Balancing Acts (24 page)

“Homegirl is dickmatized!” exclaimed Sabine.

“Wait, what!?”

“Sorry to be so crass, it's just that I have been waiting and waiting to use that word in the proper context! The guy who writes one of the gossip websites I'm addicted to coined it, I think.”

“Which website?” asked Naomi, grinning. “That is a great word.”

“Dlisted? You know it?”

“I do!” interrupted Julian, overhearing their conversation from the front desk. “That guy is funny as hell.”

Sabine nodded in agreement.

“Speaking of websites, I've come up with some ideas for Prana,” said Naomi, reducing her voice to a whisper.

“Oh, cool!” replied Sabine. “Like what? And why are you whispering?”

“I dunno. I guess I'm sort of nervous. I'm gonna go talk to Charlie, Felicity, and Julian now,” answered Naomi. It was strange—this is what she did for a living, and she rarely, if ever, experienced any sort of nerves with her other clients. She had a job to do, and she did it. But there was something about this assignment that made Naomi a bit wary, and it had nothing to do with her vulnerable emotional state. She suspected it had something to do with the fact that she was completely in charge of the site's artistic direction. Charlie and Felicity had placed it in her hands, no questions asked, no artistically displeasing requests. It was liberating, but a bit scary. She took a deep breath and walked over to the front desk to chat with Felicity. Sabine trailed behind her.

“Hey, lady,” greeted Felicity. “How are ya?”

“I'm well,” Naomi answered. “A little bit pooped, though. Charlie worked us today.”

“I know, I peeked in earlier,” said Felicity. “You all have really come a long way since your first class. It's kind of amazing.”

“Really, you could tell?” asked Naomi.

“Absolutely. I'm impressed.”

“Well, thanks,” said Naomi. “Charlie is a wonderful teacher. Listen,” she continued, “I have some ideas about the website.”

“Oooh, goody!” Felicity exclaimed, clasping her hands together with glee. “Tell us, tell us!”

“Tell you what?” asked Charlie, suddenly beside them.

“I've been thinking about the website,” repeated Naomi. “I'm thinking that it should walk the line between personal and professional. You know, a really sleek, open design that mimics what you've done with the studio, paired with some great photos of you guys and the space. A mix of black-and-white and color photos.”

“That sounds perfect!” said Felicity. “I like what I'm hearing. Nothing too over the top.”

Julian nodded his approval.

“Yeah, I also love that you're staying away from the whole hippie-dippie scene,” said Charlie. “I've seen a lot of yoga websites that look like acid flashbacks.”

“Or sites that are way too cool for school,” said Sabine. “You know, those stark, SoHo, Gwynnie and Madonna joints? Ugh. Those sites are so uninviting.”

“Who's going to take the photos?” asked Julian.

“Well, I thought I might,” answered Naomi. She studied the floor, annoyed by her own nervousness. She forced herself to look up.

“Naomi, I think that is an excellent idea,” said Felicity. “I love it.”

“And I thought I would just set up a link on the site that took viewers to a page about your hair products,” Naomi added. “Your page will have the same look, but it will be all about the hair.”

“When is it not all about the hair!?” shrieked Julian, as Felicity beamed. “I love it, I love it, I love it!”

“I do, too,” agreed Charlie. “It sounds perfect. What can we do to help?”

“Well, I thought I might hang around and take some candid photos today,” replied Naomi. “Just to get a feel for the light in here.” She pulled her camera out of her bag. She was still nervous about taking photos, but somehow this felt right. The way that everyone had responded to her ideas made her feel confident and capable, like a woman who made her own rules. Like a woman who wasn't consumed by worry about her health.

She stood up and looped the camera over her head. It felt so familiar to be wearing it again, but also somehow completely different. “Okay, just go about your business,” she instructed Felicity, Charlie, and Julian. She peered through the lens.

“Julian!” she exclaimed. “Be natural!” The women burst into giggles as they noticed Julian's arm popped in an attempt to highlight his muscles as he leaned against the counter.

“Sorry, sorry!” he replied. “I can't help it! It's in my blood. You're lucky I kept my shirt on. It took everything in me not to disrobe.”

“Thanks for that, Julian,” said Felicity. “You truly are a man of great sacrifice.”

Julian reached across and caressed her cheek in response.
Snap,
went Naomi's camera. That was the kind of moment she wanted. She held the camera to her cheek, relishing the feeling of becoming one with it again.

C
harlie approached the register nervously. It was official, she had a crush on Mario. She supposed she had always been aware of it, but the conversation with Julian had really brought it to the surface, like some kind of suddenly buoyant treasure chest that had been buried under the sea floor for hundreds of years. She hadn't actually seen Mario since she had accepted her crush, which was always how these things went. The minute you wanted to see a guy, he disappeared, but when you weren't into him, he was everywhere.

She rounded the corner of the aisle to get a peek at him. He was cleaning the coffee machine with studied concentration. Even squished, his face was beautiful. She took a deep breath.
It's still just Mario,
she reminded herself.
You know him. There's no reason to get all silly about it.
He paused, looking up. His face broke out in an enormous smile upon seeing her there.

Okay, I'm silly. Dizzy even.
She smiled back.

“Good morning, Charlie!” Mario exclaimed, practically leaping over the counter to embrace her.

“Hey,” she replied. Suddenly, she felt like they were reenacting a scene from
Grease
, with her as the virginal Sandy and Mario as the dangerous Danny Zuko. She stifled a laugh. “How's it going?”

“Life is good, can't complain. Just trying to get this mess off the coffee machine; spiff it up a bit. You look beautiful this morning, as always.”

Charlie's face warmed. “Thanks, Mario.” She felt awkward. Before, when she was happy to float along in her river of post-Neil asexuality, Mario really hadn't fazed her. But now, back in the game so to speak, she was frazzled by his mere presence. She was sure that the hair on her arms was standing up beneath her jacket. What should she say next?

Mario saved her. “And you? What's going on with the studio?”

“Studio is good,” answered Charlie. “Business seems to be picking up.” She fingered the packs of gum below the register. “One of my students is designing a website for us.”

“Nice! That's something that will really make a difference. Web presence is key. That's the first thing I did for my other business.”

“You have another business?” asked Charlie. She remembered Julian telling her about Mario's entrepreneurship empire, but she couldn't pinpoint what it was that it entailed. Or did Felicity tell her? Funny how, thinking back, it was so obvious how eager both of them were to get Charlie to admit to her feelings for Mario—always bringing him up or asking her to pick up something for them at the deli.

“Yeah, my brother and I run a catering ser vice,” he answered proudly. “Mostly upscale Puerto Rican food.”

“That's incredible! I had no idea that you were a chef.”

“Well, my brother is the better chef, by a long shot. I got into it at first just for the business angle. I thought he could do really well for himself. And he really has, too. It's great to be a part of it.”

“That's wonderful, Mario. Are you booked every night?”

“Oh no, we both have other jobs. I'm here and my brother also owns a small restaurant up in the Bronx. We mostly book gigs on weekends. And then, you know, I have my band, too. It's been harder and harder lately to get it all in, you know?”

“You're in a band?” How was it possible that she had known this man for so long, and actually not known him at all?

“Yeah,” replied Mario, somewhat bashfully. “It's just a bunch of middle-aged guys messing around on some instruments, really. But we have a lot of fun. You should come see us sometime.”

“What instrument do you play?”

“Guitar.”

“Wow, I'm really impressed.”

Now it was Mario's turn to blush. “Thanks. You know, we have a gig coming up next month in the neighborhood.”

“I'll definitely come,” said Charlie.

“Really? Maybe we could grab dinner afterward or something,” he added. The intensity of his stare made her knees tremble. She clutched the counter for support.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

Mario looked over her shoulder. “Oh hi, how can I help you?” he asked the customer behind her.

Charlie turned to let the customer pay. Her heart plummeted to her feet as she realized who was standing behind her. There, holding a canister of coffee and a roll of paper towels, was Neil.

He looked at her, dumbfounded. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “Charlie! Hi!” Charlie swallowed deeply, desperately trying to moisten her Sahara-like mouth.

“Hi,” she squeaked in response. He looked the same—sort of. He had cut his hair and shaved the shadow that once had enveloped his face like a bristly cloud. He had also changed his glasses. Before, they had been thick-rimmed, “look at me, I'm a hipster intellectual” glasses, but now he was sporting a much more conservative pair. His entire countenance was actually that of a much more conservative man. Neil, the former chess-playing, wheatgrass-swilling, Bhagavad Gita–reading atheist now officially looked like someone who Hamptoned on the weekends and had a subscription to Netflix. He was a bona fide yuppie. The change was alarming.

“You look great,” he said, taking Charlie in. She wondered what he must think of her makeup-free face, her wild hair, and her puffy jacket. For so long, she had planned this reunion in her head. In it, of course, she had been the embodiment of spiritual fulfillment and easy grace, not a frazzled, winter-clad Bushwicker, flirting mercilessly with the deli guy.

“Uh, thanks.” Charlie felt Mario's eyes boring into the back of her head. “Neil, this is Mario. Mario, Neil.”

“Hey man,” said Neil, extending his hand.

Mario tensed in response, as he grasped it to shake. “Hello,” he replied frostily.

“So Charlie, how have you been?” asked Neil. “God, I can't remember the last time I saw you.”

Charlie remembered it all too well. They had broken up, and Neil had been sleeping on a friend's couch. He had gone to collect his things one afternoon, thinking Charlie would be at work. Instead, he found her basically right where he had left her—curled in the fetal position on her couch with a blanket wrapped tightly around her. They had fought, again, and then, with a trash bag full of his belongings, he had taken off.

“Me, either,” replied Charlie. If he wanted to play dumb, she could understand that. She studied his face. She had no sexual response to his presence. Zero. It was an incredible realization. “What are you doing in Bushwick?” she asked.

“I live here now. Down the street actually.” He looked down, avoiding her eyes. “I'm, um, engaged,” he explained. “We moved here about a month ago.” Despite her joyful moment earlier at the realization that Neil no longer held any resonance for her, this stung. More than it should.

“Oh!” she replied, as convincingly as she could. “That's great! Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Neil answered, obviously relieved by her goodwill. His reaction annoyed Charlie. Why would he think that she would be anything but happy for him? He might have changed his look, but his ego remained the same: monstrous.

“What brings you to these parts?” he asked, feigning a horrible Southern accent in a failed attempt to be cute.

“She lives here, too,” Mario interjected. “She owns the yoga studio upstairs.” Charlie looked at Mario, trying to communicate her appreciation with her eyes.

“Get out!” said Neil. “That's awesome! And such a change for you.” He looked at Mario. “Charlie used to run Wall Street with her eyes closed.” It was all Charlie could do not to scratch Neil's eyeballs out. Even though he was only including Mario in the conversation, there was an edge of condescension to his voice that she remembered all too well.

“Yeah,” she replied. Volunteering any more information about herself felt like a waste of time.

“You're never going to believe this,” said Neil, naturally happy to turn the focus of the conversation back to him, “but I'm getting my MBA!”

Charlie practically choked on her tongue. The guy who gave her endless crap about her lifestyle for the entire two years that they dated was now replicating it for himself! The irony was outrageous. Charlie could not believe it.

“What!?” she practically shrieked. She wanted to add,
You moronic poseur, you asshole blowhard!
The same guy who pretended to shun all that was remotely materialistic; the same guy who rolled his eyes any time Charlie talked about a merger or expressed interest in going out to a restaurant that involved table service. . .this guy was pursuing a career in finance? His new image suddenly made complete sense.

“Yeah, I know, right?” he responded. “Big change.”

Charlie looked at him. The epiphany she had been waiting for was finally here—transforming her in this deli. Neil was an insecure guy with no sense of self. Whatever he was doing was a reflection of the latest trend. Living on the Lower East Side in his twenties, it was deemed cool to work at a restaurant, smoke weed, do yoga to fool chicks into thinking you had a sensitive side, and talk about philosophy. Now that he was in his thirties, it was time to move to Brooklyn, get engaged, and pursue an MBA. Neil did not possess a shred of authenticity in his entire body. He was a joke.

“I'll say,” she said. “Listen, it was good to see you. I've got to run. See you around, I guess. Good luck with everything.”

“Uh, yeah, you too,” said Neil, perplexed, no doubt, by her sincere lack of interest.

“Bye, Mario,” she said. “Come up to the studio and let me know about your gig, okay?”

“You got it, Charlie.”

She left them both there—the old and the new—and gulped in the fresh air outside. She could feel spring coming. Already, the cold was less bitter and there was a hint of balmy warmth in the breeze. Very slight, but definitely there. Soon, winter would end and spring would begin—ushering in a whole new beginning.

So much had been healed for her in that brief exchange with Neil. The pain about the breakup, although finally on its way out, had been lingering at the fringes of her heart, despite her attraction to Mario. Now the broom of reality had swept it out.

She couldn't believe that she had thought him to be the impetus for her life change. She had more spirituality and authenticity in her baby toe than he had in his entire family lineage. It was unreal.

For a long time she hadn't been giving herself credit for changing her life so dramatically. She had been giving that credit to him! And why? Maybe it was easier to fall back on that when running the studio proved difficult. If she didn't own her life path, then she didn't have to take responsibility for it when it got messy or unpleasant. At the same time, when things were going really well, when her life brought her tremendous joy—whether from the practice of yoga itself or from realizing that she truly loved her coworkers or from breaking through a boundary with one of her students—she, in effect, was giving that credit to someone else. To Neil, of all people.

Charlie stopped short in the middle of the block. She closed her eyes and listened. A bird was chirping. The first she had heard in what felt like forever. Change was coming.

No,
Charlie thought.
Change is here.