Breathe In, Cash Out Read online

  My computer alerts me that the materials are back from Bang.

  Skylar: By breakfast is great :)

  chapter 11

  I wake up bewildered, to an alarm, in a handicapped bathroom stall.

  This is not my fucking studio.

  I silence the noise coming from my phone. It’s 9:30 a.m. on Monday. Skylar texted me, Thanks my love :).Oh, right. After I sent the books to Mark, I edited her wheel pose and wrote her caption. That involved an hour of reading what famous yogis have to say on the subject of friendship. I must have written twenty drafts before I realized, at the tail end of my all-nighter, that my captions were shit because I don’t have any real friends anymore. I was trying to package wisdom about relationships, but I had no recent experience. Friends, y’all. They are so great, you know? I like to spend time with mine. #TruthBomb #RealTalk. Eventually I had to just send something, and the final product sounded extremely vague. Then, I came in here for fifteen minutes of shut-eye.

  Now I sit on the floor between the toilet and the tiled wall. I massage the crosshatch print out of my forehead, and my nonwork to-do list comes to me involuntarily. There are sewage and gas problems at my studio that I still need to fix. I had yoga books delivered to a girl I sort of knew in college who lives near me, and I have been meaning to pick them up from her for two months.

  I emerge and unbutton my blouse to throw bathroom sink water on my armpits, splashing until I can no longer smell myself. On the way back to the desk, I skim the dozens of emails I missed during my nap, including Dad’s two Google Alerts—“megamerger” as the key word—which have absolutely nothing to do with anything I am working on. As I step onto the HG floor, I’m dreading Tripp for once, on top of everything else.

  “Hey, sorry about last night,” I croak.

  He stares vacantly at his computer screen, working in Excel.

  “I sent the books,” I say, a bit louder. No response.

  Fuck.

  “Are you pissed or dead?” I ask, increasingly worried until I spot a palm-size muffin wrapper in Tripp’s trash can. That’s his telltale sign of a Stage One hangover. Stage Two is sunglasses and Coke. “Oh my God, did you go out last night?”

  “What?” he asks. He eyes the wrapper. “Oh. Yeah.”

  He doesn’t give a shit.

  “What kind of muffin?” Puja asks.

  “Chocolate?” Tripp guesses. “Or corn.”

  “What kind?” Puja asks again.

  “Honestly?” He pauses. “I don’t even know.”

  “I want one,” Puja says.

  “You don’t know?” Chloe gawks. “You just moaned about it for ten minutes.”

  “Literally, I am under attack,” Tripp says.

  Vivienne appears beside me.

  Does she make any noise at all?

  She waves hello with a single index finger. When it curves, it looks like a periscope raised from a German submarine just itching to blow me up. “Good morning,” the pod chirps in disarray behind me.

  “Analyst,” she says. “My office.”

  With my tote still on my shoulder, I follow Vivienne into her SVP plot of the floor. She points at the all-glass door, which draws ceiling light to the Hope Diamond wedding ring around her ring finger. I slide the door shut, sit down, and brace myself.

  “Why did the books wrap up so late?” she demands.

  Her tone suggests that I am the reason why.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “The last turn took longer than we expected.”

  “ ‘We,’ ” she says. She purses her thin lips. “Why do I get the impression that Tripp did most of the book himself?”

  He’s going to love that.

  “I was just away from the desk a few times when you called,” I say. “But I was in the office all weekend, and I did all of the pro forma financial statement modeling. Honestly, I think the books turned out really well. Exceptionally well. And we finished on time.”

  “You were unresponsive last night,” she says. “Had you offered Tripp the favor of your services, we could have printed the decks at a decent hour, and we wouldn’t be here. Do you understand that I end up looking unreasonable if books wrap up at the crack of dawn? Hm? As if I am disorganized, or swamped, or inventing useless work?”

  Yeah, basically.

  “When I call or email you, it is my way of communicating,” she says. “And when you respond, that’s your way of doing your job. Am I making myself clear? I thought we established that this team was your first priority.”

  “This team is my first priority,” I say robotically.

  “Tripp can’t do everything himself. Tripp. Titan. Alone.”

  Jesus Christ. I can’t tell Vivienne the truth is that my yoga journey and physical need for sleep put a kink in her assembly line, because this lady has 0.0 tolerance for shit that does not make her money. She probably has even less tolerance for shit that values equality and opposes the class hierarchy propping her up every day.

  “I will do better,” I say. “You have my word.”

  She flicks her index finger and thumb to shoo me out.

  Back at the desk, I avoid locking eyes with my pod-mates. I drop my tote onto the floor. Tripp has Vivienne’s LinkedIn profile up on one of his monitors, which he turns to face me. He points at her high school section of the page, which is packed with text. She still has her GPA on there, which is a 4.2/4.0 at Thomas Jefferson High School for Science and Technology. Her list of activities mentions being president of Future Problem Solvers. No well-adjusted adult has high school details on their LinkedIn. There should be a watch list for this shit. Anyway, she definitely fucking hates me now. I am the latest problem she has to fucking solve.

  On my phone, a new text from Skylar says, We just hit 10K likes on our post! and then, Can’t wait to see what the weekend did for you! See u tonight my love :)

  * * *

  I walk into the yoga studio known as Hamsa Hand, where no surface has been spared from Eastern decoration. Like Mala, it’s a premier studio, but unlike Mala, it is seriously fucking elaborate. Tapestries billow from the ceiling. Ficus plants line the walls. Golden Buddhas, big and small, and other yoga-ish figurines cover every tabletop. This place is so afraid not to be yoga that it oversteps in every direction. The decorator may have asked fifty different people, “What is yoga?” and here are all of their fucking answers.

  I am one minute early to meet Skylar, 8:59 p.m. I smear the bottoms of my shoes across the shag mat more than I need to because tonight, I am rich with time and can blow it on stupid shit. Mark is at the Titan board meeting—he texted me to expect follow-ups—and my other teams are manageable. I even took an afternoon nap in the bathroom again. If that’s not the definition of luxury, I don’t know what is. So the tea leaves say I can meet Skylar without interruption.

  I’m alone in Hamsa Hand except for the teenager behind the check-in counter. She is sour-faced, smacking gum, and wearing a hoodie. She must be a nepotistic hire, because she looks way too off-theme.

  “Hi,” I greet her.

  She looks up briefly, then back down. Skylar must still be with her client in the back. I don’t look forward to admitting that the breaks didn’t change me. I am exactly the fucking same, maybe with less peace of mind than when we started. My only saving grace is that I tried to help Skylar with her Instagram. She used a version of the wheel pose photo I sent this morning, which now has around 10K likes. She altered the lighting slightly, for the better, and posted it with the caption:

  @SkylarSmithYoga: Here is what I would say to 15-year-old me:

  Beauty happens when you accept yourself.

  Stop resisting.

  Stop fighting.

  Stop trying to starve, pluck, squeeze, or fake yourself

  into anything you’re not.

  Relax into it.

  “If you relax, it comes. If you relax, it is there.

  If you relax, you start vibrating with it.” —Osho

  Be beautiful you.

/>   Love, Skye

  Skylar changed the concept of the caption from friendship to beauty, which does sync better with the photo. I mean, she’s alone in her living room here. Besides, my caption about friendship was shit. We both know it, even though she didn’t admit it. She texted me that she will hang onto it for later. If I can find the right moment for it tonight, I would appreciate her advice on fostering good relationships. Writing that caption only left me wanting some.

  I scroll through the comments on her photo now, feeling a small sense of ownership over the product. Hundreds of girls have commented on it so far, sharing that they struggle with “unrealistic beauty standards” and “the media” and “perfectionism.” But this picture is “pro woman” and Skylar is making strides for “natural beauty.” The photo is an enhanced version of Skylar, sure, but she doesn’t look overly perfect. It makes me feel good to see these girls happy and supported. This means something. I join the flood of comments: Best one yet!! :) Really, really beautiful.

  I hear Skylar laugh in the back. Apparently, the client before me is Dan, a forty-something investment manager with an interest in new age spirituality and finding himself. Are there thousands of us? They have been practicing together for five years. I hope my journey to clarity is shorter than that. The thought makes me wonder about the incentives of health professionals. Doctors need people to keep getting sick, right? Do therapists really want to cure their clients and lose them? I don’t know.

  My phone buzzes before I decide on an answer.

  “No phones.”

  The teen comes to life.

  “Sorry,” I lie. “It’s my doctor.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  Amazing client hands. I check my phone, shaking my head. Work panelist I can ignore. Tripp gets back from Seattle later tonight, where he went for “Azkaban.” That’s his code name for an IPO, which doesn’t sound that bad when you ask what he actually has to do for it. “Nothing, the first-year is so fucking bright-eyed, she does everything,” he said. So he won’t notice my absence now.

  A man emerges suddenly with Skylar. I startle and hide my phone, because my third hand can be alienating. Skylar wears orange harem pants loose at the top and tapered at the bottom as if she is a modern Jasmine, and a black tube top. Tiny gemstones stick to her forehead in a floating crown. She looks beautiful, as always. The attendant finally perks up in the presence of someone worthwhile.

  “Hi!” I say.

  I wave at them.

  “My student,” Skylar whispers to him.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. “Dan.”

  Our greetings miss each other. I stop waving and reach for his hand right as he withdraws it. We force laughs—and I recognize him. Dan Glasgow. He manages Glasgow Capital, a hedge fund invested in emerging markets. He is known for being “out there.” His firm famously buys expensive companies in some of the riskiest African markets.

  “Allegra,” I reciprocate.

  “Thank you so much, Dan,” Skylar says. They hug goodbye.

  “Hi, Skylar!” The desk attendant is now buoyant as shit.

  Skylar motions, and I follow her down a narrow hallway into the vacated private room. I sink into one of the two beanbag cushions, while she shuts the door. She sits in lotus on the other massive hacky sack and smiles. The mala beads draped around her neck touch her crossed ankles.

  “Dan and I love this studio,” she says.

  “Dan Glasgow,” I say.

  “Yes,” she replies.

  “Big yogi?” I ask, skeptical.

  He’s worth a few hundred million dollars.

  “Yes,” she says earnestly.

  “Sure.” I roll with it.

  “Thanks again for your help with my photo,” she says.

  “It came out great,” I say. “I was just reading the comments.”

  She brightens noticeably.

  “That’s so sweet,” she says. “But let’s talk about you.”

  She reaches forward and touches my wrist affectionately. Her skin is warm. But I don’t want to talk about me. My weekend was shit. She is the only person in my life not fucking Analyst-ing me. When was the last time I was even in a studio before I met her? It’s Hamsa Hand, but whatever.

  “I did my best,” I say.

  Quiet.

  “I see,” she says. “So, the methods didn’t help you?”

  The silent no. She waits.

  “To be honest,” I say slowly, “I’m doing worse.”

  “Hm,” she says thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” I start, “I missed these calls from my boss while I was in the closet.” Skylar looks confused. “Oh, that’s the only place I could take the breaks. I had to work all weekend, so I couldn’t be too far from my desk. And my boss is—” Vindictive? Psychotic? Obsessive? The devil? “—type A, so she wasn’t happy about that. Then I fell asleep in corpse pose, so we didn’t finish this work project until five in the morning, and I had to eat a pound of food just to keep my eyes open, and then instead of sleeping, I worked on that photo for your Instagram. Then the only place I could sleep for fifteen minutes was this section of floor in the company bathroom. Then my boss yelled at me in person.” I hang my head. “Honestly, I think the only thing I did right was flirt with my married boss.”

  The air absorbs my words as Skylar takes my hands.

  “I hear you,” she says. “What we need to do is go deeper.”

  I stiffen. At Anderson, you can refuse a staffing when you are “at capacity,” or don’t have enough hours in your day to take on more work. At that point, it’s assigned to another analyst. I’ve never refused a staffing, because everyone finds out when you pass and then people joke for days about how much they hate you. Now I fear “going deeper” may put me over capacity. My phone buzzes inside my tote. My eyes dart toward it.

  “Are you with me?” she asks.

  “Yes, sorry,” I say. “Just, work.”

  “This is work,” she says. She points both of her index fingers down at the air in front of her. Since when am I a bad student? “I’m sorry. I know you are trying. What I meant to ask, Allegra, is . . . is this”—she opens her arms to mean the practice space around us—“something that you really want?”

  “Yes,” I say. She looks as nice as ever, but unconvinced. I go on. “I mean, I did exactly what you asked. I’m just in a tough place until my contract ends.” She is quiet. I take this to mean she doesn’t believe me. My tone rises to compensate. “I’m trying my best. I did everything I was supposed to. I did every pose. I texted my boss. It was fun! And I really did enjoy some of the poses you sent me.”

  My phone buzzes again.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I mean, maybe we could wait until after my contract?”

  The audacity sinks in.

  “I am saying this with love,” Skylar says. “But asking someone to be who they want to be is actually pretty simple and natural, right? It isn’t such a hardship. And yet . . . this feels difficult. It feels unnatural.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “I don’t think you do,” she says. “There is something blocking you from surrendering.” She pauses. “And maybe it’s because this isn’t what you want. I know you have a demanding job. I read your journal. But either you want this or you don’t. You said you wanted my help. So pay attention.”

  I feel like such a fucking shithead.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s okay,” she says. “I know what you need. The next step for you is a fast.”

  “Great,” I say.

  “A two-day pure fast,” she continues.

  “Great, great.”

  She pauses.

  Fuck. Let her finish.

  “That means zero intake,” she says. “It’s beyond no food. It means ingest nothing at all.” I nod before I understand. Skylar goes on to make the word nothing clear with complete detachment, as if she knows the script cold from reciting it to other students. �
��No water, no mints, and no coffee. No saltwater gargle. No rinsing your sinuses with a neti pot. Keep your mouth closed in the shower. Absolutely nothing.”

  “No coffee,” I repeat slowly. “No coffee at all.”

  “Cutting coffee will help with your ojas,” she says, brightening to pronounce the Ayurveda term for “energy.” “I think this will loosen your grip. Right now, you are holding onto tension and anxiety. But you must open your hands if you are to receive. You must empty your cup if you are to fill it.” She smiles, her mood a bit lighter now. “I am so grateful I can share this with you.”

  Her gaze drops to her lotus. She shapes each of her hands into an acceptance mudra, which looks like an “okay” sign, and rests them on her knees. Fuck. She is trying to help me. I am trying to help me. We should be in sync. I shouldn’t be showing up with closed fucking hands. I realize, though, that she is not raising her head. She continues to stare at her lotus until I realize that our time together tonight has ended. Fuck. Okay.

  * * *

  I feel compelled to thank Skylar again in person before exiting Hamsa Hand. I wait for her in the doorway and finger-polish a small golden elephant hanging on the wall. It has twenty arms and hands, each in a different mudra. The attendant smiled at me a few moments ago when I passed her. She was a lot warmer after she saw I was here to meet Skylar. Maybe she thought I was in the same celebrity league as Dan Glasgow, or maybe just affiliating with Skylar got me special treatment.

  Skylar approaches the desk in an overcoat. I wave to her from the doorway, but she doesn’t see me.

  “The studio is too cold,” she tells the desk attendant.

  “What?” the girl asks, frightened.

  “Too cold,” Skylar snaps.

  “Oh,” the girl says, looking frazzled.

  “Oh what?” Skylar asks.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize, just fix it. I have classes tomorrow. I told you, seventy-six degrees. It was too cold tonight. Dan couldn’t loosen up.”