Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  Janek answers the door, all smiles. Moments later, Jeffrey emerges from the bedroom, his hair wet from a shower, as he tucks himself into his crisp white shirt and jet-black suit. Polite “hellos” exchanged by all.

  I ask to use the bathroom in order to give them as much privacy as you can have when a third party has suddenly entered your morning-after-sex space.

  Jeffrey’s halfway out the door as I return. He waves me good-bye and departs with a kiss for Janek.

  “So …” I start, figuring that even though I don’t really want to intrude, I am sort of the Cupid figure here. I deserve a little update.

  Janek smiles. “Well, what can I say?”

  “I guess the feeling was mutual.”

  “Definitely seems like it is.”

  “Cool.”

  Not much more needs to be said. With this short exchange of just a few phrases, we’re already back in the groove. Unlike with Andrew, I am never going to be Janek’s full-time therapist.

  We have one of our best, sweatiest lessons ever. When the lesson’s over, we part with the same friendly, guy on b-ball-court style, and then I’m off. It’s amazing. Even though he’s gone gay, Janek is still my most straightforward client.

  If anything, in absentia Monique plunges herself even more deeply into her remaining duties as General Manager of the Limited Liability Corporation (I did actually read through some of the contracts), determined to get everything done perfectly on schedule.

  Still not sharing anything of my plans and schemes with Brooke or Phoebe or Janek—or even Hutch—I swing by the site every day, arriving midmorning after my teaching is complete. The only void in my schedule is Andrew’s empty slot. I’m sure that, if I asked Brooke, she’d find a new super-rich client for me in a second, but I don’t ask. I’m not sure if it’s because with my new venture moving so rapidly, I shouldn’t be taking on new clients, or whether I want to “retire the jersey” of Andrew’s timeslot. In either case, I keep his Tuesday/Thursday slot free and arrive at Diwali-in-the-making a little earlier on those days than others.

  Over the next four weeks, nearly every morning when I arrive to teach Janek, Jeffrey is on his way out. It all feels totally natural, as though it’s always been this way. It’s a surprisingly effortless adjustment, but then again I never really knew “Symphony.” At least I can remember and know how to pronounce Jeffrey’s name.

  In fact, given the clutter-free loft, the only things that are visibly different in the apartment itself are the missing photographs of Symphony’s magazine covers. And, maybe it’s just the light today, but now that I have a second look at those S&M photos, it’s not the masked Symphony who stands out, but the nebulous male bodies that were always lurking in the background.

  The next few weeks—an intense blend of juggling my yoga teaching with the demands of setting up the club—fly right by. It’s a good state of being too busy. Like being in one of Gigi’s classes—which I realize I haven’t been to in two months now—my life suddenly demands complete awareness and commitment. I’m still high on the juice of entrepreneurial creativity, and before I know it, May’s almost over.

  After Janek and I finish our lesson, he tells me that he and Jeffrey are going on their first trip together.

  “That’s cool. Where?” I ask.

  “Fiji. We’re going for two weeks. We’re leaving next Monday after our lesson,” Janek reveals.

  “Wow. I was expecting maybe a cozy inn in Vermont or something.”

  “Nah. When I do something, I tend to do it all the way.”

  “I get that,” I reply, sincerely smiling at the miracle of gay fast-track romance. I wonder if, perhaps, it’s a big step for me to root for the “happy ending” here. I certainly do not want to see Janek dumped in any of the ways that yours truly (or Monique, for that matter) has perfected.

  Later that afternoon, Hutch rings me up. “Dude, think you can handle life without me for two weeks?”

  “What’s up?” I query.

  “Etta and I are heading out to Fiji.”

  “That’s a weird coincidence—so’s Janek.”

  “I know. We’re going together.”

  “What? Are you kidding me? When did you guys start double-dating?”

  Hutch laughs. “Fifteen minutes ago, actually. Janek told me about this awesome villa situation. It’s just the edge of the peak season, but still pretty gorgeous. Anyway, I checked out the flights online and well, it makes sense.”

  “Well, have fun, I guess. Be careful scuba diving; I think there’s a law that pasty preppies like yourself are only allowed to sail.”

  Hutch chuckles, but there’s the slightest hesitation in his response. I can tell that he’s got something else on his mind.

  “Is there something else?” I decide to ask.

  “Well, yeah, there is. And I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  Since “first to know” always makes me think someone is pregnant or dying, I am curious about what Hutch has to share.

  “I was calling Janek in the first place to see if I could scam a discount on some new furniture. Time to class the place up. You see … Etta’s going to be moving in.”

  Now, this I hadn’t foreseen. This is still, after all, Hutch we’re talking about. Having a Sunday brunch with a chick is one thing, but asking her to live with you is another. It’s still one giant step away from marriage, kids, and country-club memberships—but honestly, to me it feels like a death knell.

  “Wow,” is all I can say. I’m trying not to sound disappointed or disapproving, but I suppose I am a little of each.

  “Yeah. We’ve been talking about it—she’s been here pretty much every night for the last two months—and well, instead of bullshitting about that kind of thing, like everybody else does, it’s actually happening.”

  “Amazing.” And I mean that. Have I stumbled into some bizarre, parallel universe, I wonder? One where my best friend and my best yoga client have both plunged into blissful romances, started double-dating, and are now embracing cohabitation? Why is everybody redecorating their lives? Did I miss the “It’s Time to Settle Down” memo?

  “And, look, Dog … I don’t know how to tell you this,” Hutch starts, “But …”

  “But what?”

  “I think she’s the one,” he confesses.

  “One what?” I say without thinking. And then I realize what he’s talking about—“The One.”

  There’s a momentary beat in which Hutch waits for me to figure out what he’s saying—that he’s found that fabled “soulmate/only one for me” fantasy connection. This is just not the kind of thing I’d ever imagine Hutch would ever say. This is the kind of phrase he’d scoff at.

  “Are you shitting me?” is all I can manage.

  “Nope.”

  I honestly thought that Hutch and I would be the last of the holdouts. I guess whatever Butch-and-Sundance fantasy I’ve always had about us—and I do vaguely recall that they die offscreen at the end—has been busted.

  Hutch isn’t looking for a second opinion, much less a point-counterpoint discussion of the merits of the bachelor life. I know that I’m supposed to say positive things about their future together or at least compliment Hutch on his luck at finding such an amazing woman. Suddenly, it’s crystal clear that if I don’t want to blow the last ten years of friendship, I’d better say the right things fast.

  “Dude, I’m really happy for you,” I reply quickly.

  “Thanks,” Hutch says, sounding more than a little relieved.

  “Having personally bunked with you for two years, I can vouch that if Etta can stand your snoring and all your other nasty personal habits, she’s might very well be ‘The One.’”

  Hutch laughs. The awkwardness has been smoothed over. Our friendship’s preserved. Someone buzzes him about a prospectus or a merger or something else urgent and financial, and he’s got to get off the line.

  Don’t get me wrong: I realize t
hat neither Janek nor Hutch is jumping off a cliff into oblivion. They’re just settling down, willingly and happily. Nonetheless, I suddenly feel like some kind of lone holdout.

  All this compulsive cohabiting truly makes me understand why wolves are considered an endangered species.

  Chapter 26

  Usually when I arrive to teach Brooke, Wallace the doorman and I have a friendly moment. Sometimes we exchange a few pleasantries about some safe topic like the weather or sympathy for a natural disaster. It doesn’t go much deeper than that, although I freely admit that, alongside Hutch, I credit Wallace with launching my newfound career as a yoga stud. Truthfully, there’s just no way that Brooke would have hired me and written that all-important first check had Wallace not basically hosed me down before the interview. The guy is, if not my friend, at least solidly on my side.

  Wallace is always quite scrupulous about not letting me up until he’s rung up to officially confirm my welcome, but it’s a formality at this point. The model of upscale efficiency, he’s always on the phone to Brooke’s lair by the time I’ve moved past the building’s exterior doorman and toward his desk.

  Today, however, Wallace has not only not touched the phone, he’s making no moves toward it. And he’s not offering his usual upscale, service-oriented smile either.

  “Hey man, good weekend?” I ask. Who knows what’s off with the guy—fight with the missus, kid failing trigonometry. Could be anything.

  “Good morning, sir.” Although Wallace never refers to me as “dude” or “dog,” the “sir” is a little formal.

  “What’s up, Wallace? Something wrong?” I ask.

  He is entirely stone-faced, neither angry nor sympathetic. “I’m afraid I’m unable to let you up today.”

  “Oh, is Brooke canceling?”

  “I’m afraid that Ms. Merrington has informed me that she no longer requires your services.” What the hell?

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ms. Merrington will no longer be employing you as her yoga instructor.”

  “Wallace, I … I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I’ve been fired—why?”

  Wallace looks at me, and I think I see a flicker of pity and understanding creep in—but he also has own neck and (I imagine) a wife and six daughters in Queens to think about. “I think it would be best if you were to leave, sir.”

  Wow. Suddenly the lobby I usually breeze through seems not only utterly inhospitable, but incredibly cold. “You’re throwing me out?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Ms. Merrington has asked that you leave immediately.”

  “Wallace, dude, what’s going on here?”

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  I don’t think that Wallace has a secret panic button at his post, but perhaps he does, as two other doormen saunter toward us. I realize that these guys—while not overbuilt, macho bodyguard types—nonetheless reflect a kind of muscular solidity. They’re my height, and although they’re a little soft around the middle, when all three of them stand up near you, they do have a presence.

  “Oh, and Ms. Merrington said that you may keep the remainder of your fee for the unused lessons,” Wallace adds.

  I hadn’t thought of that. Brooke is always several steps ahead of me in every financial transaction—and it’s a good thing, as that money has now long been spent toward overdue bills. Yet even with this building’s doormen strongly “encouraging” me to leave via their presence, this matter feels far from settled. I’m both curious and pissed off as to what I did to deserve such an abrupt dismissal. Have I, like the white roses, suddenly developed an unacceptable odor? Yet, unlike those white roses, I will not be sent silently away in the service elevator.

  I could, I suppose, call Brooke myself from my cell, but if Brooke has determined to get rid of me with her first line of underlings, I don’t think she’s in the mood for taking my call. Clearly, she views my transgression as such that it’s unworthy of apology or explanation, deserving no second chance. (But obviously, if we’re being honest, Brooke has never struck me as someone who, in any scenario, is big on second chances.)

  Pissed off but not interested in getting into a fight with these guys, I shrug and head toward the exit. Wallace accompanies me all the way to the street. Outside the door to the building, for one last time, I try to recreate a man-of-the-people vibe.

  “Why, Wallace? Can you at least give me a clue about what I’ve done?”

  Wallace hesitates for a moment, unwilling to betray whatever orders he’s been given from Brooke. “I’d check today’s Post if I were you. Page Six, to be precise.”

  It’s a simple phrase about Page Six—an entirely disposable gossip section of a trashy tabloid—but right now, given my history, it feels like a death sentence.

  I travel off Park Avenue back toward Lexington in search of a newsstand. My pocket change at the ready, I’m prepared to see what could be have caused Brooke’s summary dismissal. I scramble for Page Six to find myself. I do, in the “We Hear” section of the gossip pages:

  WE HEAR … that a certain Bad Boy, who’s allegedly gotten all spiritual lately, has not only been canoodling with his Park Avenue “private clients,” he’s actually gotten two of the ladies’ husbands to invest in his latest nightlife venture. Apparently, a lot of this action originates at the Upper East Side’s most exclusive spa and exercise studio. And, apparently, said Bad Boy and his glittery ladies make quite a merry threesome … Nice going, Guru!

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Even without any names being mentioned, this could only be about me. There are maybe a dozen or two straight male yoga instructors in New York City, and I’m the only one I know at the Upper East Side’s most exclusive spa and definitely the only one with a Bad Boy past and a nightlife venture in the works. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  My cell’s vibrating, and I see that it’s Epitome calling. It’s mostly a numbed reflex, but I figure, what the hell—I might as well answer. Anjeli in payroll cuts right to the chase. “I just wanted you to know that I’m rushing your paycheck into direct deposit this Friday, just to make everything official, but we won’t be including tonight’s class since obviously you won’t be teaching it.”

  “Uh, okay, but don’t you think someone, like maybe Marguerite, should call and fire me first?” There’s a pause on the line, as Anjeli stammers a bit. Apparently, she’s been a bit overzealous in wiping me out of the system. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you were already informed.” Suddenly I feel bad for the accounting staff, ironically as I am the one who’s just been fired.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure they’ll get around to calling me,” I half apologize. And, actually, they are, as I see I’ve got a call waiting from another extension at Epitome on the other line. I flip over to it.

  “It’s Marguerite. I’m sorry to tell you this, but—”

  “Look, I understand,” I cut her off.

  “Good. I’m sorry, but we have to deal with this kind of thing as directly as possible. We can’t afford to ignore the ramifications.”

  “Well, except for the Post, I think everyone wants this to just go away.”

  “For your sake, I hope that’s true.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m a little confused.

  “Epitome is fully insulated. You signed a release confirming the required viewing of the sexual harassment DVD along with a compliance form regarding our zero-tolerance philosophy. We could, of course, sue you ourselves, but we generally prefer to let this kind of thing die as quickly as possible. The other parties involved may not feel the same, however.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Although I think you’re right that it’s unlikely they’re going to file any kind of charges—still, they might. Teachers in nonacademic settings are a gray area of the law. But they could still argue that they felt vulnerable and harassed.”

  This is going from bad to worse. First banished from Brooke, and now exiled from Epitome. What’s next? And then
it hits me: Phoebe.

  I basically hang up on Marguerite with some dimwitted, halfhearted apology so I can figure out what do to about Phoebe. Brooke, I know, is a lost cause. I am thankful that Ms. Merrington, Queen of Park Avenue, will probably draw the line at murder, but otherwise, I’m sure she’d do everything in her power to have me removed from her known universe. Fortunately, since that means the six square miles of the Upper East Side, she might allow me to still live in Manhattan. Maybe.

  But Phoebe—if there’s anything I can do to salvage things there, to plead my case, pathetic as it is, I’m more than willing to grovel. Opting for the strategy of the desperate, I feel compelled to race over to her building to try to explain things in a way that’s somehow less damning than the mention in the Post would make it seem.

  I realize I am practically jogging the seven blocks from the newsstand back up to Park Avenue toward Phoebe’s, but I can’t stop myself. I feel like every second in which I haven’t defended myself to Phoebe solidifies the impressive case against me.

  Arriving at her building, I’m sweating from the combination of the jog and my anxiety. I’m also on a friendly basis with the doorman here, as well—there are no nametags, so I have no idea what the hell his name is—but he also does not seem particularly overjoyed to see me. His usual friendly manner has been replaced by this glacier formality, as though I were a Jehovah’s Witness or a Hare Krishna, not someone he’s admitted twice a week for the last five months. Clearly, Phoebe has warned him, although this whole scene reeks more of Brooke’s “off with their heads” style.

  Taking my cue from my previous encounter, I leave the building before I’m thrown out, but I will not give in. Brooke can vanish from my life if she wants, but I’m determined to see Phoebe. Somehow. Some way. But there’s just no way I’m going to be buzzed up today.

  It may be delusional, but, as always, I cling to the hope that no matter how damning my crimes may be, if I can somehow plead my case in person, that will somehow make the crucial difference. Nothing in my life experience supports this. This strategy has obviously been a complete failure regarding Shane. In fact, each time I see Shane, I make things worse. Nonetheless, I feel a face-to-face is my only chance. I will find a way …