by Edward Vilga
Linney prides himself on knowing “all the best rich broads in Gotham who can still hold their liquor.” Opening his Old School Rolodex last week, an hour of phone calls is all it takes to gather a roomful of boozy dames armored in Chanel at his townhouse to celebrate God knows what. Although I’m roughly thirty years younger than any of these zesty ladies, I actually wish I could have attended his bash. Brooke Merriman, however, would never have approved. So I slip in through the proverbial back door. With a clear cocktail hour cut-off of 9 p.m., I arrive just as the last guest leaves.
I’m trying to minimize the drama—I really wish I didn’t have to step out from behind the curtains for a Big Reveal Moment—but I don’t know how else to make this work. So I wait in the wings of Linney’s top-floor personal apartment until Shane knocks and enters.
“Come in, come in, my dear. Everything was simply splendid—although I am going to hold you personally responsible if those fabulous crab cakes add a single centimeter to my famous wasp waist.”
Shane smiles at the compliments and hands him the final invoice for the catering. Linney looks at it, nods and hands her the check he’s already made out. “This should cover it.”
Shane glances perfunctorily at the check. The amount startles her.
“I’m sorry, but there must be some mistake. Even with the most generous tip, this is way too much.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it’s about … $15,000 too much.”
Cue my entrance from the alcove. I try to sound reassuring and not overdramatic. “No, I think it’s exactly the right amount actually.”
Shane doesn’t move. At least the element of surprise is working for me here. My deal with Becker may have provided just enough to pay off some old debts, but nothing can guarantee that Shane will actually stay in the room, much less accept the money.
“I’ll let you two have a moment alone,” Linney says, as he exits. “I assume there are still a few crab cakes those girls haven’t devoured. Oh well, another dozen sit-ups tomorrow”
“Why?” is all Shane asks when we’re alone.
“Well, the amount is pretty straight-up: I owe you the money.”
“Yeah, but …” Shane lets the awkwardness linger in the air. At least she’s not bolting.
“Shane, please just take the check. I owe you the money. You shouldn’t have lost your entire investment because I fucked things up.”
“I suppose you think you’ve made your ‘Grand Gesture’ and now you want me to reassure you that everything’s cool between us. But even you ought to know that the money is the least important thing to me.”
Here and now is probably my last chance with her, and God knows how I don’t want to blow it. A deep breath before I launch in. “Look, Shane, I know I screwed up with you, with us, with everything. I fuck things up all the time. I’m an expert at it. But you’re the one who’ll be screwing things up here if you keep holding on to this.”
“Oh, so you think I should just accept a little cash and then shrug it all off and go right back to being BFFs.”
“Much as I’d like that, no I don’t. Not at all.”
“What then?”
“Shane, I want you to forgive me so that you can stop wasting so much energy hating me. Maybe even enjoy a memory or two of us instead of throwing everything out in the trash. A couple great years of hanging out, of a real friendship, gone just like that. As though nothing good ever happened between us.” There’s a pause. At least she’s hearing me out.
“Look, I know I probably don’t ever get to be your friend again and more than anything that totally sucks, but Shane … I want you to forgive me so that YOU can have a little piece of mind. So that you can let go and move on. God knows you deserve better than me, but you certainly deserve a helluva lot better than being haunted by my screwups.”
Shane takes this in. Troglodyte that I am, at least she knows I’m not a liar. For once, something is actually not entirely about me and my needs.
“You can rest assured,” I continue, “that even if you do cash this check, I will still feel pretty miserable about us, pretty much all the time.”
An eternal beat—I can’t tell what the hell she’s thinking—and then …
“Well, that’s some small consolation, I suppose.” There’s a lot less bite to the sarcasm, however.
Shane looks at me intently. Like Gigi, her intelligence and her bullshit indicator have always been razor-sharp.
“You know, I received an interesting offer today.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, a promotion. Becker’s newest place.”
“That’s awesome. You deserve it.”
“Well, actually, I don’t. What I mean is, they don’t know that I do. I haven’t proven myself there yet.” I don’t say anything, trying to reveal nothing in my expression. In this poker game, I want Shane to keep the winning hand.
“It’s a rather bold stroke of good luck,” Shane says.
I shrug. “I wouldn’t question it. You know how unpredictable the business is. Who knows what internal politics go on behind the scenes? Or maybe they just dug out your old résumé and remembered that you graduated at the top of culinary school.”
“I suppose,” she replies, unconvinced. “Still, it’s as if I had a little help on the inside. From someone high up on the Becker corporate ladder. As though someone upstairs really likes me.”
I scan her face. There’s no rancor or accusation. Instead, there’s a softness, an openness—something I haven’t seen in over a year.
“Well, I’m sure somebody does,” I reply, grabbing my coat. “Probably more than you’ll ever know,” I add heading towards the exit.
I don’t want to press my luck here any further than I already have. I’m halfway out the door, but Shane isn’t quite satisfied.
“You know, it’s funny but it seems like the kind of place you always wanted to open.”
“Used to want. Feels like that was a long time ago”
“I had a tour yesterday and if I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn that you had a hand in practically all of it.”
“Probably just a coincidence. I’ve … I’ve let go of that world for now.”
“Well, it seems like a pretty big thing to just give up.” Shane looks at me intently. We both know what she’s really asking.
I shrug, trying to seem casual. “Other things are more important. At least for right now. Oh and”—I try to make this seem casual—“I’d still like you have to have this.”
I can’t remember the last time I prayed, but I’m praying now that she accepts the vintage Escoffier I offer her, the perfect gift regiven for the second time … The moment seems eternal. She makes a decision.
“Thank you,” she says accepting the book and folding up the check in her apron pocket.
“You’re welcome.”
I want to hold her. I want to kiss her. But my mission here is accomplished. Beyond the fifteen grand, she knows I’m behind the promotion, and she knows I know she knows. And, most importantly, she’s accepting it. Shane has let go.
Fortunately, before I can screw anything else up, I manage to make my exit. Nonetheless, looking back, I spy something I never thought I’d see again: Shane’s actually looking at me and rather than a look of scorn or hurt or judgment, a soft smile of forgiveness flickers across her face.
Epilogue
For the past few months, I’ve been totally looking forward to Thank Heaven’s annual New Year’s Day class. This year, however, I’m teaching it.
Gigi and Calypso are off leading a retreat in Costa Rica, and—although no one says this, it’s my theory that it’s only because all the better teachers are away—astonishingly, they’ve actually entrusted the joint to me for today’s bash.
Last night, I had a tasteful glass of champagne with Hutch and Etta, and even though they invited me to tag along for their evening, I know when three’s a crowd. Nine months in,
they’re still in the first flush of romance. The weather’s decent for New York in December, so I walk from Hutch and Etta’s back toward my place.
I am tempted to divert myself and walk past Diwali—rechristened “Glitter” to better fit Becker’s glistening brand of jewels and metals—just to take in the energy from the outside and to know that Shane is happily ensconced in the kitchen. Becker’s unexpected promotion—which Shane had already found a little hard to swallow—was followed by a “surprise” departure of the head chef for Thailand. Shane was given the culinary chance of a lifetime, and surviving the heat of the moment, she did not question this adrenaline rush of opportunity. Instead, she rose to the challenge. The opening reviews were good to great, and like all Becker ventures, this one too (though secretly the embodiment of almost all my best ideas) seems blessed with his Midas touch.
I stand safely across the street, enjoying the bustling of celebratory diners coming in and out, wishing that I could ask them about their experiences inside, experiences in cuisine and music and lighting and design that I shaped and created for them. Crossing the street, I move closer but keep my safe distance.
Nearing the large front window, there’s an intense moment, one full of pride and regret, when I see Shane, in chef’s garb, approach a satisfied table. She graciously receives their compliments, and though I find myself truly happy for her, I restrain myself from entering. Instead of walking up to her, as I long to do, before she can look up and spot me, I turn away and walk towards home. Shane will be there, thriving, for a while. The day may well come when I’d consider going inside, but it is not yet here.
The cold air feels nicely bracing. The evening finds me more or less comfortably at home. Except for friends like Hutch, I’ve imposed a loosely structured six-month moratorium on going out just to add digits to my address book. So I miss the midnight moment that marks the year’s end, and only after the fact do I realize it has happened.
I sleep until 8 a.m., which feels felt incredibly decadent, given my teaching schedule these days. For three months, I’ve been teaching Day-Breakers—Calypso’s signature 7 a.m. class—four days a week, while she’s choreographing for the Wallo Company. Initially, Sassy had been her designated sub, but when, lo and behold, Sassy got cast in an Off-Broadway musical and married a dentist with three kids, Gigi offered it to me.
This morning, I practice for two hours—really just moving around and opening up, more casual stretching and breathing than anything formal—before heading to Thank Heaven. Once again, the weather is moderate enough, especially now that the snow is falling, that I decide to walk to the center.
And now, here I am, seated in front of this class.
It is sold out. I know that’s less because of me than because it’s an annual event. I recognize many of the faces—I am getting better with names—and there are, of course, a bunch of New Year’s resolution types who may or may not last more than a class or two. As always, only time will tell.
We Om together, and it’s amazing. So much more mystical juice here than anyplace else, I think.
My favorite part of class these days are the moments after the Om-ing, those seconds, perhaps even a full minute, in which the teacher says nothing. I like to just sit there, digging the charged stillness.
Sometimes there will be a major fidgeter in the front row, which interferes with the vibe for those not naturally serene (i.e., me). Flashing back on my Catholic school nuns, I want to smack them with a ruler. But most of the time, it’s just all of us soaking in the silence, a silence made all the richer by our having filled it moments before with resonant Oms, truly the sound of everything.
Today, I let the silence play out a little longer than usual. And I do something I never really do: I open my eyes before I tell the class to do the same.
I stare out at their faces, all of them with their eyes shut—all but one, a pretty redhead in the back row who meets my eye and then furtively looks away, as though I’ve caught her in some terribly wicked transgression. Amused, my smile is just for me; like any scolded student, she’s already re-shut her eyelids.
I look out at the faces, faces that manifest different degrees of serenity, but in this moment, they all appear indescribably beautiful to me.
Soon those faces will be dripping with sweat. In fact, for the next two hours, there will be endless varieties of changing expressions of strain and release, resentment and laughter, a myriad of shifting emotions beaming from them. But right now, it’s mostly contentment and patience I see reflected back at me. They’re waiting, I think … Waiting to be served. Waiting to be taught. Waiting to be transformed.
Good, I think. It’s time to begin.
A Note to the Reader
The author has taught yoga privately to several hundred individuals in New York City and many thousands more in group classes. This story was partly inspired by what he learned and experienced.
The writing about yoga poses and philosophy is accurate, although highly personal and delivered via the protagonist’s individual and highly quirky interpretations. Nonetheless, it reflects an informed understanding of this ancient and eternal practice for evolving body, mind, and soul.
Downward Dog, however, is entirely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Many New York City landmarks—ranging from restaurants, bars, and clubs, to celebrities—are mentioned and are used exclusively to further the story.
And yet, on the other hand, as Lord Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita tells us, “all worlds, all beings, are strung upon me like pearls on a single thread” for “infinite are the forms in which I appear.”
In the end—even when we fight most desperately against it—in fiction and in life, the imperishable, unchanging Source of the Universe connects us all.
Hari Om Tat Sa
Acknowledgments
I cannot thank enough all those who have helped bring this book to life, but I’ll certainly try.
Sarah Finn, Producer and Friend, whose faith in this project has meant everything.
My agent, Beth Vesel, who brought the project to Mary Cummings and everyone at Diversion.
Rebecca Gradinger, for wise early insights and support.
All of these wonderful friends who read drafts of the manuscript and offered invaluable comments, corrections, and perhaps most importantly, enthusiasm:
Amy Ahlers
Jeff Capodanno
Marie Carter
Kevin Dewey
Katey Hassan
Tamer Hassan
Sarah Harrington
Julie Hilden
Nina Lourie
Genevieve Lynch
Anne Miano
Adrian Pineiro
Valerie Ross
Daniel Scranton
Emily Stone
I must also thank those whose helpfulness and kindness particularly shone during the time I was writing this book:
Three very excellent roommates over two coasts: Gro Christensen, Daniel Seagan, and Jude English.
Two old friends, Amy Adler and Hillary Kelleher.
The Phleger Family.
Val and Clark Tate for hosting various screenplay readings.
My Mother.
Roger Gonzalez.
Dan Miller.
Dawn Davis.
Cristy Candler, Bryn Chrisman, Kiley Holliday, and Jamie Watkins for their shapely yoga modeling.
Elizabeth Devita-Raeburn, my first Creative Client, and Ellen Yo, my first Platinum one.
And, when it comes to my life as a yoga teacher, special thanks must go to …
Dana Flynn and Jasmine Tarkeshi, founders of the Laughing Lotus Yoga Center. My teaching there–particularly my time studying with Dana Flynn–gave me the wings and foundation for this book.
Stacey Brass for lending me notes for the yoga school final.
The anonymous copywriter at Bloomingdales who described me as a “legendary yoga
master” for the New York Times.
Douglas Boyce, without whose referrals my career would never have taken off.
Nela Wagman, whose steadfast faith in my yoga teaching truly made everything possible.
Patricia Scanlon & Hugh Palmer (my very first students).
Priscilla and Jamie Goldman (my first paying students).
Terrence McNally, for inspiring by example.
And, of course, Belle–the greatest yoga teacher of all …
Finally, I have to thank all the students I taught privately and all those who came so faithfully to my classes.
Truly, more than you will ever know, you taught me.
About the Author
Edward Vilga writes many things–books, plays and films–and makes a little art on the side.
He is also one of America’s leading yoga teachers, having taught thousands of group classes (including one in Times Square), hundreds of individuals privately, and created several bestselling yoga books and DVDs.
After many years in New York City, Edward now lives in San Francisco with Belle, his chocolate lab. He is a Yale graduate. Please visit www.EdwardVilga.com for more information, updates, offers, and to stay connected.
@EdwardVilga
www.Facebook.com/EdwardVilgaIndustries
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