by Zoe Fishman
It was all she could do to contain herself once on the phone with Charlie and Julian. “I found it!” she had practically screamed. “I don’t care what you’re doing, get your asses down here pronto!”
Thirty minutes later, they had a deal—much to their own delight and astonishment. They had sat in the empty space that evening as the sun set, envisioning the layout of their dream studio and sipping celebratory champagne. George and Michael had been skittering around, their toenails tip-tapping on the wood floors as they pirouetted in delight.
“To never giving up!” Julian had raised his red plastic cup and toasted, referring to their seemingly endless and fruitless search.
Charlie smiled, remembering, as she wandered through the studio, flipping on the lights, straightening the mats, and rearranging the blocks. She took a seat in the empty room as it slowly began to fill with the sun’s dappled light. She closed her eyes and focused on the stillness, mindful of its gift before the inevitable clamor of the day ahead.
As she stretched her legs, she took note of the way her body felt—slightly stiff and unwieldly as she willed her tight muscles to unfurl. Slowly, she began her practice. Down to the floor and up to the sun she went, resisting the urge to fight the wandering of her mind while simultaneously nudging it back to that illusive center of stillness.
In tree pose now, with her foot resting on the inside of her knee, she breathed in deeply and felt her spine straighten and reach for the sky. The exhale released her tension, and for a moment she felt the exquisite pleasure of her body’s balance. This was why she loved yoga. In its purest form, it was merely appreciation for the intricacies of the human form—mind, body, and spirit.
But just as her mind found peace, an image of Neil danced through her mind, causing her to tense up; an involuntary reaction that was always the product of his virtual presence. She could see him, sitting on the floor of his tiny studio apartment on Ludlow Street, his legs folded neatly into the lotus position as she scrambled to get ready for work.
“Charlie, come down here and join me,” he had demanded, as he began his morning’s meditation.
“Neil, come on, you know I can’t. I’m going to be late for work,” she had explained.
“Oh, right, work,” Neil replied, his eyes still shut. “Hurry up and get to that soulless rat race with all of the other little rats. Go go go!”
Charlie hated the fact that she always took the bait when Neil started ribbing her about her priorities, but this time had been no exception. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Obi-Neil,” she had retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm and beneath that layer, hurt. “While you’re meditating, someone has to make a living.”
Neil was silent, which further enraged Charlie. She had stomped angrily around the apartment as she finished getting ready, but he was as unresponsive as a statue. He always did this—slammed her with his judgments and then shut off. It enraged Charlie, but her anger was always tempered by her insecurities. In the back of her mind, she often felt like the rat Neil made reference to, going around and around on a meaningless corporate wheel. She had left the apartment that day like most days at that time in her life—frustrated, insecure, and consumed by all things Neil.
Charlie opened her eyes and noticed that her fists were clenched. She exhaled and unlocked them, shaking her head in silence. Still, he consumed her on some level. Why couldn’t she shake his ghost?
She pulled herself up from the now sun-drenched floor.
“Good morning, Charlie,” she heard behind her. She smiled. No one had a more soothing voice than Felicity. Julian called her Syrup. Her voice would no doubt cascade seductively down pancakes if it was in liquid form.
“Hey, Felicity,” Charlie answered, as she glided into the studio’s foyer. Her body felt so much lighter than it had just an hour before. “How’s your morning so far?”
“Not too bad, all things considered.” Tall and strong, Felicity was the very definition of regal. Her skin was the color of expertly polished mahogany and her salt and pepper dreads were piled in a gigantic mass on top of her long neck. To call it a bun would be an insult to its sheer magnitude. It was more like a basket of hair.
Felicity was fifty-five, but didn’t look a day over forty. Her smooth face gave her away only slightly, with a refreshing crinkle at her amber eyes and laugh lines that disappeared into her blinding smile. They had met at a yoga retreat upstate three years prior. Charlie had still been a relative novice—in the middle of getting her teaching license—and Felicity had been one of the instructors. Her no-nonsense attitude had soothed Charlie from the beginning. In jest, Charlie often told her that she wanted to be her when she grew up. At thirty-two, Charlie was an adult by all standards, especially considering the fact that she owned and operated a yoga studio, but she felt miles and miles away from Felicity’s sense of self and authentic wisdom.
“Did I tell you about the class I’ve started up?” Charlie asked her.
“No, you did not,” answered Felicity as she took a gulp of her coffee, her eyes twinkling with enthusiasm. “Do tell.”
“So, you know how I went to this reunion night in Manhattan last week?” she asked. Felicity nodded. “I went to recruit naturally, not thinking that I would run into anyone from my past—”
“You ran into your college boyfriend!” shrieked Felicity, interrupting Charlie’s story.
“Um, noooo. I think he’s married with two kids in Westchester.”
“Oh. Go on, go on—sorry for my big mouth.”
“Anyway, I ran into three women from my year—women I was friendly with,” said Charlie.
“How nice!” said Felicity. “Were you close and lost touch?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. We were more like acquaintances, although two of them were roommates freshman year. You know, we lived in the same dorm and would see each other around—that sort of thing. They were all cool girls.”
“And are they now cool women?”
“I think so,” answered Charlie. “It was a trip to see us all grown up,” she added. “Same faces and all, but we carry ourselves differently now. Not in that cliché Manolo Blahnik bullshit kind of way—more in an organic, time passing kind of way.”
“Good. Because if I see one more idiot lady teetering around this neighborhood in five-inch heels, remarking on the architecture, I might not be accountable for my actions. It’s an insult to us all, really. Who are these girls?”
Charlie laughed. Felicity had a low tolerance for bullshit, which is why she was the epitome of cool. “Too true,” she replied. “Anyway, to make a long story shorter, these women have agreed to take a six-week introduction class here on Saturday mornings. I am really excited about it—I think it’ll be great for business.”
Felicity was quiet. “How many women did you say there were?” she inquired, a hint of something less than thrilled in her voice.
“Three.”
“I don’t want to be an asshole, but three women do not a class make—especially on Saturday, our best day for business. Charlie, how are we ever going to make money if we treat this place like the ice cream and not the cake?”
Charlie tensed. “The cake? What? You know your food analogies always confuse me.”
“What’s to be confused about? We need to run this like a business, not a sorority.”
“Felicity, don’t worry. They’re all paying a lump sum up front—at an escalated cost. These are essentially private lessons, after all. I raised the cost substantially, and they’ve all agreed to it.”
“You have their approval in writing?” asked Felicity, still doubting Charlie.
“Better than that, I actually have their credit card numbers and I’m running them through this morning. I’ve been e-mailing with all of them.”
Felicity’s brow unfurrowed as she listened to Charlie’s explanation. “Oh, okay then,” she said. “Charlie, I’m sorry I’m being such a hard-ass, it’s just that with this nasty recession, the maintenance fees, the bills, and the r
enovations we have in mind, we have to look out for the bottom line.”
“Felicity,” said Charlie, as she put her hand on top of hers. “Bottom line is my middle name. Don’t forget where I come from.”
“My little Wall Street tycoon,” said Felicity with a grin.
Charlie grinned back. “You know it. Prana Yoga is going all the way. I’m not living in la-la land here, Felicity.”
“I know you’re not. I’m just a bit stressed out lately. Our bills are no joke and we need more students. That’s all I’m saying. I just don’t think there’s enough traffic in here, and I don’t see the economy turning around any time soon.”
Charlie moved behind the desk to join Felicity. “I agree. We really need to get our website up and running.”
“I know!” said Felicity emphatically. “I’ve been riding Malcolm to get it done, but he always has an excuse as to why it’s not a priority.”
“Is he busy with school?” asked Charlie. Malcolm was Felicity’s son. He was finishing up his senior year and waiting to hear from colleges. His first pick was Cornell and most days it was all Felicity could do not to drive up to that campus herself and hack into the computer system’s admission logs. Surely they had to know by now but they insisted on keeping them all in limbo.
“He is,” answered Felicity. “Senior year is no joke these days.”
“Senior year of high school,” Charlie echoed. “That feels like a hundred years ago.” She shook her head with a smile.
“Since Malcolm is a wash, do you have any friends who might be interested in building one for us?” asked Felicity.
“I really don’t think so, but maybe I can make one,” Charlie answered, smiling at her students as they ambled past the desk.
Chapter Seven
Bess
What are you wearing?” Dan asked.
Bess surveyed herself, splayed on top of her gray Calvin Klein duvet cover. Her sheets set had been a splurge, but Bess had sworn to herself that when she finally was making decent money and lived in an apartment with a legitimate living room, she would spring for the luxurious thread count. It had been worth it. Her bed was like a cloud. “A white, spaghetti-stained tank top and my navy sweatpants with the gigantic hole in the crotch,” she answered in her best mock-sexy voice.
“Ooh, easy access.”
“You know it, big boy.”
“Bess!” chirped Dan. “I miss you again.”
“You missed me already today, you get only one shot,” replied Bess, smiling to herself. She rolled herself to an upright position and transferred herself down to the floor. The fact that Dan missed her so openly, without any of the cool-guy bullshit that she so often encountered, was almost enough to rid her of her trademark cynicism. Almost, but not quite.
“Rules are made for breaking. How was your day?”
“Good. Kind of boring on the work front though. Ever since rehab became the new overdose, it’s been pretty dead. No one does anything interesting anymore.”
“Yeah, rehab has really ruined it for everybody. Hey, should I get tacos or a burger for dinner?”
Bess, in the middle of attempting to touch her toes, grunted in response.
“What’s that? Are we communicating monosyllabically now? Like cave people?”
Bess laughed, “Oh sorry, no. I was stretching and ‘tacos’ came out like ‘blurgh.’”
Dan laughed. “That’s a painful stretch. ‘Tacos’ and ‘blurgh’ aren’t even in the same family. Careful you don’t pull something—like your spleen.”
“Roger that, doctor. I told you about that yoga class I signed up for, right?”
“Oh yeah, the one in Brooklyn with your old college peeps?” asked Dan.
“Yep. Saturday is our first class and apparently I have the flexibility of balsam wood. Seriously, my hamstrings are like two slabs of marble.”
“Oh marble hammies, you exaggerate. I happen to know that you are quite flexible where it counts.”
Bess blushed. “This is true. But you and I aren’t exactly downward dogging together.”
“Yet!” replied Dan gleefully, happy to exploit Bess’s yoga reference.
Bess laughed. “I walked right into that one, I guess.”
“Slammed face-first into the wall!”
“So, did I tell you my real reason for becoming a yogini?”
“Ooh, look at you with the fancy, gender-appropriate terminology,” teased Dan. “I dunno, Madonna biceps? It’s okay to use faux spirituality to mask your body dysmorphia, Bess. If rehab is the new OD, yoga is the new anorexia.”
“No, it’s not about my biceps, although I guess that would be a nice by-product. I’m actually working on a new story idea.”
“Oh really?” asked Dan, excited for Bess. “Awesome. What’s the story?”
“Well, I was looking for some sort of divine inspiration to get me out of my slump, and it all sort of fell into place at that reunion thing.”
“How so?”
“Seeing these women and how they’ve changed since college really got me thinking. I mean, these were all creative, driven women, you know? Women who had dreams and goals that weren’t yet affected by the hustle of the real world. Now all of them seem to have sold out and given in to society’s rules about how to make a living.” Dan was silent. “You know what I mean, Dan?”
“Um, I guess so,” answered Dan—a note of wariness in his voice.
Bess decided to steamroll over his lack of enthusiasm. She got up from the floor and walked out of her bedroom, into the living room. She plopped down on her chaise and stared out the window of her twenty-third-floor apartment. Turn one way and she experienced the serenity of the twinkling city lights and the Hudson just beyond. Turn another and she was basically inside the kitchen of the apartment across the way. Even living large had its limits in New York City. She continued her explanation. “I’m going to write an article about just that. How these creative women all changed what they wanted out of life to fulfill somebody else’s idea of success.”
“But how can you make that call at this point? You don’t even know these women yet.”
“True, but I have a pretty good idea that what they’re doing now is not what they dreamed of. That’s the thing, it happens to almost every woman—this sort of universal sellout.”
“You think these women are going to agree to be the subjects of such a mean-spirited article? Who are you to call them sellouts?”
“They don’t know that I’m writing it. I figure I’ll act as sort of a spy—finding out when and where everything went south for them in terms of their creativity. And I’m not planning on labeling them as sellouts per se, Dan. Just painting as accurate a picture as I can of a very real phenomenon. The reader can make any judgment they like.” Dan didn’t respond. Bess continued on, “Although one of the women, Charlie, seems to defy my hypothesis. She started out as a sort of money shark with a master’s in finance and is now running the yoga studio. I can’t help but think there’s more to the story there though—I don’t think her life change was as inspired as it seems to be. A one-eighty-degree switch like that has to have at least some sort of less than noble background, don’t you think?”
“Bess, I think this is a bad idea,” Dan finally said. “I don’t like it at all. It’s unethical.”
“Oh my God, give me a break! When did you become the spokesperson for ethical? Reporters have to work behind the scenes all the time.”
“Not to be an ass, but I wouldn’t call this reporting.”
“Oh really?” asked Bess. “What would you call it then?”
“I would call it a thinly veiled attempt to reconnect with your own creativity at the expense of others. It’s a glorified puff piece, with nothing ‘feel good’ about it. These women are going to hate you if the story ever goes to print.”
“Jesus, tell me how you really feel.” She wanted to reach through the phone and scratch his smug eyeballs out. “A puff piece? You don’t know what you’re talking
about. This is a significant female issue, and one that is almost never researched in an urban setting. What’s interesting about it to me is that by all standards, these women are living independent, self-empowering lives. They’re in New York, they all are in some sort of artistic field, and yet they’re really not that different from typical suburban housewives. All of them have sacrificed their dreams on some level. It’s important that society know that all women wrestle with this dilemma.” She flipped on her flat-screen television and muted it. Anderson Cooper soothed her, even if she couldn’t hear him.
“Even if that is the case, why couldn’t you just be open with them about your article? That way, there’s no bad blood.”
“Are you kidding me? There’s no way I would get the kind of juice I need if it was all aboveboard. They would all censor their conversations with me and the article would have no heart.”
“Oh, that’s funny.”
“How so?” snarled Bess. He was really pushing her buttons now.
“The way you’ve explained this article to me, ‘heart’ is the last thing that comes to mind.”
“Real nice, Dan,” said Bess. “Now I’m heartless because I want to fulfill my own dream and get the hell out of my stupid tabloid job? I’m heartless because I’m looking out for me for a change?!”
“You’re twisting my words,” Dan argued.
“I don’t think so,” Bess said as she held back tears. She couldn’t believe how worked up she was getting. Why was Dan behaving like such an assface? “I have to go. Maybe we shouldn’t talk for a while.” And with that, she hung up her phone and tossed it onto the floor. She turned off the television. Not even Anderson could soothe her now.
Chapter Eight
Sabine
Sabine grimaced as her alarm shrieked rudely in her ear. Eyes still closed, she scrambled to silence it. She turned from her side onto her stomach and buried her face in the warmth of her pillow. You have to get up, she thought. No excuses. Get uppppp. Her blanket cocoon was so warm. . .. GET UP! NOW! She forced herself into an upright position and switched on her bedside lamp. Through squinted eyes, she made out the distinct image of Lassie staring at her accusingly from the foot of her bed. She stuck out her tongue at him.
