Lost in LA

by Amy Craig

  * * * *

  The national organization’s pre-recorded telephone message gave Wylie a lot of options, but none of them addressed her needs—‘What to do when your instructor closes a certified studio with zero notice.’ She pressed the zero key until the system hung up on her, then she called back and tried again. When the list of options expired, a customer service representative took her call and greeted her with the pleasantries of a scripted response.

  This isn’t her fault. She cleared the negative energy from her mind, laid out the entire chain of events and fought to keep her frustration from clouding her word choice. “So”—she injected a note of optimism to buffer the desperation of her question—“what do I do now?”

  “This is a very unfortunate situation,” said the receptionist.

  “Tell me about it.” Wylie tried to visualize the seamless transition that would alleviate her worries about achieving certification. She imagined the sound of the receptionist’s keystrokes as she found a receptive teacher and arranged Wylie’s life along the well-trodden path of a collegiate transfer. That’s not how this industry works.

  She had heard rumors of yoga instructors who got burnt out trying to live above the poverty line while depending on the success of someone else’s studio. Most of the rumors ended in depression and anxiety. To make matters worse, she knew studio owners often asked new yogis to teach ‘community’ or donation classes after attaining certification. Instead of twenty-five dollars a student, the new instructors pulled in twenty-five dollars a class while everyone in the back office hoped these aspiring yogis and curious community members would stick around or make a commitment to the studio.

  The representative sighed. “The organization carefully assesses each studio’s training program and takes a holistic approach to certification. When we certify or approve a training program, we are certifying the program as a whole and not its parts,” the representative said.

  Wylie took a deep breath. “I’d like to transfer my course credits to another certified studio.”

  “The current pathway to certification is to complete a full training at a registered school.”

  The pressure of unshed tears made Wylie blink and she struggled to contain her frustration. I am not going to cry about this policy. I am not going to cry about this policy. I am not… She sniffled. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

  “Due to program constraints, it is not possible to complete parts of your training at different schools or to transfer completed work between programs.”

  Wylie got to her feet and paced. “But don’t you lay out the coursework? Don’t you strive for consistency? I mean, what’s the whole point of this certification if you can’t guarantee that students are receiving homogenous instruction?”

  “It’s a certification program, not the SAT.”

  “If it was the SAT, it wouldn’t have cost me two thousand dollars!”

  The representative cleared her throat. “Of course. Can you send us a copy of the records? I’ll elevate the issue and see if management can offer you a path forward.”

  Wylie frowned. “I assumed the studio owner submitted them electronically or something.” The receptionist’s silence made her squirm. “Maybe I can get them from her.”

  “That would be the easiest solution. In the meantime, why don’t you visit neighboring studios and find one with an instructor you’d like to use in the future? Attending a few classes might give you a better perspective on this adventure.”

  “Would you be able to transfer my course fees to the new studio? I paid Cynthia nearly two thousand dollars.” More silence. “Or at least a portion of them?”

  “It’s a very giving community,” the representative said.

  Wylie heard the subtext beneath her words. You have to be independently wealthy or have another job to work at someone else’s studio. I need organized healthcare, but I also need my beachside practice. How long can I get along without the twin support? She cleared her throat. “So I’m on my own?”

  “Our mission is to promote the integrity and diversity of yoga instruction.”

  Wylie closed her eyes and acknowledged a truth she had long suspected about her chosen profession. Teaching yoga instructors is like a multilevel marketing scheme and I’m right in the middle of it. “Thank you for your help.”

  She got out a pen and a piece of paper as she scanned job listings and looked for benefit buzz words that might get her out of this mess. Maybe I should go for an overall fitness certification, like working as a group exercise instructor, or I could get financial aid and study kinesiology and physiology at the local community college. She thought of her past asthma attacks and shook her head. At least at a gym, I’d be an employee, know what I’m getting paid and have workers’ comp. If they didn’t have enough participants for yoga, I could teach something else.

  She thought about the looks her parents had exchanged when she’d laid out her plans for the beachside class. ‘But I’m good at this,’ she had said. ‘You taught me that everyone should find a way to live their passions.’

  Her parents had locked gazes, giving her just enough freedom to flounder.

  She closed her eyes and flopped onto the floor. But I’m good at this!

  Leaving her bedroom, she grabbed her mat, determined to clear her mind before dinner. She messaged her roommates.

  Leading a yoga session on the deck in an hour. Join me if you can.

  Jack opened the door to his bedroom and raised his eyebrows. “Most people expect more than an hour’s notice.”

  “I’m spontaneous,” she said, walking past him.

  The distance between them grew.

  “Oh, I hear you. We all heard you last night.”

  She flinched but kept walking, determined to ignore Jack’s contempt for the choices she made. I signed up for roommates, but if I controlled the lease, I would have never let him move in.

  * * * *

  Antonia came to the roof deck session. Afterward, she stayed to chit-chat and share community gossip. “You can use my shower whenever the upstairs one gets busy.”

  Wylie smiled, figuring she could slip into Nolan’s suite if she needed immediate hot water. “What I need is a pretty dress that doesn’t scream ‘yoga gear’.”

  The other woman laughed. “Like a cocktail dress or something more fluid?”

  Wylie imagined the wind-swept effect of riding in the Bronco. “Fluid. Definitely fluid.”

  Two hours later, Wylie stood in front of a mirror and examined the results of her efforts and Antonia’s loan. Her hair fell in soft waves and her skin glowed from the abrasion of a citrus-scented exfoliator. I’d rather let Nolan’s stubble do the hard work. Will he care that this is a borrowed dress? Has he seen Antonia wear it?

  Her self-doubts vanished when he knocked on the door. “Hey, are you ready?”

  As ready as I’ll ever be. She took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.

  “You look amazing,” Nolan said.

  “More amazing than naked?”

  He pulled her close and kissed the soft spot beneath her ear that would leave her light makeup intact. “Different, but just as good.”

  “So, dinner with pseudo-grandparents is equivalent to sex?”

  He straightened. “Is that what you heard?”

  She shook her head and linked her hand with his. “No, I heard you making promises about what happens next.” He raised his eyebrows and she glanced toward his room. “At some point, this dress has to come off. Do you plan to be there?”

  “I do.”

  “Then let’s go make polite conversation and small talk.”

  He laughed and led her to the garage. “You drive a hard bargain.”

  She smiled and followed him to the main level, pretending to ignore the way Rikard and Jack locked eyes as they walked through the room. The drive to the restaurant seemed as easy as the classic rock songs coming from the radio station. At the coast, a breeze blew in from the water and tourists
took pictures of the oceanside village.

  A waiter brought them to a table where Patricia and Jonathan waited, cocktails in hand. The older couple rose and greeted them with handshakes and cheek kisses, one smelling of white wine and the other of rose. Wylie smiled through the encounter, wondering if their pleasantries would persist when Nolan got to business. Am I taking advantage of them by pretending to be more than Nolan’s friend with benefits? Or is this dinner a scheme and we’re all here just here to see and be seen?

  “I think you’ll like this restaurant.” Jonathan looked up from the thick paper menu he held. His aged hands and suntanned skin stood out against the heavy white cardstock. “They serve classic American comfort food from breakfast to dinner. I particularly enjoy the wild mushroom burger.”

  My dad makes a mean burger, but it doesn’t come with mushrooms. She scanned the menu and raised her eyebrows as ribeye transitioned to organic juices and soups made with bone broth. She glanced at Patricia and the confused frown marring the woman’s pale skin. Her lipstick matched the outline of her lips, but she wondered how many times the older woman had blotted it with a tissue and an unsteady hand. “They’ve certainly got something for everyone. Matzo ball soup?”

  Patricia smiled. “Oh, I just love that soup, but Mort’s Deli makes it better.”

  “Mort’s Deli closed.” Her husband took her hand. “What about some fried chicken?”

  She rearranged her iced tea. “I’ll just have a salad.”

  “Have you tried Nolan’s food truck?” Wylie asked to break the silence. “He’s doing amazing things with basic ingredients.”

  “You used to make sand soup on the beach when you were a kid,” Patricia said. “I remember watching you during school breaks when your mom and dad had meetings they couldn’t miss.”

  Nolan scratched his beard. “Those were good times.”

  The older woman smiled. “I got the best of both worlds. A sweet, cheeky little boy that I could send home after dinner.” Her husband laughed and took her hand. “What?” she asked. “It’s true.”

  Wylie smiled and imagined running into a chubby-faced adolescent on a public beach. We would have viewed each other as just another kid. I mean, unless we’re talking twelve again. I would definitely have noticed his abs.

  The waiter came to take their orders.

  Wylie fidgeted, wondering when the business conversation would begin. She looked at Patricia’s hazed expression and ever-present smile. Well, she might be as lost as I am.

  Jonathan wiped the condensation from his water glass and looked at her. “So you teach yoga?”

  She raised her napkin and blotted her lips. “Freelance beachside yoga classes.”

  Patricia blinked. “That’s nice.”

  “Price Ross comes to my classes,” she reminded them.

  Jonathan’s brow wrinkled. “Is he better at yoga than accounting?”

  “I mean, there’s no ‘good’ in yoga. We’re all trying to get better and find balance.” She blinked and remembered to play the role of the poolside hostess. “I guess he hasn’t fallen lately, if that counts.”

  The older couple laughed and Nolan squeezed her hand beneath the table. She wanted to ignore the flush of awareness that came when his thigh brushed hers, but her body betrayed her and warmed to his heat. This is just business to him. Shifting her legs beneath the white tablecloth, she suspended her resistance and tried to relax. Why can’t I enjoy the perks of playing along?

  “Wylie’s being modest. She’s a yoga instructor, but she’s also got a heart of gold. She’s been petitioning me to bring the food truck into the communities that might need it the most. I did a little research this afternoon and realized the homeless population is growing much faster than I thought. There must be three thousand people seeking shelter near Skid Row.”

  “Hot food isn’t going to cure their ailments,” Jonathan said as the waiter delivered their salads. He picked up his fork then set it down and adjusted his position in the chair. “Bunch of misfits just looking for handouts. Didn’t we approve a bunch of new taxes to shelter them until they get their acts together?”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Nolan said. “Residents have approved hundreds of millions of dollars for new housing and services, but the tax money’s going to longer-term projects. Proposition HHH was a huge housing ballot measure, but those projects are taking years to get off the ground.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t let red tape stall her projects. If she can do it, the city should be able to do it faster.”

  Wylie shifted in her chair.

  “I’m trying to tackle our city’s problems from another perspective,” Nolan said, conceding the man’s point. “The economy is booming and people like my mother make money off progress, but most people live on wages that aren’t keeping up.”

  “Now you want to solve income inequality and the wage gap? That’s ironic.”

  Nolan held his ground. “I want to leverage my resources and give people a way to do more with what they’ve got.”

  “You’re chasing a fool’s dream, Nolan. The men and women sleeping in parking garages aren’t looking for steady work and balanced nutrition. At some point, I guarantee they had that option and decided on something else.”

  Wylie opened her mouth to defend Penny Lane, her one point of contact.

  Patty set down her fork and blotted her mouth with the soft linen of her napkin. “Jonathan, you know better than to stereotype an entire population,” she said, beating Wylie to the punch.

  The older man winced, looking chagrined.

  “Jewish law demands that everyone has access to adequate and permanent housing. We take the poor into our homes and feed them. It’s a hallmark of our religion. Why can’t we help Nolan do the same?”

  John spread his hands wide to encompass the restaurant. “Not the time or place, Patty. If you want to get into the subtleties of Jewish law, we’ll table the issue and discuss it with the scholars and the academics.”

  Patty rolled her eyes. “You know as well as I do that the point of Jewish law is to be good citizens and help repair the world. That’s why I filled my days volunteering with grassroots organizations when I realized we wouldn’t have children.”

  Her husband stared at her.

  Patty stared right back.

  “What a rich faith,” Wylie said, trying to fill the void in the conversation.

  The older woman laughed. “You grow up with ideas, but you don’t understand them until you have the perspective of an adult. Girls these days have a bat mitzvah and the religious education to go with it. My mother taught me the subtleties of her social and cultural experience, but she was right about one thing. If my husband wants to argue about law and tradition, we’ll do it at home.”

  “Patty—”

  “Suffice it to say that taking in the poor and feeding the poor… We do them both, and I don’t see a single reason we can’t throw weight behind Nolan’s outreach as well.”

  “Why can’t the city manage the crisis?” John asked. “It’s not just food. It’s the liability. The threat.”

  “Food is a good starting point,” Nolan said.

  The older man shook his head. “Homeless shelters and transitional housing can meet their needs. I have no problem donating money.”

  Patty snorted. “The county doesn’t have enough resources to shelter everyone. The cost of living in this city has grown so high that wages can’t keep up with rent. People want to work, but they still need somewhere to live and something nutritious to eat.”

  John smiled. “You’ve always had a big heart.”

  The older woman took a deep breath, unwilling to give up ground to a loving compliment. “Let the city fight the housing crisis and let Nolan make good food.”

  “What are the chances his venture will implode while we’re alive to see it?”

  Patty sighed. “We should all enjoy the breeze while we can.”

  And we’ve lost her.

  “Jo
nathan, you’ve been through a million excuses to hold on to the commercial kitchen. Let it go already. Nolan’s a good kid. He’s not going to turn it into a strip mall. He wants to make food. I spent my whole life making food.”

  Nope. She’s still there. Wylie smiled at the woman, imagining the stained apron strings and dog-eared recipes that filled her afternoon hours. “And he wants to hire people to work,” she said, adding what little clout she carried. “He wants to give them the means to solve their problems on their own.”

  Jonathan looked back and forth between her and his wife.

  Yep, you were young and idealistic too. Wylie wondered when it would be safe to eat her salad.

  “The U.S. Supreme Court already weighed in on this matter. Authorities can’t stop people from sleeping on public property if no other shelter is available. The city’s got to build more permanent supportive housing and temporary shelters to get people off the streets. Until that happens, isn’t cheap food just enabling the camping we’re trying to eradicate?” He turned to Nolan and crossed his arms. “That same little boy who built sandcastles also wanted to be an astronaut. What happens to my property when you’re over this altruistic whim?”

  “Sir, it’s not a whim and it’s not just about the homeless population.” He took a deep breath. “A few years ago, I went carousing through Europe with my roommate from school. My mom told me to do it. ‘Sow your oats then come back to Isla Investments and sit on the board.’”

  “It was solid advice.”

  “Except she didn’t count on the reality check that came with sending me into the real world. My friends and I spent an evening at a nice restaurant next to our hotel. I gave my leftovers to a man sitting on a street corner who had nothing but a sleeping bag to ward off the night’s chill. He had to sit on a pile of cardboard boxes and I chose to give him a swan made of aluminum foil.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated it,” Wylie said. “The food, I mean.”