Janek? I think about it but decide that I should keep things professional with him, too. And, as with Hutch, Janek might be a thriving achiever, complete with a stunning apartment, but even though he is president of a successful company, he also may not have an extra $3.8 million floating around.

  On the subway ride home, I gaze up at ads for ambulance-chasing lawyers and their multimillion-dollar victories for their victim clients. Hitting the street, I half wonder if I should throw myself into traffic and just hope for the best. With a nice settlement, I might be able to attend the club’s opening night, albeit on crutches or life-support.

  Mostly for his own amusement, Hutch pretty much insists we go to Andrea’s opening. Technically, it’s not really hers, in that there are seven other artists in the show.

  “Come on, Dawg, it’ll be hilarious,” Hutch says, “watching Andrea try to put the moves on anyone marginally able to buy a canvas.”

  Knowing full well the primary reason for my hesitation—the prospect of yet another increasingly dismal Shane encounter—Hutch puts his intel on the table. “And Shane’s out of town for the week, amigo. No ghosts of Break-Ups Past will be present.”

  “How the hell do you know that?” I wonder aloud.

  “Oh, it was totally easy to get it out of Andrea. She called me up a half-dozen times to get Honey and Celeste to swing by her opening. Practically offered to send one of Daddy Game Show’s limos to pick them up. Anyway, brother, just wanted to make sure the coast was clear for you to buzz by.”

  Andrea has three paintings in the show, and as reflected on her website, only one is devoted to Shane. Andrea is at her most cordial although Hutch taunts her continually that Celeste is texting from her cab that she’s dropping by right after she leaves Brice Marden’s studio. All is all, the the evening is relatively unremarkable. (Andrea does reveal that her first solo show is coming up at the bridge gallery, barely disguising her ambition to have Celeste offer her an uptown show as well.) Although I’m secretly hoping that somehow I’ll stumble upon a deep-pocketed art investor who, captivated by my latest venture, decides to sell a Damien Hirsh and throw the funds my way … I’ve no such luck.

  Curbside, Hutch and I hail a cab to depart—“One tiny nightcap to wash away Andrea’s smugness,” Hutch insists—and surprisingly, it’s Janek who steps out. Warm greetings all around.

  We chat for a bit, with the driver getting impatient and doubtless wondering if he should wait around for us or not when Janek’s joined by a good-looking, artsy-looking dude who does something for Vilinikov, and having obtained our share of culture, we all head off into the night.

  Unlike my fundraising fiascos, my class at Epitome continues to rock. This week, it sells out at fifty students a full ten minutes before start time. Interestingly, Serious and Diamond Cleavage both take class this week. It is Diamond’s bejeweled hands that I notice first, as sparks of platinum and diamond catch my eye. Even among the many striking women here, these two are difficult to ignore. Diamond Cleavage—and I can think of her by no other name—has opted for a necklace-free class. She has, however, adorned herself with scads of bracelets: enough to make a minor racket whenever she moves. This is actually rather annoying until I turn the music up. Looking up from Downward Dog, Diamond Cleavage peers up at me, smiles, and mouths, “Hi.”

  I return the smile without missing a beat, noticing that next to her is Serious Cleavage, whose serious cleavage is, well, even more abundantly on display in both Downward Dog and every other pose, thanks to the most plunging neckline I’ve ever seen on a fitness outfit. She has, no doubt, had her workout clothes altered to emphasize her most obvious assets. At least this time, she doesn’t pinch my ass in passing.

  Post-class, as I emerge from the men’s locker room, walking down the hush-hush hallway where spa treatments are offered, towards the exit, it’s practically a “psst” that draws me toward Serious Cleavage. Standing seductively outside the door of one of the treatment rooms, a meaningful glance conveys that she has something intimate to say to me. I slow my exit to speak to her.

  “Let’s talk in here; it’s so much more private.”

  The few scented candles flickering in here pretty much add nothing to the visibility level. There is enough light, however, for me to see that Diamond Cleavage, also in a spa robe, sits in a reclining piece of furniture that seems designed for pedicures.

  “We loved your class,” Diamond Cleavage says.

  Both of them, hot as they are, could barely get through the class. They spent most of it in Child’s Pose.

  “Why am I here?” I wonder, feeling a little trapped in the small room designed for two reclining rich people and two aestheticians seated on stools. In fact, there’s nowhere for me to sit now that Serious Cleavage has taken her place adjacent to Diamond Cleavage on their polyurethane thrones.

  “The thing is, we were hoping for some private lessons, perhaps,” Diamond Cleavage proposes.

  “That’s cool. I think you’re supposed to book those through the front desk,” I tell them.

  They both softly c
huckle, smiling at me as though I’m a not-so-bright child comically misunderstanding something basic, like the on-off switch for a household appliance.

  “Well, we were hoping for something a little less … corporate,” Serious replies.

  “A little more intimate, if you know what we mean,” Diamond continues.

  Truly, I’m beginning to feel a lot like that dense child, one contemplating a mystery like how those people live inside the TV set … What the hell are they talking about?

  “You see, we admired your photo in Grand Central very much. Congratulations on that,” Serious Cleavage compliments.

  “And the thing is, we both enjoy doing things together. Privately.”

  Serious slips her hand on Diamond’s exposed thigh. Diamond smiles. Serious starts to run her fingertips under the thick terrycloth robe toward Diamond’s crotch.

  “But sometimes we like to include someone else in our private times together,” Serious says.

  “We’re very good at sharing, you see,” Diamond adds. “And we thought if there’s a time we could schedule a ‘lesson’ together, we might all enjoy exploring some interesting positions with you.”

  In theory, I’m not averse to threesomes, but even with all my nightlife practice, ladies don’t throw themselves at me quite this easily and, frankly, never in bathrobes. Is this the Upper East Side or the Playboy Mansion? Speechless, I’m saved by a delicate tap on the door.

  “Come in,” Serious says sweetly, as two foreign attendants enter to minister to the needs of the Cleavage Gals’ feet.

  “Um …” I start to reply, as Serious hands me her calling card. There is, of course, no profession listed. Just her name, address, phone, and email.

  “You can let us know anytime,” Diamond replies, completing the moment with a relaxed flourish as she waves and gestures me toward the door. They’re both so smooth, you’d think they approached guys for ménages à trois all the time.

  I swiftly duck out of the room, frankly feeling more like a sheep than a wolf—something I haven’t felt in years and years—and just plain happy to have escaped the clutches of two carnivores that—despite Monique’s statement to the contrary—make me seem like Gandhi.

  I don’t mention anything about the club to Andrew, but when I show him my Grand Central spread, he expresses great enthusiasm and almost paternal pride. “Jesus,” he says when he looks at my Flying Crow, “do you think I’ll ever get into that?”

  I wonder if he’s kidding, but then I see that he’s not. I don’t really know how to answer him although the answer is basically, “Not if all we do is talk about your pity fucks during your lessons, no—not in a million years.”

  Instead, I diplomatically reply, “Well, it took me a lot of practice.”

  He nods. A thought occurs to him. “Say, I don’t know if I mentioned this but …” He rummages briefly on the top of his desk to produce this month’s issue of Forbes. Andrew is the cover subject. I have a one-page photo spread in a New York glossy; he’s the cover story profile of a national magazine.

  “Impressive,” I say, meaning it.

  “Keep it if you want,” he tosses off as he lies down, getting ready for his restorative block pose. “They give you a ton of them when you’re on the cover.”

  I leaf through the article as Andrew settles himself down. “So, have you been getting a lot more action?” Andrew asks me. This is startling because he rarely inquires about my love life. We are there to talk about his, after all.

  “I always find that after a big public profile,” Andrew says, “ the ladies come swarming more than ever. Something about the power of the press, I guess. Anyway, it’s a narrow window,” Andrew continues. “Magazines come out every week or month. Suddenly, someone new is on the cover, and someone new is getting laid. This is your month, or in your case, your week.”

  Actually, it’s my three days, as I realize that the next issue of Grand Central comes out on Wednesday.

  As if reading my mind, Andrew continues his mentoring. “Of course, I’m not advising doing anything foolish,” he tells me. “There is one overriding moral principal that you must adhere to. You must insure that you will never, ever be trapped and exposed by your own behavior. Don’t allow the satisfaction of your basest desires to undo you.”

  “Shouldn’t we at least try to take the high road?”

  “Why?” he asks, totally straight-faced.

  I’m stumped for an insightful answer other than a knee-jerk “It’s the right thing to do.” Andrew, however, is quite well thought out in his convictions.

  “It’s a matter of being a realist. In fact, I believe that’s the single greatest key to my success. Our follies are inevitable. They are probably engraved into our DNA just as much as our eye color and height. The choices you should truly focus on are how you conceal your weakness, your appetites. Do they destroy you, or are you able to insulate and protect yourself from them?”

  “The lessons are all around in nature,” he continues. “Jaorinia frogs in the tropics hunger for the Clarington beetle, and so they’ve managed to evolve themselves to blend in perfectly with the local fauna. Species after species has done the same thing, disguising itself so that it can remain undetected and therefore safe from predators.”

  Usually, I think of myself as the predator, but Andrew’s on a roll, so I think it wise not to interrupt.

  “Deep inside, you know your true nature, its shiny qualities and its shames, and you are therefore faced with the choice of not only how and what you’re going to present to the world but also whether you will let your own underbelly destroy you.”

  Andrew is mixing so many theories so brilliantly—Darwinian evolution, Jungian analysis, Karma, and your basic PR bullshit—that it’s no wonder he’s so successful … and yet so tormented. But still, there’s something haunting about his words, something almost prophetic. Maybe our follies are inevitable, indeed. And while Andrew tortures himself about his situation endlessly, he also has, in some ways, accepted his nature. His concern is not “good” behavior, it’s flying under the radar of those who would tarnish his status or dethrone him. His suffering is real, but it is the torture of a general planning a war, not of a shriveling penitent. Unlike me, guilt seems to be entirely beneath him. He’s never expressed a moment’s remorse about his liaison with Gloria or any of the others, and while many would question my behavior, at least I have a modicum of internal torment whenever I’m straying beyond the guidelines of Parental Control. Perhaps there’s a lesson here: a wolf does not apologize for craving the lamb.

  Correctly assessing that he’s slam-dunked his case, Andrew returns to his initial inquiry.

  “So who’s been throwing themselves at you since your photo spread?”

  There’s something about the way Andrew asks things—totally straightforward and with tremendous authority, much like a good district attorney would, I imagine—that makes it very difficult to withhold anything. I give him the gist of the encounter with the two Cleavage ladies at Epitome. He asks their names. I confess that I never really learned them solidly, but one of them gave me a card, and while it’s somewhere in the back of my wallet now, I believe it began with an S—or maybe an S sound. Susan? Cicely? Stacey? And the last name was Baxter? Or was it Boston?

  “Benton?” Andrew offers. “Fond of wearing an enormous canary diamond pendant, the Foxbury?”

  “Yup. That’s her.”

  “Not so surprising. And the other woman, probably Dick Welles’s wife.”

  “That sounds right, too. Do you know them?”

  “Dick and I are on the board of St. Gabriel’s together. Benton and I are both members of the Maidstone Club. I’ve met their wives at various functions. Both very fetching. I’ve certainly never received such an invitation from them. It’s certainly an interesting proposition.”

  I watch Andrew think for a moment—and I really mean that. In moments like these, you can actually see the concentration,
the calculation, occurring rapidly in his brain. He reaches a conclusion. As always, he’s decisive and committed.

  “I think you should go for it.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. I have no recollection of either of these women having even an inclination of indiscretion whispered about them. They have impeccable reputations that I’m sure they’re quite unwilling to carelessly tarnish.”

  “Still, I don’t want to screw up my situation at Epitome.”

  His laugh is a guffaw. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I don’t mean that you’d want to lose your job there. Of course, you don’t. But you can’t possibly compare what you have to lose—namely the pay for one class a week, a class, mind you, that you could no doubt attain at countless gyms and spas in the city thanks to your newfound fame—with what those two women have at stake. Lloyd Benton is a senior partner at Morganstern Reid, and Dick Welles runs Stoneheap Hedge Fund. Conservatively, Lloyd’s pulling in twenty million, forty million, maybe even a hundred million a year. In a good year, Dick probably does that easily, perhaps even double. There is no way those women are going to do anything to jeopardize their lifestyle.”

  “You don’t think sleeping with me jeopardizes it?”

  “Getting caught does. Sleeping with you is incidental. And if this is indeed something they’ve done before, I’d argue that the risk is severely reduced.”

  “Really? You don’t think they’re more likely to get caught over time?”

  “No. Law enforcement would love you to think that, but career criminals are much more successful than first-timers. Like these ladies, they clearly know how to manage things discreetly. They’ve developed systems to keep their shenanigans safe from prying eyes.”

  “They’re pros, in other words?”

  “Well,” he smiles wryly, “you might look at it that way. As with everything—including perhaps especially, deception—practice makes perfect. The point is, as with any investment, if you’re going to indulge in anything risky, I think you’re much better off with a partner—and in this case, plural partners—with several hundred million reasons more to be cautious than you have.”