Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  The chauffeur rolls down the glass partition that separates us. “Where to, Mr. Harding?”

  Andrew looks at me. I don’t have any answers for him. I have no idea where to go. Andrew makes his own decision. “Back to the King James then, Fenton. That is,” he turns to me, “unless we can drop you anywhere?”

  “That’s okay. Wherever you can pull over is fine.”

  “Are you sure? Really, it’s no trouble.”

  “No, it’s a beautiful day; I’ll just walk.”

  I can’t explain it, but I’ve got to get out of the Bentley as soon as possible. Suddenly, its luxurious interior feels like an inescapable, mobile prison cell. The chauffeur obliges, slowing to a halt on a spectacular corner of prime Park Avenue real estate.

  I’m not sure what I can say to Andrew in parting. Of course, I’d never turn my back on a friend—and despite it all, I really do consider Andrew a friend—but at the same time, I’m not sure what I can really do for him, what anyone can do for him. I realize then and there, perhaps more than anyone I know, he is what he is. And nothing is going to change that.

  Impulsively, I give him a bear hug before departing, which he accepts and returns. Again, I don’t know why, except perhaps that part of me realizes that this might very much be our good-bye moment.

  I know that Andrew will weather this storm. If necessary, he will manage to scrape by with a mere seven hundred million dollars. He’ll make the money back. He’ll marry again, no doubt to a woman just as beautiful as his current/soon-to-be ex wife and even younger and increasingly disproportionate to his own age.

  I just somehow think that yoga won’t interest him any longer. And I’m not sure if or when he’s ready to resume lessons again, I’ll be available, either because of my own impending moguldom or because I just can’t listen to his bullshit any longer.

  Chapter 22

  It might just be that with Andrew gone, I need to fill his voided role of client/confidante. No, it’s not really that. It’s true that with Andrew, it was 95 percent about Andrew—although I must admit that, in those fleeting moments when he did briefly turn away from his own escapades and laments to offer me advice, Andrew’s contributions were brilliant and invaluable.

  When Linney asks some simple, typically flirty general inquiry about my life, I’m surprised to find myself volunteering all about Diwali. With his limitless witty repartee, Linney’s always a blast to talk to, but I realize soon that he’s actually truly interested in this topic. He’s asking questions about details, and although he’s not a restaurateur, there are overlapping areas of knowledge.

  “You know, Blue Eyes, please do think of this as a come on, but this is definitely the kind of project I could sink my teeth into,” Linney says. And of course he winks broadly.

  “Really?”

  “Well, one can only create so many ‘I’m ludicrously rich and want you to know it’ Park Avenue sitting rooms without going mad. Besides, no one ever asks me to the downtown parties anymore. And to think of all those West Village Walks of Shame I remember so fondly—well, this might be my way back in.”

  I laugh, but I also realize he’s serious. “Listen, I don’t know if we can afford your Park Avenue prices just yet. I’m making most of the creative decisions—”

  “As well you should,” he interjects. “I think your vision is both cutting-edge and also somehow comfortable. It’s all Very Global. Very Now. Très Chic.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I just think I can lend a hand, here and there. I know tons of suppliers and vendors. The salary is incidental; maybe give me a few profit points or whatever those things are called.”

  Like finding a wallet you’re not sure what to do with, this is an unexpected but not entirely unpleasant turn of events. Still …

  “You really want to head below 59th Street and roll up your sleeves on the Lower East Side?” I ask Linney.

  “God, yes. I’m craving an adventure, one with a little more creative edge to it than matching swatches of fabric to Grandma’s needlepointed throw pillows. You would not believe the ghastly horrors I have to contend with on a daily basis. Maybe you’d let me try my hand at the VIP back room.”

  I glance up at the extraordinary display of serious art, kitschy paraphernalia, and outright pornography on the shelves directly in front of me. “I can only imagine what you do if I let you have a free hand in the back room.”

  “Hah! Feel free to slap my wrists whenever you need to. Actually, Blue Eyes, I think I’d kind of like that.”

  Linney proves to be a dynamo of creative energy. His wealth of experience with all aspects of interior design and décor proves invaluable. Whether it’s the right lighting or the wall coverings, I know exactly what I want, but Linney knows exactly how and where to get it cheaply. “No, throw that catalogue away,” he’ll say. “Those vendors NEVER deliver anything as promised or on time. We’ll get it far cheaper from the Farconi Brothers warehouse. Come on … Road trip to Jersey!”

  And he’s invariably right. I realize just how much fun I’m having one night when I look up from our half-emptied bottle of bourbon, amidst piles of hardware catalogues, to realize that Linney and I have spent almost four hours discussing possibilities for the large front window we’re unboarding next week.

  Monique’s MBA solidified the funding, and now Linney’s décor experience is bringing it all to fruition with dazzling style and efficiency—my own Nightlife Dream Team.

  MONKEY GOD POSE

  (Hanumanasana)

  A Full Split is definitely the worst pose ever invented.

  Totally unnecessary—unless, that is, you’re contemplating a career as a cheerleader, which I decidedly am not—and totally torturous.

  Hanuman is this semi-divine chief of an army of monkey warriors in Hinduism. He rescued Sita, consort of the major god Rama, from an evil demon king. The pose dramatizes Hanuman’s famous leap from the southern tip of India to the island of Sri Lanka. In other words, the dude certainly knew how to stretch his hamstrings.

  Nothing gives the hamstrings a wake-up call like a full Hanuman. The first thousand times I forced myself to move towards it in class were torture. It’s never gotten any better.

  As you begin to slide out the front leg, you can use blocks or other props under your hands to give you some height so that you don’t feel like you’re going to collapse and tear anything in your nether regions.

  Gigi always says that the poses we’d give anything to avoid are the ones we most need to practice. We need to hang out and explore where there’s resistance and tightness if we’re ever going to move through it. But even though this sounds all well and good, I’d rather go through life without feeling like I was being torn and split in two, about to be ripped open at my groin. Really, wouldn’t you?

  Chapter 23

  I have no plans for this Saturday night—Hutch and I trade messages, and he’s unspecifically “totally booked”—and since none of my invitations sound spectacular, and I know I have a model’s digits in escrow, I opt instead to order in Chinese, stream some mindless films on Netflix, and have a totally satisfactory night in.

  It’s a surprisingly warm mid-May Sunday morning, so when I get up, sans alarm clock, after breakfast at the Knife & Fork, I decide that a long walk to the West Village and reading the paper in some mini-park is in order. As I’m prowling around, enjoying the feelings of a crisp, clean Sunday, I walk past Pastis.

  Of course, it’s totally crowded with yuppies and poseurs and all sorts of avid brunchers, and since I’m not at all in the mood for such a scene experience, I’m planning just to stroll by. However, dining at a corner table, I spy Hutch, who smiles (a little sheepishly) and waves. Across from him is Etta. Hutch waves me in, although I’m not sure if I should intrude. But having a mouthed conversation through the glass is corny, so I enter.

  The place is buzzing. Hutch and I do our usual brotherly hug. I give Etta a simple kiss on the cheek and tell her s
he looks and smells great, which is absolutely true. To demonstrate to Hutch that I’ve absorbed the four letters of her name, I make sure I greet her as “Etta.” I can tell this pleases him.

  Interestingly, they don’t invite me to join them. Yes, the restaurant is packed with hungry folks milling about trying to bribe the maitre d’, and they are sitting at a café table for two. But more the point, I am not the wingman here; my buddy is flying solo. I spare them the awkwardness of my hanging around and volunteer that I’m off to take Gigi’s noon class, something that, until this moment, I’d completely forgotten about over the last few weeks.

  “It’s already 12:45,” Etta points out.

  “I’m meeting the teacher afterward for chai,” I counter, suddenly remembering my already-broken promise to Gigi. I bid Hutch and Etta good-bye, yet deep inside I know that I’m not going to show up. I realize I’m going to blow Gigi off.

  I mean, it’s not like I’m leaving Gigi waiting on a street corner in a blizzard. Her class will be packed and she’ll either hang out with someone else or probably just go home to Calypso … but still. During the worst of my unemployment, my nonexistent calendar only had her classes on it. And the phenomenal gift of yoga school has utterly transformed my life. Now, when Gigi’s actually reserved some of her valuable time to give me the benefit of her counsel, I’m blowing it off.

  As if I’d made an appointment with the dentist when a tooth throbbed but found when I’d arrived that it no longer did, I’m going to cancel without ceremony. Of course, the decay hasn’t miraculously eradicated itself, but for the moment, the pain isn’t piercing enough to make me seek the cure. When I get home, I’ll send her an email, apologizing and yet again asking to reschedule. I know this is lame, even for me.

  I flash on Linney and his bum hip. He will postpone the surgery, it seems, until he can no longer walk at all. Experience shows that, like Linney, I’m the type who needs the root canal as a wake-up call. Only when the nerve’s removed will the pain really be gone.

  Monique returns from Rio and goes directly from the airport to my place. We have a torrid reunion and then immediately head to Diwali to check out the progress there. Even though Monique’s been traveling among Becker properties in South America, Europe, Australia, and Thailand, I definitely get the strong sense that the NYC construction crew is a little frightened of her.

  Monique is pleased, however, with pretty much everything at the venue, including almost all of my decisions and Linney’s executions. She has a few quibbles (the font on the menu is a point size too small; there are obvious omissions on my VIP wish list for the opening), but nonetheless, she seems quite satisfied with our progress over her six-week absence.

  Mind you, the place is far from being ready and thus, the club looks a bit like a war zone. Nonetheless, under Monique’s stewardship, we are totally on track for a soft opening that coincides with this year’s Diwali festival. More and more, like a statue emerging from Michelangelo’s hunk of raw marble to reveal its perfect form, Diwali is becoming real before my eyes.

  This time, the dream will become a reality. I can feel it.

  Monique has other, unspecified plans, so I grab one drink at a local dive in order to unwind after a day of decisions. As I exit, it’s raining torrentially, but I’m lucky enough to snag an available cab for the ten-minute journey back to my pad.

  The cab pulls up to my building and I get out, ready to make an impossible ten-foot mad dash to the door without getting drenched. And then I see Janek, of all people, standing there, suit collar turned up against the rain, which does nothing to help. He’s completely soaked.

  “Janek? Dude, what the hell are you doing here?” I exclaim.

  He doesn’t really reply and it doesn’t matter, as I’m scrambling to open the door and let us into my building. My building has no lobby, mind you, much less a doorman. You walk in, get your mail immediately to your left, and then if you still want to, after viewing the height of it all, you can climb the five flights straight up to my apartment. Many ladies wince at the thought of making it up all those stairs—and, mind you, most of them spend countless hours on their StairMasters. It may be that, as with many things in life, seeing the steps laid out directly before you makes them somehow more intimidating then if you are merely marching blindly ahead, circling mindlessly.

  “I … can I talk to you?” Janek mutters.

  “Sure.” Away from the battering of the rain and under the fluorescent lights, I’m surprised at how sadly disheveled Janek looks, especially for a guy who’s practically the hottest stylemaker in New York.

  “Man, you look like shit. You must be glad your publicist can’t see you now.”

  Granted, it’s not the most sensitive thing to say, but I’m not used to being sensitive, period, especially not around Janek. He’s like Hutch. Unlike with almost everybody else in my yoga world (and even in my forays with investors), I don’t have to censor myself. I can pretty much just say whatever’s on my mind.

  “I, er …” Janek hesitates. It’s more than just his being soaked. It’s more than the cold and the rain. He really is a mess. And he’s miserable. It even looks like he’s been crying. Whatever’s going on with him, whatever’s caused him to miss our last two sessions—I’d almost forgotten that he texted me again yesterday to cancel without explanation—must really be eating away at him. The dude is really hurting. He needs to talk in a big way.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  “Yes … no … I—just thought.” He stops himself. “Forget it. This was a stupid idea. I should get outta here. It’s late, and—”

  He turns to exit and head out into the rain, so I grab his arm to stop him. “Whoa. Slow down, bro.” Janek looks more and more like a drowned rat and less like someone who allegedly turned down a modeling career. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you,” I tell him, “but let’s get the hell out of the rain.”

  I realize this is the first time Janek’s been to my apartment. Frankly, besides yoga, it’s the first time we’ve done anything alone together.

  We’re about the same size, so first things first. The dude’s got to get out of the wet clothes. I trade his drenched Prada suit for my cleanest set of sweats.

  “You want to take a hot shower? I think I have a decent towel somewhere,” I ask.

  “No, that’s okay. I’m okay,” Janek shakes his head.

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine. Well, actually, do you have any tea?”

  I so wish I were the kind of person who offered people tea in a crisis. Sadly, I’m the kind of person who offers people vodka.

  Rummaging through my nearly empty shelves, the cupboards are indeed quite bare, so I offer Janek a shot of Grey Goose, my one luxury.

  He thinks for a second, then says, “What the hell—sure, why not?”

  We each toss back a shot. I refill our glasses as we plunk down in my living room, a dismal affair if ever there was one.

  “So, dude … what the hell is up with you tonight?” I query.

  Janek looks miserable and uncomfortable.

  “What is it? Symphony?” I press.

  He doesn’t even bother to correct my mispronunciation. “Sort of. No, not really.”

  “Okay.” I pause, unsure not only of Janek’s undefined problem but even of the most basic things, like what is my role here? I mean, I really love teaching Janek—my purest, truest student of the poses—and more and more, I think he’s a great guy. I enjoy hanging out with him socially. But as of today, quite frankly, I’m surprised that I even made the short list of friends to call in a crisis. (My own list only has one name on it—Hutch.)

  Although I’ve been resolute in never using yoga clichés with Janek, I’m tempted to spout my usual bullshit: “Do what you can. Don’t push it. Focus on the breath.” Even if it’s all bullshit, at least it might be moderately helpful.

  “But she’s okay, right?” I manage.

/>   “I don’t know. She didn’t take it that well.”

  “Take what?”

  “When I told her our engagement was off,” Janek reveals.

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I guess.” That seems like the right thing to say—or is a better response more of a backslap, a “plenty of fish in the sea” remark?

  “Thanks. It wasn’t easy.” It’s hard for anyone to dump a supermodel, I suppose. Janek stares into the depths of his empty glass, and I refill it. At least I am a good host when it comes to beverages. I refill mine, and we click classes.

  “Na zdravie” he offers. “To your health, indeed.”

  Then Janek just stares into infinity. I try to wait patiently for few moments but—

  Okay. I’ve had it. “Look, Dude, I’m up for sitting here all night, not saying a word and getting shit-faced drunk if you want. But fuck it, Janek, if you’ve got something on your mind, and you think I can help you in any way, you gotta start talking.”

  He refills his own glass (generously) and tosses it down.

  “Oh fuck it—the truth is … I’m gay.”

  There’s a long beat of respectful silence after he says it. Both of us instinctively feel the moment deserves a little something.

  He waits for some kind of reaction from me. I’m not sure what he’s expecting or hoping for. I’ve never been in this situation exactly, but I’m trusting raw instinct to see me through.

  I refill both our glasses. “Dude, that’s totally cool. Be whoever the fuck you are.”

  It’s as you’d suspect: the weight of the world’s off his shoulders. Suddenly, Janek looks, well, like Janek. Or at least more like the Janek featured in every style magazine known to man and not the flailing, waterlogged creature I dragged in off the street tonight.

  Our glasses refilled, we toast again. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do next. No one’s ever come out to me before. In a way, I feel totally honored. And also a little perplexed. I mean, do I seem like the kind of sensitive guy you’d run to in order to reveal your secret inner demons? Bolstered by the vodka, Janek expands on his confession.