Downward Dog

by Edward Vilga

  We drive into town, which is mainly a square with several streets of shops. After living in New York City for so long, everything seems very open and spacious, yet very limited. There’s no multiplicity of choices, but that’s okay. Today I feel as though as though any of my needs would be handled within this quarter-mile radius of shops.

  As we’re walking idly back to the car, we stop for a moment by the small pond in the center of town. Gigi and Calypso say that they always feed the ducks here. I join them in this perfect, suspended moment. We drive back to the cabin in a deep, incredibly comfortable silence.

  I manage to survive the rest of the afternoon without a ten-hour nap. In fact, come dinnertime, my offer to help with the cooking is accepted. I’m drafted into peeling vegetables for some quasi-Tibetan stew that Calypso loves.

  Calypso is back in town, choreographing a piece for the local dance company, which is mostly made up of teenage girls thrilled to have a former Alvin Ailey dancer working with them. Gigi and I hang out, preparing the meal for her return.

  It turns out I’m right about the red wine. It’s a dinner-in-the-country thing. Gigi even tells me she doesn’t drink in the city. “Just doesn’t suit me” is her simple reply when I ask why.

  An easy stillness falls over us, with mild bits of conversation inserted about the meal- preparation tasks at hand. Gigi has some refined Glenn Gould recording playing in the background. (I almost want to ask if she knew him, if her provenance of rock-star legend extends into the classical world—but decide it would be too forward.) If she wants me to know, she’ll tell me. Once most of the meal is set for a long simmer, waiting for Calypso’s return, Gigi refills my glass.

  Gigi looks at me curiously. I guess she’s probably wondering if I’m able to handle any more opening up without falling into a coma.

  “You know, there was one thing you said last night that I feel the desire to respond to,” she begins.

  “Only one?” I respond, surprised.

  “Yup.” I’m curious what one thing sparked her interest. “That whole thing about being a wolf,” she offers.

  “Right. Pretty lame, I guess. I’m more like a mangy mutt from the pound.”

  “No, it’s not that. Wolves are magnificent. I have a lot of wolf-inspired things here.” I had actually half noticed that already—things like a coffee table book and some kind of National Geographic calendar in the spare bathroom off the kitchen—but I had assumed they were just countrified decorating touches.

  “You may think you’re a wolf, but you know nothing about them. Wolves have nothing to do with keeping a rock-star lifestyle or being romanticized loners. At least not to the Native Americans. Do you know what the wolf represents in lots of those traditions?”

  “No.”

  “The teacher.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. Do you have any idea why that might be?” I shrug, clueless as usual.

  “Wolves are the pathfinders. It’s the nature of the alpha wolf to want to go out and explore, to learn all the ins and outs of trails. And yet, wolves don’t prowl for the sake of prowling. They’re not about mindless adventures. The wolf finds the path, but then he or she shares what’s been learned.”

  Gigi tastes the stew, then hands me another red onion to peel and chop.

  “Take their howling. It’s true that wolves howl sometimes for the sheer delight of making a loud noise. But most of the time it’s about communicating something important to the rest of their pack. Like the right way on the path. Or how far they’ve roamed, so their pack doesn’t get as lost as they did. It’s always some vital information necessary for survival.”

  “That makes sense, I guess.”

  “Wolves aren’t just some fun group of bad boys out for a good time or a random chase. They know how hard the wilderness can be. They’re acutely aware of the struggle to survive. That’s why the lone wolf is pretty much a myth. It’s extremely rare. Wolves are intensely involved with each other as a community. Except maybe at some crazy hippie ashram, you’ll never find a group of beings who appreciate and depend on each other more than a wolf pack.”

  “I’ve always thought they were such beautiful animals,” she continues, sauteéing the onions, retasting the stew, and then giving me three more cloves of garlic to mince. “And when I dug a little deeper, I felt so drawn to them as a model for what a teacher is, or what a teacher can be … For what you are.”

  “Well, I think my teaching’s been pretty much called into question these days,” I remark wryly.

  “Your teaching’s just beginning.”

  I’m astonished that she might view it that way. I know her standards for teachers, and I know how totally I’ve violated almost all of them. It’s incredible that she thinks I might still be cut out for anything educational—except perhaps as a poster boy of “Yoga Don’ts.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Do I look like I’m kidding?” she replies. “Better, I think if you could chop the garlic a little finer.”

  “You’re cut out to be a teacher,” she continues, “because you’re always missing the mark. Always failing. Again and again. But you get up and try one more time until you eventually succeed. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that the greatest saints were the greatest sinners? Back in the day, Momma used to say that to me all the time; took a while for it to sink into my thick head. Now, I’m not sayin’ that sainthood’s coming anytime in your or my future, but the sinnin’ part we got down,” she chuckles.

  Equally intent on the stew, she fine-tunes the seasonings almost microscopically now.

  “And I don’t think anything in the past was sinnin’. Not at all. That’s how you learn where the trails lead. There are lots of places you and I do not want to visit again. The alpha ones have got to go out and find the wrong ways, so they can tell the pack about the right ways. It’s like that saying about Edison finding ten thousand ways how not to invent the lightbulb before he did. The light gets found by the person who’s willing to travel all the paths that don’t lead to it.”

  I keep trying to take all this in. “I don’t think I’ve found anything yet.”

  “You’ve discovered more than you think. Look at all those fancy poses you can do now. Especially the ones where you fell flat on your cute little ass the first couple hundred times you tried them. We all did. Yoga doesn’t get graceful and easy and loose and free for a good long time. And that’s the point. You can teach a pose not just because you can do it; you can teach it well because there was a time when you couldn’t do it.”

  “Poses, maybe, but—”

  She cuts off my objection, passing me another onion to chop. “Poses. Life. It’s the same shit. Good teachers are the ones who got lost the most but didn’t give up. They know—we know—all the paths that lead to nowhere. Now our job is to steer the pack away from those.” She closes her case, “And I’d add that I think you have a few clues about the ones that lead somewhere, even if you haven’t gotten all the way there yet, Trailblazer.”

  Calypso returns home. Gigi brightens.

  “Here, taste this, baby.” Gigi offers Calypso the ladle.

  “It’s perfect. Just needs more cumin,” Calypso comments sweetly.

  “You’re right,” Gigi agrees, foraging for spices. It already smells amazing. Cumin added, the stew is pronounced ready for serving, and we retire to the dining table. We stay up late talking that night, but it’s neither confessional nor therapeutic. It’s just conversation among friends from the same pack.

  That night, I finally sleep like a normal person. I awake eight hours later (instead of twelve) ready to return to the city and try, yet again, to find the right path toward making things right. If Gigi’s even half right, then knowing all the wrong paths should make me an awesome trailblazer indeed.

  OM

  Like some Kool-Aid-drinking Hare Krishnas high on ecstasy, Om is what almost all yogis chant at the beginning and end of classe
s.

  Om is the audible expression of the transcendental, formless ground of reality, the “primordial seed” of the universe, dissolving into the silence that the yoga scriptures describe as “tranquil, soundless, fearless, sorrowless, blissful, satisfied, steadfast, immovable, immortal, unshaken, enduring.”

  But what the hell is this monosyllabic mumbo jumbo, really?

  Yogis believe that everything is vibrating and in motion. The ultimate cosmic buzz really does turn out to be, in fact, Om. It’s not just the password—like “Open Sesame”—Om is the frequency of the universe itself.

  We chant Om because it brings the class together, connecting everyone through the most primal of sounds. It reminds us that we are not alone.

  We chant Om because it brings us inside ourselves, fine-tuning the body/mind connection. It unites us within.

  And the ending of Om—where that last M sound leaves the lips buzzing, moving into silence—is like the dissolving into ultimate reality. Letting go. Releasing. Forgiveness …

  All of those things that are just shy of impossible. But sometimes, maybe not.

  Chapter 29

  Becker’s office is exactly as you would expect: gorgeous and stylized, a huge understated proclamation that he is the kingpin of cutting-edge, hip luxury.

  I don’t know exactly why he consents to seeing me—I don’t have an appointment—

  I chalk it up to a glimmer of recognition that I might be a Young Turk worth talking to, but mostly to good luck—some Japanese meeting has been postponed at the last minute. Simply put, I show up, and since he has five minutes free, I’m granted an audience. I don’t waste time. “I have a proposition for you,” I state.

  “Really?” Becker eyes me. His famously salt-and-pepper hair—a thick mane that has been that color since his twenties—gives him a lupine look. But, no, there’s nothing hungry in the man anymore. There’s something about the way he stares at me, confident and detached and somehow deeply penetrating, that’s more owl-like.

  I let the numbers do the talking, dropping on his desk a reconstructed and modified version of all Monique’s handiwork. He glances through it.

  “And what is this exactly?” he asks.

  “A venture that I think you should take on,” I propose confidently.

  He eyes the numbers, then starts skimming through the concept section. Because we’d worked on the club for three months, this proposal is much meatier—full of fully executed architectural plans, down to the details of barstools, fabric swatches, and menu fonts—than the pitch Monique and I made to the Cleavage Boyz.

  I let Becker take his time. He moves through the material at his own pace, asking a highly pointed question—“You’re getting the banquettes from Avanti’s in Jersey?”—every now and then.

  He gets to the last page, closes the proposal, and leans back in his chair, his hands interlaced behind his head. He gazes off—presumably into the future—as he contemplates the venture I’ve laid out in front of him. After a few moments, he turns to me, staring at me with those owl-like eyes. “You know, I don’t really invest in other people’s establishments.”

  “I know. That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Really?” I can tell he’s intrigued. On a business level, Monique did an awesome job of the plan initially, and all the work I’ve added has made it particularly flushed out and compelling—well, it should be, given that the joint is half-constructed. Yet Becker’s interest in the deal’s possibilities might just run second to his curiosity about why I’m here and what exactly I’m putting on the table.

  “You don’t want me to bail you out, becoming a silent partner?” he asks.

  “No, I can’t imagine that you’d do that,” I reply.

  “You’re right. Okay—what then?” He peers at me. Somehow I’ve stumped the Owl.

  “I want to give it up. Specifically, I want to give the whole thing to you.” Becker takes this in, his face completely neutral.

  “Why? I mean, it’s no secret that you are in a rather nasty jam with your investors.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” I concur.

  “I’m not negating that it’s a major crisis you’re dealing with right now. But on the other hand, I also think, given how far you’ve come, you might be able to find a true silent partner out there who would bail you out. You could still make this thing work.”

  “I know that. But my perspective has changed. I’m interested in something else.”

  “May I ask what?”

  I knew this moment was coming. The deal itself is inherently quite appealing. Monique has made the numbers work beautifully, enough to impress two shrewd Wall Streeters like the Cleavage Boyz. Financially, it’s solid, and if it suits Becker’s brand and his business strategy, he might just do it. But that’s not enough. Someone like Becker is going to want to know what the proverbial catch is. Why else would I be here, giving away such a potential opportunity?

  “There is a catch, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Please enlighten me.” Becker leans back again. He’s wary, of course, as to why I’m potentially being so candid, why I might actually be putting my cards on the table.

  “Under almost any other circumstances, you’d be right. I should just dust myself off from my latest ass kicking, find new backers, and carry on.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Initially, I wanted to launch this venture for all the obvious reasons. To make a lot of money. The rush of nightlife. Getting laid often and easily.”

  Becker nods knowingly. No smiles from him—these are just statements of fact.

  He waits for further explanation from me. Despite my playing this over in my head ten thousand times last night, I realize that there’s no choice but to plunge in.

  He knows the business gist of both my recent failures—the investor’s wife, and wives that keep getting in my way—but I need to tell him more. I condense my whole Shane saga, plus the stuff about my dad, and dreaming of the Big Time, and all my obsessive nightlife knowledge. At some point, I realize I’ve gone way over the sanctioned five-minute slot he allotted early on, but both of us somehow know I can’t be stopped. It’s only after I’ve completely finished that Becker says anything at all. “And the catch is?” he inquires.

  “That you buy the club and offer Shane the position of head chef. Or at least a significant promotion.”

  He takes this in. “So that she’ll know you made it happen for her.” Becker nods in understanding, but not necessarily agreement.

  “No,” I reply, “I don’t want her to ever know. I don’t want anything to do with the club or for her to ever know that it came from me or through me.”

  “May I ask why?” Becker seems genuinely surprised.

  “If she knows I’m part of it, she would never accept the offer. She might even quit if she finds out I’m involved later on. She deserves this despite me, not because of me. This only works if she thinks it comes from you.”

  “And you’re willing to give up your interest in this enterprise just to make this happen? You’re going to walk away and sacrifice this opportunity, simply to even the score?”

  “More or less. I don’t think it evens things at all—but at least it’s a start.”

  Becker takes this in silently. He picks up the proposal, pulls a laptop out of a drawer from his pristine, sleek desk—the kind you wouldn’t think had drawers to begin with—and starts confirming the numbers.

  Nothing happens for what feels like an eternity, but is probably more like ten, fifteen minutes of Becker double-checking Monique’s work and adding some variations in a spreadsheet. I sit there, waiting as patiently as I can.

  First, Becker finishes with the numbers. Then, he spins his chair away from me and stares out the window into the city. I’ve no idea what he’s thinking or what manner of divination shapes his decision-making process. Again, it feels like all eternity as I wait—even longer when he turns his chai
r slowly around toward me, still not speaking.

  Then he says, “I think you’re a fool for giving this one up.” That’s not really an answer. He keeps me waiting even longer.

  Finally, he speaks. “The deal does make sense to me. Provided, of course, that Shane is up to the job—I’ll need to confirm that and find some way of explaining the promotion, but I’ll manage. God knows, I’ve explained away more.”

  “Good. So, it’s settled then.” I’m more than pleased.

  “Yes.” I sense he wants to ask me something more. He’s not a man who hesitates for long. “And this is Monique’s work, I assume,” he asks, referring to all the spreadsheets and projections. I’m not sure if there’s some particular Monique signature to the flowcharts, or whether she’d disclosed all of this to him already. I nod.

  “Typical” is all he says. There’s a universe of meaning behind the single word, but I think it’s obviously wise not to ask any further.

  Becker picks up the phone and alerts his lawyers and accountants to the gist of things, telling them that they need to move quickly. We’re as good as done, and I’m heading out the door.

  It suddenly strikes me as funny—being this close to the man I once would have given anything to become. I always fancied myself “the New Becker,” hoping to become rivals or partners or best friends, depending on the success fantasy du jour. Now, rather than soaking in his wisdom or partying together on one of our yachts, I’m just eager to be done with it all.

  But a moment before I exit and vanish from his sacred and chic stratosphere, one hand on the door, he calls me back. “Look, I’m not a man to second-guess the other guy in a deal, especially when it’s going my way … but you’re sure about this?” he asks. “You’re really sure you want to let this one go?”

  I need no time to reflect. For once, I am certain of something.

  “Absolutely.”

  The door shuts behind me, with no regrets.

  Chapter 30