Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  I sit back before finishing. I know I shouldn’t tell everyone to medi-tate twice a day for ten minutes unless I am doing it too, so I will. I’m serious. I put it in my post, so I’m going to do it. I will be listening to Kelly when I fall asleep tonight and right when I wake up in the morning. I won’t take her to work with me because I don’t want Tac to think I’m a copycat or anything. But, I will also listen to her when I get home from work and a bunch on the weekend. Being a spiritual guru comes with responsibilities. I sigh and finish my wine.

  It’s Tuesday already, and it’s rainy and miserable. I went to yoga for the first time in four days, and certainly not the meanie teacher’s class. I feel brighter until I come into the office. Tac is shaking his head like he’s in shock.

  “Wow,” he says.

  Becky drops some mail on his desk and then mine. I’m glad she responds to him.

  “What’s up?”

  “It’s just so weird that this Nala person is talking about a program I listen to.”

  Uh oh.

  “What do you mean?” Becky asks.

  “Well, I just got this week’s post, and she’s talking about abundance, and seriously,” he says, reaching down and opening his drawer, pulling out his player, “this is the very program I listen to every day.”

  Suddenly, Becky shoots me a look like maybe she’s doing the math. I stare hard at my computer screen, but I can feel her dark-brown eyes drilling a hole in my head.

  “So, is it a good article?” I ask, unable to resist.

  “Yeah, it really is. I wonder how old this gal is.”

  Becky says, “I can ask the owner tonight.”

  The owner?

  “So, you practice with the owner?” I say, trying to look casually through my e-mails.

  “She’s so nice.”

  “Is this her?” Now Tac has the page open that shows all the instructors.

  “Yeah,” Becky nods with authority.

  “She looks like Barbie,” he says. I smile inside.

  “She’s super nice and such a caring instructor,” Becky tells us.

  I am filled with jealousy that Becky gets to have her back patted and poses straightened by Yoga Barbie. After all, she was my friend first.

  “Well, maybe casually ask her who writes the posts. I’m just curious if it’s someone local and cute.” Tac tries to look charming. I roll my eyes and wish I were dead.

  “Will do,” Becky says, her words and junk mail left behind as she rushes to reach the ringing phone.

  I return a call to Ernie, my older guy seller, who tells me he and Helena are headed to Germany for a month. He wants me to know how to reach him if we get an offer. I immediately remember I haven’t done a thing to promote his house. Trying to be a spiritual guru blogger and an agent is taking its toll. It’s like having two full-time jobs. I assure him that I am working to get some things going. He also asks if I will come over once a week or so to check on things. I agree; after all, it’s the least I can do. I get off the phone to find that Tac must have been eavesdropping.

  “So, no action on that big listing yet?”

  I can’t believe he’s rubbing it in my face.

  “Nope. Not yet,” I say, spitting venom.

  “Well, just so happens I have an eighth of a page space left in my ad you can have.”

  Now, when he says “have” I’m sure he means “buy,” and when he says “page” I am sure he means in that big fancy super expensive luxury home magazine that he buys a page from all the time.

  “Thanks. Not in my marketing budget this month,” I say, knowing that I don’t even have a marketing budget.

  “No, I mean, free.”

  I eyeball him suspiciously, and he smiles. He’s almost cute, like a little boy, when he gets that smile.

  “There’s no such thing as free.”

  “Look, the space is paid for; I’ve got to fill it. What’s the big deal?”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  He rolls his eyes like I just said something dumb.

  “Buyer leads.”

  I said something dumb.

  “Oh, well then, sure, why not.”

  At first I don’t like the idea. I mean, Tac getting buyer leads from my listing? My listing that I haven’t sold or promoted? Ultimately, the goal is to sell the house, but still, Tac getting buyers from my listing is irritating. He tells me the magazine goes to press today and that I have exactly twenty minutes to get him the information. I wonder what he would have done if he hadn’t heard me on the phone.

  In yoga, there is a pose called half-moon. It is, when presented properly, a beautiful asana. Done the right way, it looks like this: Both arms are straight in the air, hands clasped with index fingers pointing up. Standing ever so straight and keeping those arms against your ears, you sway as far to the left as you can and hold it. Actually, it’s much harder than it sounds and feels way worse than it looks. Anyway, when you get really good at it and go really deep, you look like a half-moon…or a fingernail, in my case. The pose reminds me how to remain graceful off the mat. Today, I must deal with a Federal Housing Administration (FHA) appraisal. Gracefully, of course.

  The foreclosed house that Anna is buying…the one that does not come with a dog, is priced at $165,000. Now that seems like a right nice price compared to recent sales. However, whenever anyone borrows money from a bank, the bank will send an appraiser out to make sure the house is worth the purchase price. And this makes sense. If I borrow $150,000 from you to buy a house, you’re going to want to make darn sure that if I don’t pay you every month, you can take that house back, sell it, and recoup your loss.

  All this is well and good, until the FHA comes along. FHA, also known as the Devil, is “government backed,” meaning there are more rigid rules. So, the appraiser will check the value compared to other homes that have sold in the area, but there’s a dumb health and safety thing attached. With an FHA loan, you must have a stove. Seriously. If the home buyer is a raw-food vegetarian like my friend/boss Yoga Barbie, she would have to have a stove, even if she didn’t want one.

  But no fridge is required. So the house has to have a way to cook food, but no way to keep it from spoiling. Barbie would have to bring an ice chest. Then, there’s this whole heating and air thing. I totally get that if a person is buying a house in Nome, Alaska, for example, some form of heat should be enforced, what with all those Eskimos and igloos. But here? We’re in California. Does the FHA really think that a family couldn’t survive in the Greater Sacramento area without a central air-conditioning unit? Please.

  And finally, floor covering. Apparently the FHA is a bit fussy about the floors being covered. I mean, warehouses have concrete floors and no one dies from it. Plus, haven’t they ever heard of area rugs? Anyway, the house Anna is buying has lovely hardwood floors, but this one little bedroom in the back had carpeting. Had carpet is correct because apparently someone broke in and took it. Who steals carpet?

  The kind of a person who breaks into a house and risks going to jail to steal a 10x10 rug is not someone I would want coming to one of my open houses. So now the carpet must be replaced, and then the appraiser has to go back out to make sure it’s replaced, and then he will let us move forward. Anna is still upset about the dog, I’m livid about the carpet, and the FHA appraiser tells me he cannot discuss the details of the file with me. I get into a half-moon pose, in my mind anyway.

  I am not actually sure that Stan is asleep. He seems to be restless today. Becky is on the phone, probably talking to Brian. Tac is gone. I stand up and assume my pose. My arm is straight and my expression stoic. I am a moon. I will resolve and conquer this fear I have about this appraisal not going through. I inhale remembering that staying connected to my breath is the most important part of yoga, on and off the mat. I stretch and pull and wobble on my high heel, thinking I might have done this better if I had taken my shoes off. Of course, Tac swings around the corner like someone called him for dinner.

  “Who
a…sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt yoga.” He says this so arrogantly I lose my balance and then just quickly act as if I was done anyway. I refuse to speak to someone so childish. Instead, I e-mail the listing agent.

  “Carpet missing in third bedroom. Someone broke in, I think.”

  She immediately e-mails me back.

  “Not sure seller will cover. We can get a cash offer that won’t require an appraisal.”

  In listing agent speak, she is telling me to suck it up and replace the carpet my own damn self. I knew she was bitter about the dog-napping. I swear to myself that I will never sell another one of her dumb listings and that she is a dumb agent. I pull out my VISA card and call the carpet store. I hate FHA loans.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Shanza/Barbie loved my post on abundance. I figure I might get some good karma for promoting Kelly’s meditation program, included a link and everything. Oh, and Barbie asked me to do the Consciousness Fair this weekend. Of course I agreed, and then did an Internet search to find out what it was. It appears to be some kind of event that’s taking place at a local business hotel. It says there will be over sixty-four vendors and numerous guest speakers. It looks like Lotus Gardens, (Barbie’s very cute studio), is one of the sponsors. Sounds fun. Not like I have anything else to do on a Sunday afternoon anyway. Then it occurs to me, what if Ron goes? Ron may pretend to be a yoga lover for some yoga love, but he’s not about to attend an event like this, I hope.

  Just then, I get an e-mail from Barbie.

  “Nala, that’s wonderful! What would you like me to put down as your speaker topic?”

  My speaker what?

  I immediately write her back saying I’ll actually be traveling that day and have no idea what time I will be able to come by, but that I will stop by when I am able. I explain that with the weather and all, committing to a speaking time slot just wouldn’t work out. I remind her that my pink eye is still healing, and I am bit self-conscious about how I look. I seriously hope she buys this.

  I haven’t had anything to drink besides a big glass of water with lemon for at least one day. Even with all this yoga, my pants are still snug, and there can be no reason except my wine. I wonder if lying is fattening. I decided this morning that I would drink water instead of wine or vodka every weeknight. Well, Friday to Sunday excluded, because, after all, even a guru gets to have fun. As if Barbie’s message wasn’t enough to send me running for the corkscrew, it now appears my mother has discovered the world of free game apps.

  Great.

  In the last four hours she has invited me to play word games, drawing games, music games, and three different kinds of trivia games. What happened to my good karma? I text her.

  “Mom, I don’t play those games…too busy.”

  “Doing what?” she types back. And actually, she has a good point. I mean, it’s not like she knows about my secret undercover guru role, and Ron isn’t around, so really, what am I doing? I can’t think of one thing to say, so I accept the least irritating word game—Scrabble—and play it with my mother. Actually, it’s kind of fun. Then I see another e-mail pop up. This time, it’s not from a name I recognize.

  “Dear Nala, I got your e-mail address from Shanza. We’re very interested in syndicating your column on our site. The pay is fifty dollars a post. Please let me know if you are interested. Sincerely, Bill Keen, Spirit Spot Bloggers.”

  What can I say? I’ve already dug myself so deep I can’t even see the light. And really, this has been a fairly time-consuming project with the research and writing time alone. Not to mention what a great toll all of this lying has taken on my nerves. I think fifty dollars per post, times four, is a very well-deserved perk. After all, it’s not like I can take advantage of Barbie’s “free yoga for life” offer. I write Bill Keen back and tell him that would be lovely. He asks me if I have a PayPal account, and I tell him yes, of course. Then I go create one.

  My mother is pretty good at this game, so I re-challenge her and lose again. This, on the first night I decide not to drink myself to sleep.

  At the office the next day, I get a call from some guy who says he’s the promoter for some singer I never heard of. He tells me he drove by my listing and it would be perfect.

  “Perfect for what?” I ask, hoping his famous client wants to buy it.

  “For our video.”

  “What video?”

  “Well, we’re doing a music video, and a small part of it is scripted to be in front of a really nice house.”

  “Not sure that will work.”

  “But don’t you see?”

  “See what?”

  “It’s great advertisement for both you and the listing.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, you’ll get end credits as the Sacramento Luxury Real Estate Agent, and of course, we can do a blurb about the house, too.”

  “What kind of video is this?”

  At this point, I am still letting the words “Sacramento Luxury Real Estate Agent” marinate in my head. Tac would just die. And who would get all the buyer leads then?

  “Angel is a singer, and he’s going places. We’re just doing a one-song release, and we’ve taped it all except for this last part.”

  “Well, my sellers are in Germany.”

  “We don’t even need to go inside. We’ve got generators to power the lights and sound.”

  Wow. If they have generators and lights and sound equipment, they must be professionals.

  “OK, I guess. When do you want to do this?”

  Ernie did ask that I check on the house.

  “Sunday?”

  Sunday is my hotel holistic thing.

  “Do I actually need to be there?”

  “Nope. I’ll call you Monday and let you know how it went.”

  I’m a little uneasy, because, after all, I don’t know this guy or his singer. It sounded legitimate enough, and it’s not like anyone is going to destroy the front of Ernie’s house or anything. I take a moment to bask in the pride of my upcoming recognition as Sacramento’s Luxury Agent.

  Dawn says that gratitude is the highest vibration we can reach. I don’t know about vibrations, but she says it so convincingly when I am in my corpse pose that I am sure she must be right. I think of all the things I have to be grateful for. Herman comes to mind. I’ve noticed, lately, that his fur is getting really shiny, probably from being inside. Or, maybe it’s the tuna flavored cat food he’s so fond of. At any rate, I am grateful for that.

  I’m grateful for my work and the commissions I’m about to earn, for my health and my toned arms. Heck, I’m feeling all generous and loving, so I guess I could say I’m even grateful for Becky and her dumb overpriced juicer. I mean, who really needs a juicer that cleans itself anyway? I have no real issues with cleaning my own blender. I’m thankful for that.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  It’s been a whole morning since my mom’s taken her turn at our word game. Normally, she informs me if she’s doing anything she thinks I might need to know about—which is usually way more than I might need to know about. I can see, for example, telling me she’ll be going out of town or having extensive dental work, but how good her eggs are? Not so much. Today, though, is Friday and I can’t recall her telling me she had anything interesting or off-site going on. So I send her a text. Yes, I know, a glutton for punishment.

  “You OK?” I type.

  It takes her a full five minutes to respond. So it’s come to this. A once young and average-looking, thin real estate agent with a long-term live-in boyfriend and promising career is waiting with her thunder thighs, bored and alone, for her mother to text her back.

  “I’m fine, honey, how are u?”

  Now she’s using shorthand?

  “OK, just checking. U didn’t take your turn.”

  “Getting ready for date.”

  What!

  Now let me just say, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with old people dating, and maybe sixty-something isn’t that ol
d, but still, it’s my mom. Then I realize, she probably means with her dentist or her best friend, Irene. She and Irene have some monthly lunch thing they go to.

  “With who?” I ask, just to be sure.

  “Bill.”

  “Who?” I rack my brain but cannot come up with a single family friend named Bill. The gardener’s name is Hank, the tax guy’s name…too early for taxes, and her dentist is Dr. Clark.

  “I met him online.”

  Now I know I’m going to have a coronary. When she got Internet last year, she was all paranoid about talking to strangers, and here she’s hooked up with some guy named Bill who, for all intents and purposes, could be a mass murderer.

  “Mom!” I type back.

  “What?”

  Finally, and against my better judgment, I initiate a phone call. I know, I know, but after all, I am sort of responsible, being her only daughter and all. Besides, I am concerned she’s experiencing early senility and that I might need to get power of attorney so I can have her institutionalized.

  “Hi, honey!” she says, all chipper. Definitely showing signs of something.

  “Mom! What do you mean you met someone online?”

  “Just what I said. His name is Bill.”

  I take a deep, patient breath. I’m starting to sound like she did that time in seventh grade when I helped Sandy Patterson steal sunglasses from the mall. It was all Sandy’s idea.