Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

I have had the forethought, however, to have nabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels on the way, figuring I can at least have a parting drink with any remaining members of the unfortunate crew that my publicized philandering has rendered unemployed. But with the site abandoned, it’s just me and the bottle. I’m learning there is no camaraderie at rock bottom.

  I’ve gotten a strong head start on getting totally smashed—I’ve scheduled the final portion of my descent for tonight, alone in the dark and brooding. So, after about thirty minutes and the consumption of the contents of a nearly empty pint-sized bottle, I rise from the floor, look around the space, mutter “Fuck” a half-dozen times, turn off the lights, take the proverbial “one last look,” and depart.

  Shutting the door behind me, and fumbling for my keys, I flirt with leaving it unlocked. It occurs to me that maybe if things are stolen, insurance will help me off the hook with those seventy-five barstools. My minor responsibility instincts dominate, however, and I decide to lock the ruins of my dream away from potential roving bands of nightclub looters. As I’m drunkenly stooping to pick up the keys that have slid from my hand to the ground, I’m tapped on the shoulder, and turning, my face meets up with a rather solid right hook to my jaw and then another dude’s punch to my gut.

  I think I say something insightful like “Jesus” or “Ugh,” and wincing, collapse into a fetal curl, looking up to see my attackers.

  I find that the urban thugs attacking me are astonishingly well dressed. And they’re middle-aged and balding. And then I realize that they’re the Cleavage Boyz.

  They are, of course, very angry, and acting in a street-brawler way that I assume is out of character for guys who rake in multiple millions a year. Well, the screwing-someone-over part may be totally in character, but I doubt that physical blows are frequently traded.

  They’ve got me down, and while I hesitate to use the phrase, “I’m a lover, not a fighter,” it’s more or less true. I suppose that given my athleticism, I might be able to bluff my way through a fair fight with one of them. But given that I’m already three sheets to the wind, taken by surprise, and knocked on the ground, the two of them have a decided advantage over me. And while I’d have guessed as much, I soon learn that these are guys who are not afraid of exploiting their advantages.

  In a way, I’m almost grateful that at least someone’s finally confronting me to my face, even if technically what they’re doing is pounding said face. It hurts like hell, but it’s a more real experience than Brooke’s imperial dismissal from her moated castle on Park Avenue. No more implied threats. Finally we’re getting down to business. It’s refreshingly direct and primitive.

  Through some combination of whiskey and being messed up by the Boyz, I feel myself slipping out of consciousness. Part of me resists it, but on the whole, passing out and descending into oblivion doesn’t feel like such a bad idea at this point. Things get kind of blurry, and I drift away.

  The next thing I know, I feel myself being manhandled again, and it might be the indeterminate nap I’ve had—perhaps it’s only been minutes, but I could easily have been passed out for hours—but when I resurrect myself, I find I’m actually quite angry.

  Eyes half open, a little caked with blood from a cut on my forehead, I’m up on my feet, starting to swing back blindly and wildly. Although I can’t really see what’s going on, I’m punching like crazy. There’s no strategy here—just dim recesses of survival instinct operating—but it feels like the right thing to do.

  And then I’m out again. This time, much more suddenly, and without any time to contemplate the slide into oblivion. Just BAM—I’ve been clubbed or shot or chloroformed. My last thought is a realization that as I’ve hit the ground unconscious yet again, there can be no mistake this time: I’ve literally hit rock bottom.

  Okay, once again I was wrong. I keep finding new lows. I wake up to find that, not surprisingly, I’ve landed in jail.

  Technically, I’m in a holding cell. Apparently my burst of pugilism was unfortunately targeted at the New York City cops who were trying to revive me. I suppose my being battered and bloody, reeking of whisky, and collapsed in a fetal ball from my first beating from the Cleavage Boyz didn’t convey the best upstanding-citizen impression. The officers were no doubt merely trying to see if I was alive or dead, or perhaps just shaking me to encourage the wretch to “Move it along.” And thus, it was not so great that my first response was to blindly start swinging at them.

  I stagger through my arraignment in front of the judge. Fortunately I have no record—well, at least not a criminal one—but still, assaulting a police officer is a serious charge and quite frowned upon in law-enforcement circles. I’m told this repeatedly during the arraignment by the judge and the junior DA—who, although cute in a Law & Order way, is not Etta. I am partly glad that Etta is off in Fiji with my boy Hutch so as to spare myself further embarrassment, but even so, I’d trade anything for a friendly face.

  Anyway, bail is set at $15,000. Not much in the grand scheme of things but still more than I can handle, given my pathetic fortunes and utter lack of collateral.

  Sitting here in a holding cell that’s more like a sterile high school broom closet (albeit with bars) than an episode of Oz, I flail about and wonder who I can call to get me out of here. Hutch (or even Janek) would do it in a second, but those boys are unreachably windsurfing. Andrew probably would, as well, but he has vanished into his own legal hell. Even if I could reach him, I wonder if the court system would take his marker as readily as five-star hotel owners do?

  Brooke and Phoebe—well, there’s no need to even go there. I might as well call Shane (who is probably the only one likely to show up, merely to confirm her opinion of me and delight in how low I’ve fallen). On the other hand, I’d then owe her another $15,000.

  I make the only call I have left—the one I should have made a long time ago.

  FULL FORWARD BEND

  (Paschimottanasana)

  For most guys, this is pure torture. Tight hamstrings and a tight lower back can make bending forward totally impossible.

  Ask your average jock to try it, and no matter how much they try to move forward, it’ll seem like they’re sitting bolt upright.

  If backbends, with all their heart-opening action, make the body aware of opening up into the future and encountering the new and the unknown, then in the primal symbolism of body movement, bending forward means going within, diving into your thoughts, and exploring your past.

  No wonder they’re such torture.

  Chapter 27

  To her credit, Gigi says next to nothing when she bails me out. I know her finances aren’t infinite, but she’s always been solid around money. You can sometimes just tell that about a person, just as you can usually predict who’s going to be utterly insolvent—myself a key case in point.

  It’s Thursday afternoon, and Gigi offers an invitation to her place in the Catskills, an hour and a half from the city. That’s not quite right. It’s more like she pretty much tells me (gently but firmly) that we’re going to their place upstate and that we’ll be back by Sunday for her always sold-out “Good News” class. I don’t bother to protest. She’s parked their convertible Saab two blocks from the jail. Before I know it, we’re whizzing up the Henry Hudson Parkway and out of the city.

  It doesn’t surprise me that Gigi is a mad, twenty-miles-above-the-speed-limit driver. I’m trusting that the superb coordination she’s demonstrated in thousands of yoga classes extends to the moments with her hands behind the wheel.

  We say very little on the ride upstate. I’ve never been to Calypso and Gigi’s cabin—that’s what they call it—and I find myself slumping in the front seat, curving into the space, letting the scenario wash over me. I’m only dimly aware that it’s the most beautiful June day ever.

  In just under two hours, we’re somewhere else entirely. It’s amazing what a little geography can do.

  When Gigi zooms her Saab convertible up the p
ath to their cabin, winding her way up the long driveway, I see that the cabin is, indeed, a cabin, I suppose, but one that can sleep six, all wooden and flagstone, very rustic and totally gorgeous. I’ve heard the rumor that Gigi bought it with the royalties left to her post-plane crash by a legendary rocker’s classic unplugged ballad about their on-tour summer romance. I’ve never inquired if this is true, but in any case, it adds to the mystique of this lakefront retreat.

  Calypso emerges on the porch and hugs me deeply. We all unload a few bags of groceries that Gigi picked up from Whole Foods. Were I not a recently sprung ex-con, this might be the start of a delightful weekend in the country.

  The living room spills into a dining area with a rustic table that looks like it’s made from craggy logs. Although it’s June, the stones keep the place cool, and Calypso has already built a small fire in the huge stone hearth that dominates the center of the living space, more for effect than for warmth. The whole house is one of those Architectural Digest affairs in which the living room is two stories high with a landing on the second floor that looks downward on the open areas.

  There’s a classic rustic feel to the place (except that, as hard-core vegetarians, they’ve omitted the stuffed moose’s head that would typically go over the huge stone fireplace) and they’ve added tons of cozy—I hesitate to use the word “lesbian,” but the homey, no-frills, rough-hewn cliché works here—touches. Everything is shabby chic and inviting.

  Walking upstairs, Calypso offers me a choice of rooms. I select one less because of the view of the lake and more because the bedding looks like I could sink into it and sleep for a million years.

  In fact, that’s pretty much what I do. I shower in the guest bathroom and then decide I’m going to take a short nap. It’s not even noon, but I figure I’ll be fresh for the explanatory conversation that’s inevitable, no matter how long Gigi’s willing to postpone it. If you bail someone out of jail, you deserve a little backstory.

  When I wake up, I’m startled to realize it’s pitch black. I look at my watch and see it’s 11 p.m. The catnap of the damned, indeed.

  Realizing I’m starving, I head downstairs cautiously, hoping not to wake Gigi and Calypso in case they’ve already gone to bed. After years of teaching early-morning classes and living the yoga lifestyle, like reverse vampires, I assume they get up at dawn and go to sleep as soon as the sun sets.

  Quickly the sound of their casual laughter reassures me, guiding me to the large dining table where they’re sitting together. It’s obvious dinner was completed hours ago, but they’ve left an empty place setting for me. Seeing me, they smile warmly.

  “I’m sorry. I just passed out completely,” I apologize.

  “No worries. Sleeping is sweet in the country,” Gigi replies.

  “You must be hungry. I’ll get you something,” Calypso comments, getting up from her place.

  “Thanks, but I don’t want you to go to any more trouble.”

  “It’s easy. I’m just reheating dinner.”

  She leaves Gigi and me to talk.

  “Merlot?” I’m slightly surprised that Gigi offers. I didn’t know she drank at all. Most serious yogis don’t (or at least say they don’t).

  “Recent incarceration experiences have suggested that maybe I should give up drinking for a while.”

  “Suit yourself,” she shrugs. “Every mystic has to find his or her own path.”

  “I’m hardly a mystic.”

  “That’s what you think,” she continues as she refills her own glass. “Anyway, baby doll, a taste of wine won’t kill me. My crazy partying days are ancient history. They renounced me long ago.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve never been a big fan of giving up things. If there’s one thing my momma taught me,” and here she gets really down home as she amps up her Creole accent, “it’s that ‘a body’s gonna do what a body’s gonna do, until they’s don’t gotta do it no more.’” There’s something inherently funny in her larger-than-life imitation of “momma,” which gives us both a small laugh.

  Then she’s back to her hip, NYC persona. “But, damn it, she was right about that. When you’re ready, all the so-called vices just give you up. There’s no allure to the nonsense anymore.” And then she quotes Rumi, yet again: “‘Let yourself be drawn by the greater pull of what you really love.’ That’s always worked for me.”

  “At the moment, I’m only aware of my gift for screwing things up massively.”

  “Well, you do seem to have abundant talent in that regard,” she chuckles. I find myself smiling, too. Things seem a bit less dismal here in the country with Gigi and Calypso—but I guess compared to being drunk, beaten up, and arrested, what doesn’t?

  Gigi looks at me with a teacher’s quiet prompting. No matter what, no matter how relaxed I am around her, I still always feel that I’m there to learn. That she’s willing and available to teach me. I can almost feel it coming, the lecture I’ve been anticipating and dreading, and yet somehow, I want to just get over with. It’s high time that Gigi—or, frankly, anyone—talked some sense into me.

  As though she can read my mind—and sometimes, I swear she can—she shakes her head “no.” “Babydoll, I am not your momma. I ain’t gonna lecture you. That’s just not my style.” God knows it’s not and yet, I want … I realize I can’t even articulate what I want.

  She waits. I stumble.

  “Honestly … I have no idea what ‘the deeper pull of what I really love’ means anymore. It’s all so fucked up. Everything is. I don’t know. I guess deep down what I want is what everybody wants,” I manage.

  “And what is that?”

  “The power to change the past.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, peering into her wine. “Not everybody, actually, because that is something I decidedly do not want.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “Even to talk some sense into ‘beautiful corpses’ of rock stars back in the day?”

  “Haven’t you been listening?—it wouldn’t have done any good! ‘You gonna do what you gonna do, until you ain’t gonna do it anymore.’ Besides, it’s every twist and turn that got me here today. And I am grateful, baby, to be here right now. I mean, sure, there are days I’m glad I don’t have to live over again, let me tell you. But I have no desire to redecorate my past, cleaning it all up, getting rid of the bad stuff. That’s how I got to the good stuff now.”

  Funny thing is, I believe her. She’s come to peace with things, and somehow it shows in the quality of her life.

  “Yeah, I hear you,” I agree. “I suppose ‘Never Look Back’ has always been my philosophy, too.”

  “Now that’s bullshit.” I’m surprised at the blunt intensity of her response. “‘Never look back,’ my ass.”

  “What then?”

  “Yoga is about accepting life—all of it. The stuff you don’t like and the stuff you’re crazy about. Sure, we don’t want dwell on the negative, but the way you say it, I think ‘never look back’ means ignoring stuff you don’t like. The thing you’re ignoring is the thing that ends up running your life. Same for whatever you’re holding on to—it takes complete control of the wheel.”

  The words hit me hard. I’m not ignoring Shane with my gallery drive-bys and cyber stalking. I think about the $15,000 I owe her on an hourly basis—and that’s only because I can’t think of any way to deal with the deeper wounds my betrayal has caused her. In one way or another, making things right with Shane has been running my life since I messed everything up—and yet I haven’t told a single person about the heart of it, not even Hutch. Or about any of the other shit I’ve been going through lately.

  When Gigi speaks again, I startle a bit. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

  “What?”

  “You were a million miles away a moment ago.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Never a need to apologize for what you’re going through. Want to tal
k about it?” She reaches for the bottle and refills my glass.

  I hesitate for a moment. In my gut, I know I can stay stuck as I am forever or tread one millimeter into that plunge forward. I make a decision. And once I start, there’s no stopping it. Suddenly, I’m telling Gigi everything.

  Somehow I finish my story, getting right up to the present day, somehow even including how I feel like a sham as a teacher, particularly with Phoebe. I even include the entire sordid mess with the Cleavage Twins, Epitome, Monique, and Diwali. Somehow it all comes out in a gusher, and at some point I realize not only am I choked up, I’m swallowing tears.

  I also realize that somehow, Gigi has moved from warm touches here and there to actually hugging me—I’m not even sure when she started. All I know is that I’m grateful she’s not letting go.

  Chapter 28

  The next morning, I wake up way past noon, having slept another twelve hours. I emerge downstairs, feeling slightly guilty. I don’t know why; it’s not like they need me to chop firewood or anything, but it just doesn’t feel right to sleep away this time in the country when you’re the houseguest of the person who has bailed you out of jail. As always, Gigi and Calypso are unperturbed, amused even, by my habits.

  “You’re very good at keeping rock-star hours,” Gigi says. “You might consider that as a fallback career.”

  “Believe me, I used to keep them all the time. But I never needed quite this much sleep,” I counter.

  “First sign of old age,” Gigi laughs, but we all know that rather than just country living, it’s more like collapsing after an emotional exorcism.

  Calypso’s made some amazing vegetable tempura for us, and we wash it down with Pellegrino. (I guess the merlot is saved for evening meals.) Dessert is some fantastic health-food mélange of barley, yoghurt, berries, and honey. I eat heartily and thank them sincerely again and again for their incredible hospitality.