by Zoe Fishman
“So what are you doing now?” Charlie asked Bess. “You were in the journalism school, right?”
“Yup,” answered Bess. Charlie settled up with the bartender and turned to face Bess for her explanation. “I’m working for a magazine now.”
“Oh, which one?” asked Charlie.
“Pulse?” Bess replied timidly. It sounded more like a question than an answer.
“Ooh, I know that magazine!” said Charlie. “That’s the one that lambastes all the celebrities, right?”
“The one and only,” Bess answered wryly.
“Do you like it?”
“Eh, it’s okay. I do some freelance work on the side, so hopefully I can break out of that place soon enough.” She moved on quickly; the last thing she wanted to do was talk about her job. “What about you? Weren’t you a finance major? Have you taken Wall Street by storm?”
Charlie laughed. “Believe it or not, I’m a yoga instructor.”
“What!? Get out of here! That’s amazing. How did you end up doing that?”
“Long story. In a nutshell, I just got sick of the rat race.”
“I hear that,” said Bess. “Seriously, I think that’s incredible. To have the balls to make a career switch like that. . .that’s something that I dream about all the time. Where do you teach?”
“I actually have my own studio out in Bushwick. You should come check it out.”
“Oh, that sounds good,” answered Bess. “But I’m a complete novice. I’ve taken yoga only once and I was terrible at it.”
“Yoga is not about being good or bad at it. You have to let go of that mind-set. You should absolutely come by, I’d love to have you.” Charlie reached into her bag and handed Bess a flyer. “And I know Bushwick seems like a long way to go for yoga, but it’s only about forty minutes from midtown, door to door.”
“Thanks, Charlie, maybe I will,” answered Bess, thinking about her story idea. The premise was pretty simple actually, but based on more of a vague idea than any concrete evidence. Bess was hoping to meet women tonight who naturally fed into her hypothesis. Charlie was actually the antithesis of the type of women Bess had planned on profiling, so she wasn’t sure if yoga had any promise for her on that front. On the other hand, she could use more stretching in her life.
Charlie searched the crowd. “I was hoping to pass out a ton of fliers tonight, actually. We’ve only just opened our studio, so I have to get the word out.”
“I’ll help you! It will give me something to do besides drown my workweek sorrows in vodka. Let’s take a lap.”
“Nice! I really appreciate it.” They both slung their bags back over their shoulders and turned to face the room.
“Here, give me a bunch of fliers,” said Bess. “I’ll go this way and you go that way. We’ll meet in the middle. Whoever has handed out the most fliers buys the other a shot.”
“Good deal,” replied Charlie, with a grin.
As Bess plunged through the crowd, she thought about her article. She had come to the reunion wanting to write about the washed-up dreams of thirty-plus women; maybe a “then and now” sort of exposé about the aging female’s shifting priorities. In a way, she was taking her concerns about her own life and projecting them onto a group of virtual strangers. Since she struggled with maintaining any sort of creative drive, she figured her former classmates had to as well. Right?
But then, what about Charlie? She completely turned Bess’s entire quasi-hypothesis on its head. Instead of turning into a Wall Street power-bot, Charlie was now a yoga guru. Bess panicked for a moment. What if every woman here had managed to turn their dreams into reality and she was the only one drowning in a sea of complacency? Yikes. She handed a flier to a group of leering bald men, one of whom she was sure she had taken six-foot bong hits with at a house party junior year. She avoided his hopeful gaze and kept moving. That was not a reunion she was the least bit interested in.
Charlie scanned the crowd as she made her way around the bar’s perimeter. She noticed a familiar face. Who was that? She scanned the recesses of her brain. Was she in Statistics with her? No, she didn’t think so. Did she take lifeguarding with her?
Charlie smirked remembering that class. Much to her horror, the teacher had flunked Charlie after she failed to properly turn over a facedown victim in the water. She blamed her summers of retail hell solely on that teacher. Had she been a little less rash, Charlie could have been tanning on the beach in Cape Cod instead of folding T-shirts at J. Crew.
Suddenly, the woman locked eyes with Charlie and smiled. She approached her. Watching her gracefully meander toward her, it struck Charlie. Naomi! The impossibly chic, camera-toting, supermodel look-alike who had lived in her dorm freshman year.
“Naomi!” Charlie exclaimed, as she went in for a hug.
“Hey, Carrie?” Naomi asked uncertainly. “Is that your name? I was trying to rack my impossible brain. . .”
“It’s Charlie, actually.”
“Yes! Charlie! I knew it. Please forgive my horrendous memory. The good news is at least I remembered your beautiful face.”
Charlie blushed. Naomi, the queen of chic, actually thought she was beautiful? She suddenly felt fourteen again. “Oh please, it’s fine. How are you, Naomi?”
“I’m well, thanks. How are you?”
“The same, more or less. Mostly less. Hey, did you transfer out after freshman year or something? I feel like I never saw you again.”
“I did, actually,” replied Naomi. “I actually sort of, well not sort of, what am I saying? I flunked out. My parents were less than pleased naturally, so it was back to New York for me.”
“You grew up in New York? I never knew that. But that explains your sophistication.”
“What do you mean? I was far from sophisticated in those days.”
“No way, you absolutely were. We were all hanging around in ripped jeans and North Face puffy coats, but you had your look together. And you were so elusive. Whenever I saw you, you were with that pack of skateboarding artist types. They didn’t go to BU, right?”
Naomi laughed, remembering. “No, no. They went to Emerson. God, it was so long ago! So much has changed. It’s really unbelievable. We’re old!”
“Tell me about it,” agreed Charlie. Over Naomi’s shoulder, she saw a dark-haired woman with an incredulous look on her face approach. She mouthed ‘hello’ to Charlie and tapped Naomi timidly on her arm.
“Naomi?” she asked.
Naomi turned around. “No way! Sabine! Hi!” The women embraced as Charlie looked on. Sabine looked familiar to her, too.
“I’m sorry, Charlie, do you know Sabine?” asked Naomi. “She was my roommate freshman year.”
“You know, you do look familiar,” Sabine said, as she extended her hand to shake Charlie’s.
“So do you,” answered Charlie. “I think you lent me laundry detergent once.”
“Wait! Yes! Now I remember. You had like, seventeen loads or something, and you ran out!”
“Yep, that was me,” answered Charlie. “I was always so busy cramming for school that my laundry would pile to the ceiling before I realized it was time to hit the machines.”
“Sabine, how are you?” asked Naomi. “It has been forever!”
“It really has,” agreed Sabine. “I was convinced I wouldn’t know anyone here, but I am so happy to be running into you. I always wondered where you went.
“Naomi was the best roommate ever created,” Sabine explained to Charlie. “She was hardly ever home, number one. And number two, when she was, she would lend me clothes and straighten my hair for me.”
“And remember ‘the smoky eye’?” asked Naomi, laughing. “You always begged me to give you ‘the smoky eye.’”
“Yes!” Sabine exclaimed, clapping her hands with glee at the memory. “No one could do it better than you. And then you would take pictures of me!”
“Hey, Charlie!” crowed Bess as she broke through their circle. “I got rid of all of my fliers.
I’ll take a shot of Patrón, thanks!”
Charlie laughed. “We were just talking about the good ol’ days,” she explained to Bess, including her in the circle.
Sabine smiled in greeting and continued her conversation with Naomi. “Are you still taking pictures?” asked Sabine. “You were so talented. You even made me look like a model, and that is an impossible task for mere mortals.”
“Excuse me, Miss Modest,” replied Naomi. “It was not an impossible task at all.”
Sabine smirked. “So, are you still photographing?” she asked again.
“Um, no, not anymore,” explained Naomi dismissively.
Charlie, sensing an opening, turned to Bess. “Ladies, this is Bess. Bess, do you know Sabine and Naomi?” she asked.
Bess peered at them inquisitively. Naomi’s obvious discomfort about her photography had struck a chord with her. This was the kind of stuff she had been looking for. “Are you the girl who somehow made dreads look chic?” she asked Naomi.
“Oh, I don’t know about the chic part, but my hair was dreaded back in the day,” answered Naomi.
“Yes, I know you then! You were ‘Lisa Bonet,’” said Bess, pleased to have made the connection.
“What?!” asked Naomi, laughing.
“Yeah, that was my name for you. Is she or is she not a dead ringer for Lisa Bonet?” she asked Sabine and Charlie.
Before they could answer, Bess pointed at Sabine. “And you, you were in some of my English classes! Shakespeare, junior year?!”
“With Professor Gottlieb!” exclaimed Sabine. “Of course, I remember you now.”
“What are you doing with your English degree these days?” asked Bess. “Writing bestselling novels?”
“Oh please. Not at all. I’m just an editor at a publishing house.”
Bess sensed some sadness in Sabine’s tone. It looked like she had found another shelved dream in tonight’s crowd. Bess was reinvigorated. Her article did have legs after all.
“What fliers were you talking about, Bess?” asked Naomi, changing the subject.
“Charlie owns a yoga studio in Bushwick. She’s here to spread the word about it, so I told her I’d help out. Besides, it gave me something to do besides standing around and looking lost.”
“You own a yoga studio, Charlie?” Sabine asked. “That’s tremendous. I wish I were a yogi. I’ve always wanted to get into it, but just haven’t made the leap from the treadmill to the mat yet.”
“Why not?” asked Charlie. “You don’t have to abandon running for yoga, you know. They’re actually very complementary.”
“I can barely get out of bed for the gym, much less double time it between that and a yoga studio,” Sabine explained. “Or at least I’ve been convincing my lazy ass of that in order to make it feel better.”
Naomi laughed. “I know, it’s amazing how we can persuade ourselves out of something before even attempting it,” she said. “I was doing yoga pretty religiously while I was pregnant and then, well. . .I stopped. I’d love to get back into it.”
“Ladies, helloooo!” said Charlie. “Come to my studio. Let’s get a Saturday workshop going. If you all commit to six weeks, I promise you that you will never think of a reason not to do yoga ever again. Once you’re in, your whole life changes.”
“Yeah, Charlie left piles of Wall Street money behind after she got hooked on it,” Bess explained to Sabine and Naomi. Bess was not the slightest bit interested in yoga, but if she could encourage Naomi and Sabine to join, she would be golden on the article front. She could probe them for details about their unrealized dreams and get to know Charlie’s motivation for turning her former life on its ear. It was a win-win-win.
She turned to Charlie. “You know what, Charlie, I’m in! I might have to miss a Saturday or two because of travel, but I am in.”
“How far is Bushwick from the East Village?” asked Sabine. The thought of a subway commute first thing Saturday morning was mind-numbing.
“Not that far, maybe a half hour?” answered Charlie. Sabine thought of her Saturday mornings lately. Her, her cat, an unread paper, and That’s So Raven on the television. Then she thought of spring’s imminent arrival and the way that her upper arms jiggled.
“I’m in too!” she said.
“Well, I’m in Brooklyn already, so for me to bow out would just be sad,” said Naomi. “I could have my neighbor watch Noah I suppose. I’m in too, Charlie.”
“Fantastic!” exclaimed Charlie, beaming. She handed them each a flyer. “Here’s the address and the directions. Should we start tomorrow?”
“Erm, no,” replied Bess. She needed to simplify her thesis before jumping in. “Let’s allow ourselves one more week of stationary existence.”
“Yeah, I agree,” said Naomi. “I wouldn’t be able to get a sitter on such short notice anyway.”
“You owe me a shot, Charlie!” Bess interjected.
“Let’s all do a shot!” said Sabine. She sidled up to the bar. “Four shots of Patrón, please.” The bartender complied, filling each glass to its rim and providing plenty of limes and a salt shaker. Sabine passed around the various ingredients and poured the requisite salt on each wrist.
“To yoga class!” Bess cheered.
“To yoga class!” Charlie, Naomi, and Sabine repeated.
Part II
Antara Kumbhaka
Chapter Six
Charlie
Charlie loved this time of the morning, right before daybreak, when the city felt like her own. The streets were silent, yet she could still feel the energy beneath her feet, just about to burst forth into another day. Before, when she would wake early for her job on Wall Street, she would transform immediately from sleep to robot—shower, suit, subway, coffee. Now her pace in the morning was decidedly different. She still awoke with a sense of purpose—she had a studio to run after all—but the purpose felt considerably more her own.
She smiled to herself as she ducked into the bodega beneath the studio for her banana and espresso. Inside, Mario was reading the paper with a steaming cup of oatmeal resting beside him on the counter—his spoon partly submerged in its warmth.
“Good morning, Mario,” she said softly, not wanting to disturb his ritual, even though by now he knew to expect her at the same time every day.
“Charlie!” he exclaimed eagerly, his brown eyes sparkling. “Good morning, beautiful.”
Blushing slightly, Charlie replied, “Hello, Mario. What’s happening in the world today?”
Mario put down his paper and shook his head. “You know, the usual. Politicians with their hands caught in the honey jar, a war with no end, drug busts in New Jersey. Same shit, different day.”
“Good to know that you can count on something, ay?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Thank God for faces like yours—makes a man forget his troubles.”
Charlie laughed off his advances. “Could I have my usual, please?” she asked.
“But of course. When you going to start letting me fix you a proper breakfast, huh mami?” he asked, as Charlie selected her banana with care. “This banana business is not enough. You are too skinny. Let me whip you up my famous egg and cheese with hot sauce. You will be running like a champ all day.”
“No thanks, Mario. How many times are we going to have this conversation? Teaching class with an egg-and-cheese tummy would have me passed out mid-cobra. You know I’m going to get into something more substantial before noon. I like to work my way up.”
“Like a little squirrel, you are,” said Mario, laughing. He put a lid on her espresso and handed it to Charlie with a sly grin. Despite herself, Charlie felt her insides warm with that grin. Either Mario was sexy, or she was desperate. He wasn’t Charlie’s typical crush material—she tended to go for the bespectacled hipster type with elbow patched sweaters and haircuts that cost more than her own—but his rugged good looks and manliness couldn’t be denied. About six feet tall, with a broad chest and forearms the size of most emo-Brooklyn boys’ thighs
, Mario stood out. Charlie couldn’t quite figure out how old Mario was, but the endearing crinkles around his eyes and the subtle salt in his dark hair suggested late thirties. Maybe early forties.
“Thanks, Mario,” said Charlie as she paid and turned for the door. “See you later.”
“As you wish, lovely. Maybe I’ll come up later and check out one of your classes?”
“I wish you would!” said Charlie over her shoulder. “Basics at noon! Perfect for you!” Every day Mario talked about coming up for a class, but he had yet to follow through. Charlie had a hard time imagining him in the tree position, but it was clear that he knew his way around a gym.
She unlocked the front door to the studio and bounded up the stairs, simultaneously unpeeling her banana and sipping her espresso. Inside the studio, she flipped on the lights and surveyed the space. It felt so good to know that she shared this haven with so many others. When she, Julian, and Felicity had been looking for just the right property, it had felt like an impossible mission. They knew they couldn’t and really didn’t want to afford Manhattan, but the places they saw all over Brooklyn just didn’t feel right either. Too much work needed to be done, or the space wasn’t big enough, or it faced the wrong direction and the sun blinded them. They had begun to feel like a three-headed Goldilocks.
But then, this place. They had almost given up. Mario owned the entire building and Felicity, who lived nearby, had been commiserating with him about real estate in the area one afternoon as she bought some much-needed dark chocolate for a pick-me-up. Mario mentioned the units upstairs, and asked her if she wanted to have a look. Felicity begrudgingly agreed, figuring that this would be just one more dead end. Once upstairs though, she knew their luck was changing. It was the very definition of “diamond in the rough,” with huge windows and a view only partially obscured by the standard city culprits. Not wanting to alert Mario to her jubilation, she calmly asked if she could make some phone calls to her partners. Mario complied and returned to the bodega to give her some privacy.
