Balancing Acts (4 page)

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.

C
harlie 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.

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 renovations 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.