Secrets of a Spiritual Guru (Guru 1)

by Tamara Dorris

  “Not sure any really. Indecent exposure, but that’s not Mel’s fault. We just want to play nice with the neighbor.”

  The crowd kind of disperses. I start toward my desk and hear Becky telling Tac about her new grapefruit diet. What? She’s sharing diet secrets with him instead of me? I feel our friendship has grown cold with my recent predilection for spiritual enlightenment. I turn around to hear what they’re saying.

  “Seriously, they say a grapefruit a day will help rid belly fat.” She says this as if she has any.

  “Hmm…I’ll have to try that,” Tac says, patting his own stomach, trying to act like he has a six-pack.

  “But aren’t they hard to eat?” I ask, never having been a person who wants to go to any great length to catch, kill, or peel my food.

  “That’s what I thought, but no, if you just peel them like an orange, they’re fine. And really yummy.”

  Feeling our bond has been renewed, I ignore Tac with a shrug and head to my desk, making note to pick up a couple dozen grapefruit on the way home. I look at my phone and the little piece of paper in my hand. I’m not at all sure what to say to this Mr. Miller.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mr. Miller. This is Melissa Murphy, the real estate agent—”

  “Oh, you,” he says, not very politely.

  “I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am about what happened…I had no idea there would be nudity.” Or a Ferrari.

  “Well, people can do what they want in the privacy of their own home, but not when kids are watching.”

  “I absolutely agree. And again, I’m sorry.”

  “Ernie back from Germany yet?” he asks.

  It didn’t even occur to me what Ernie and Helena might think or do when they find out that there was an X-rated rap video shot in their driveway. Maybe I was hoping that this would just fade away and they would never find out. But this Mr. Miller guy knows them. Crap. I’m guessing that this is not the kind of thing that he will forget to mention. Maybe when taking the trash out to the curb one weeknight, he’ll say, “Hey Ernie, too bad you missed the naked women in your driveway last month. It was quite a show. Yeah, the rap video your agent set up.” Yikes.

  When we get off the phone, I check my voice mail and am actually pleased the guy who set up the video left a message apologi-zing. I don’t even remember his name. I call him back and explain that if I lose this listing because of him, I will do something drastic, although I am not at all sure what that might be. The guy feels bad and asks for Mr. Miller’s number. He says he’ll call him and apologize too, making sure he knows that I was completely unaware that there would be nudity. He also tells me it was a tasteful video and asks if I would like to take a look.

  I review some paperwork, and the phone rings again. This time it’s someone asking about the Granite Bay listing. He says he and his wife would like to see it, can I show it now?

  I am ecstatic. I can show it any time. Even in my sleep! Just let me know and my lockbox key and I will be right there. Well, actually, Granite Bay takes awhile to get to, but it’s one of those “worth it” commutes. I tell the guy I can meet him in twenty minutes. Before we hang up, he tells me, “That video was some great marketing.”

  I am mortified.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I am pleased as pie that this nice young—apparently rich—couple likes my Granite Bay listing. In fact, they tell me that once they get through with their lender appointment this week, they will contact me about writing an offer. I literally float home.

  In real estate you are either the buyer’s agent or the seller’s agent, or both. Being both is rare. In fact, it requires finesse, skill, contractual knowledge, and agency experience. It’s tricky. In this case, for example, I need to be best friends and Ultra Agent to Ernie and Helena, keeping their very best interests and profits the center of my universe. But now, if Jay and Lana (the maybe buyers) let me write an offer for them, all of a sudden, they are another sun in my universe. Two suns in the same universe can get complicated.

  I’ve already decided that if I write the offer for them, I will tell Ernie that I will take less commission. That way, it’s like he’s sharing his spot in the center of my universe, but he’s also getting paid for the space. I will make so much money.

  Since it’s day one of a no-drinking week, I plop down at the kitchen table with two grapefruits and some paper towels. Following Becky’s sage advice, I pretend the big round fruit is an orange. I peel it and am actually impressed that Becky figured this out. After all, in the past, I’ve always attempted to eat grapefruit (which I knew about way before Becky) cut in half with a little grapefruit spoon—the ones with the jaggedy edges that look like a prison weapon—except they’re for shanking grapefruits, not people. Anyway, that way was always so messy; thus, I never eat grapefruits.

  So I have it completely peeled, quite proud of my accomplishment, when suddenly I realize that unlike an orange, the white covering is much thicker and doesn’t seem to want to come apart. Did I get the wrong kind? I battle with the damn thing and finally see a break in what I am going to refer to as “the second skin.” Pulling it open with all my might, I squirt myself in the eye. Grapefruit juice stings. At this point, I’m seriously considering that Becky has fabricated this entire “easy to peel” thing. Maybe she is mad at me? I manage to separate the beast into three sections. It is literally impossible to break the segments apart neatly like you do with an orange. Herman is sitting at the table thinking I’m insane. I am now yanking this sucker apart, not caring about how much juice I’ve gotten all over the place. I will eat this if it kills me. Actually, it’s pretty good, like Becky said. I have gone through nine paper towels, and my mascara is running, but I sit like a proud warrior, winner of the grapefruit battle.

  In my office, I check e-mails. Maybe Barbie has had a chance to read my post on the event. I know it didn’t get put on the website today or Tac would have mentioned it. After all, he is a subscriber. Sure enough, a message from Shanza/Barbie is sitting in my inbox.

  “Dear Nala, What a great review of the event! We had an amazing turnout, and I am so honored to have had you attend; however, I’m baffled as to how I missed you since I was here from beginning to end. Also, I noticed you didn’t check in under your name. You must have paid? That’s just like you, always giving to others. Your article really captured the heart of the event, and I’m going to send the link to all of our vendors. I especially loved what you said about the Austrian crystals and was thinking a spiritual post on the philosophy of feng shui would make an awesome post. Let me know. P.S….just wondering if you officiate weddings. Namaste, Shanza.”

  Weddings?

  She couldn’t possibly be talking about marrying Ron, right? I mean, Ron has been really clear that he’s not the marrying kind. No way. She’s probably letting one of her enlightened yogis get married in the studio or something. Maybe afterward, instead of throwing bird-killing rice, people will throw sprigs of wheatgrass and burn incense? That actually sounds kind of cool. Speaking of bird-killing rice, people have thrown rice at weddings for decades, right? You’d think that after a certain number of dead birds with bloated rice bellies, someone would make the connection. Another dead bird with a belly full of rice…this makes 894,092…weird so many of them are in June. But I guess we are not that smart, or maybe we just haven’t gotten over that whole Hitchcock bird movie?

  I’m torn between calling Crystal Visions, since I miss her so much, and checking horoscopes online. I figure the online option will be cheaper. I find a great website with all sorts of information. I’m going to have to do a post on astrology sometime. I look up Sagittarius first. It says I am ruled by Jupiter. I like that, being it’s such a big important planet and all. It also tells me I love adventure and am optimistic. Boy, these things are good. Next I look up Leo…wait, that’s Tac. What is Ron? Oh yeah, Taurus. It says Ron is family-oriented. I am pretty sure Ron hates kids and is diabolically opposed to sacred unions conse
crated by marriage. It says he is grounded. Grounded in front of the television maybe. Just for kicks, I look at Leo. It tells me that Leos like to be the center of attention. I am sure that is code for egotistical and arrogant. It also says they are passionate and good lovers. Eww. I subscribe to the daily astrological forecast. After all, it’s free and promises to tell me every day if there’s anything I need to know about. I’m deliriously happy. Maybe I’ll send Crystal Visions a nice card.

  Chapter Thirty

  My car is making a funny noise. Ron may be a lousy, lying cheater, but he was always good at funny car noises. I take it to the drive-thru place, and they tell me a belt has broken and it has to be replaced. This will cost me forty-eight dollars. I realize that forty-eight dollars would cover the shipping and handling of the juicer I want. Or, it could get me two readings. I could have even gotten two feng shui crystals. Not counting tax, of course. I shake my head and tell the guy to put the stupid belt on. I am convinced my car is a Leo.

  Back at the office, Becky wants to have a girl talk. I miss her, so I say yeah. Since she’s willing to skip her dang smoothie, I’ll have lunch with her. We go for salads at a place close-by. It’s fun to have a chance to catch up also we can talk about healthy eating and yoga now.

  “So, Tac told me you went to that thing?”

  It takes me a minute to realize what’s she’s talking about, but then, I don’t go to very many “things.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wanted to, but Brian wasn’t feeling so well.”

  Maybe too many grapefruits?

  “Bummer. Is he OK now?”

  “Oh, yeah. Just tired. He’s been working extra hours.”

  To afford that juicer you just had to have. Spoiled.

  “Ah.”

  “OK, so I want to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the truth, OK?”

  Immediately, I think she’s on to me. I feel like I’ve been cornered. I cower behind my Cobb salad.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you think you would ever go out with Tac?”

  I am wondering if Becky is really drinking lemon water like me, or if maybe she has snuck some vodka in. Why wouldn’t she share?

  “Are you nuts?” I say, relived enough that I am able to bite into a piece of hard-boiled egg.

  “Well, I may be way off, but I think I know him pretty well.”

  “So. What’s that have to do with me?”

  “I think he likes you.”

  I am silent. Maybe all this juicing has gone to her head.

  “He doesn’t, trust me. Besides, he’s your age anyway.”

  “I think he does. I also think he has a crush on that Nala person.”

  Tac likes both of me?

  I’ve agreed to stop by my mom’s house after work. She told me that this Bill guy is so great in person that she’s decided to go to dinner with him next weekend. I tell her I want to hear all about it, but really, I just want to check her dead bolts and her temperature. Unlimited text messaging has changed her.

  “So, Mom,” I say, taking a swig of bottled water that I didn’t even know she was buying now, “don’t you think it’s a little soon to have a real date with someone you just met?”

  “Oh, honey, we text all the time.”

  I knew she should have gotten a different plan.

  “But still. How well do you really know him?”

  “I know he lost his wife almost two years ago.”

  Maybe he killed her?

  “That seems awful soon to be dating.”

  “My dear daughter, most people don’t wait nine years like I did. Besides, we have so much in common.”

  What could she have in common with a foot doctor?

  “Such as?”

  “Well, we both lost a spouse…we both like Chinese food and travel…”

  “We’ve already established that you don’t travel well.”

  “But I’m going to try it.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “We’re going to start with Las Vegas in December.”

  “Mom, December is my birthday and Christmas!”

  “How many days do you need, honey? That’s only two, and I’m pretty sure there’s several more in the month.”

  She is impossible. I try to reason with her, explaining that her list of commonalities read more like a dating service checklist, and she tells me yes, that’s exactly what it is. I leave her house somewhat distraught. My old mother is going to Vegas with a retired foot doctor, and I am going home to tackle a grapefruit. I remember that I am supposed to accept what is. I can do this.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  I’m reading about feng shui. The premise is that the stuff in our houses is a reflection of our minds. This scares me. And that there’s some kind of energy in the stuff we have. I refer to my expert consult site, Wikipedia.

  Feng shui pronounced or Fung shui, is a Chinese system of geomancy believed to use the laws of both Heaven (Chinese astronomy) and Earth to help one improve life by receiving positive qi.[3]

  The article I’m reading tells me that when we have clutter in our homes, we have clutter in our minds. I think about my closet. I am in deep trouble. Apparently, back in the old days, like really old days, people in Asia chose locations for their homes and businesses based on the proper feng shui position. I guess it gets really complicated, too, like which directions front doors face and whether or not you have a river behind you. Something about gold fish, too. I wonder about swimming pools, suddenly glad short-seller Kim doesn’t have one. A different article says that a house with mountains (or a strong structure) behind it is “auspicious.” I love this word. Finally, I find out where my money corner is. I was starting to worry I didn’t have one, but sure enough, we all do. According to what I’m reading, if I stand at my front door and look to the farthest left corner, that is my money corner.

  My money corner is a mess. It’s between a couch and a chair that no one ever sits in. The table between them is piled high with old magazines and the sports sections of seventy-two newspapers that Ron left behind. I see a cobweb in the spot my Austrian crystal should be hanging. The lamp that is somewhere behind the stacks is broken, I am sure. I think one of the articles mentioned that burnt out light bulbs are bad. I scowl at the lamp. At least my coffee table is fairly neat. Very dusty, though. Being that part of my commitment to spiritual enlightenment includes practicing what I preach, I immediately go to work. Even Herman seems happy to see the stacks of papers and magazines go.

  A mere two hours later, my living room has been completely cleaned and de-cluttered. I have gotten my feng shui game on good. It took me twenty minutes of that time to figure out how to hang my little ball, but with a couch pillow doubled up to stand on, and a thumb tack, I was able to get the little sucker up there. I wonder how long it takes to work. I go write my post.

  “Feng shui, or Heaven and Earth, as our ancient Asian friends know of it, is more than a way to move your furniture around. Behind money corners and hanging crystal balls, there is energy. This energy is everywhere, all the time. So while making sure the places we live and work are not filled with clutter is key to the art of feng shui, maybe knowing how we organize and treat our own spirits and personal space is equally important. Perhaps when we look at our external space as a direct reflection of our internal space, we will know, with both spaces, what to keep and what to release. Namaste.”

  I am pleased with my new article and send it off to Barbie, just when I see she has sent me an e-mail.

  “Greetings, Nala, I’m sorry to hear you do not officiate ceremonies for personal reasons, and I will certainly respect your privacy. To answer your question, yes, it is me. The man I have been with only a couple months now has asked me to be his life partner. We will be married in February and would both be honored to have you attend the small gathering here at the studio. Hoping you can come to practice sooner than that, though! Blessings, Shanza.”

  I am devastated.

  How
could he? All these years I’ve wasted, just waiting, hinting, and planting persuasive reminders all over the place. All I wanted was for Ron to propose. I tolerated his television, his beer drinking, and remarks about my mother. Then, when he started getting all fit and baldish, I asked no questions. I would have gone to yoga with him. But he picked Barbie. Suddenly, I find I no longer am interested in feng shui-ing my closet or peeling a grapefruit. I take Herman in the bedroom and find a movie that will make me cry.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Today is Dawn’s rebirthing class. I no longer feel very interested in being born again. To the contrary, I would like to swing by a drive-thru for the biggest cheeseburger known to man, pick up a bottle of overpriced pinot and just watch LifeTime movies all week. I think about telling my mom about Ron, but she’s so excited about her upcoming movie night that I don’t want to bother her with my insignificant suffering. One of us should be happy.

  Dawn tells us that it’s quite normal to cry in this practice. I’m thinking that I’ve cried plenty of times in practicing yoga, but it was always over pain, not from being rebirthed. I try to snap out of it. After all, Dawn is counting on me, being her pet and all. It starts like any yoga class, only there are candles and incense and some really cool chanting music coming from a CD. Dawn has the lights off, and since it’s a cloudy day the little twinkle lights that line the ceiling and the candles make it extra peaceful.

  Next, we chant “Aum” a bunch of times. Something about hearing fifteen or so voices hitting that single note in union is lovely. It almost sounds like angles singing. I wonder if this is what God sounds like. The mood is even more calm and lovely than normal. I am actually starting to feel like I may survive the Barbie-Ron Tragedy. We do deep breathing work. Dawn tells us that in order to be born anew in our spirits, we must release the toxins in our bodies and our souls. This makes sense. I decide I will feng shui my closet after all, just as soon as I get home from being born again.