Tales from the Yoga Studio (14 page)

S
o you're telling us that someone's been embezzling money from the studio?” Alan asks.

The fireplug guy from YogaHappens—his name is Chuck and Dave is his lean cohort, and since things have turned serious all of a sudden, Lee figures she'd better start thinking of him that way—holds up his hands as if he's blocking a punch.

“Whoa. No one said anything about embezzlement.”

“We're just saying some things don't add up.”

Alan gets up off the sofa and begins pacing. For years he's been after Lee about her practice of letting people in and giving the studio assistants too much independence in collecting the money. The “Post-it Note Brigade” is how he refers to them. For most of her life, Lee has thought of money in terms of big categories—Enough and Not Enough, for example. The specifics have never interested her all that much, never seemed all that important. She knows this is probably an inefficient, immature way to look at finances, but on the other hand, she can't help but believe the world would be a lot more pleasant, congenial, and generous place if everyone had this attitude.

“I'm sloppy about money, I confess,” she says. “But in the end, Katherine and I are the only ones who have access to everything.”

Alan clearly has a different point of view.

“Jesus Christ, Lee. I told you she was trouble. She's a junkie! You don't give a drug addict the keys to the cash drawer.”

Lee wants to leap in with the number of years Katherine has been straight, with the virtues of wiping some slates clean, but she knows that would just lead to nitpicking that would cycle into an argument about petty details.

“Katherine's my friend, Alan, and I don't want you talking about her like that.”

“She takes in all these strays,” Alan says.

Chuck and sinewy Dave turn toward Alan, nodding, and Lee realizes there's an us-and-them front about to blow in. Or more specifically, an us-and-her.

“Lee does?” Dave asks.

“Lee, right,” Alan says. “Any wounded bird she thinks she can put back together. No money? Hey, no problem, the universe—in the form of
our
bottom line—will provide.”

“ ‘She' doesn't take in strays,” Lee says. “ ‘She' has friends and students and sometimes ‘she' is a little loose with fees, okay, if people are having a hard time. In the end, it makes for a lot of goodwill and a loyal following. And by the way, ‘she' has managed to make ends meet every month, since the first day we opened five years ago.”

Lee wonders what her students would think if they had a ringside seat at this performance. She spends time in every class talking about ways to avoid letting people push your buttons, and here she is going into
reacting
mode. But it makes her realize that she's been reacting to the suggestion of a contract, too, without knowing the facts, all to protect Alan's ego, while he seems interested mainly in lashing out at her in this childish way. Come to think of it, under his bravado and his good looks and all that bluster, there's always been a wounded-bird part of him that Lee has been drawn to. In the end, it's probably the most irresistible thing about him. Funny he should be criticizing her for wanting to take care of people.

“Maybe we should get back to the contract,” Lee says. “I thought you were interested in buying me out of the studio.”

The guys jump back into their rehearsed tag-team mode—Sinew and Fireplug—almost as if they're relieved to be back on solid ground.

Sinew: We have scouts going to studios all around town . . .

Fireplug: . . . who, I'm sorry to say, ha-ha, always end up paying full fare.

Sinew: Ha-ha, right. Some of them look like strays, Lee! Anyway, there's an agreement that you've developed a style that is . . . unique.

Fireplug: Eclectic.

Sinew: Smooth. That goes beyond the merely physical and pulls together a whole range of traditions and techniques, along with a spiritual element.

Fireplug: Delivered in a low-key,
mainstream
way that's rare.

Sinew: In other words, Zhannette and Frank need you, Lee.

Fireplug: And you, too, Alan . . .

Sinew: . . . which we'll get to in a minute. You'd bring something to YogaHappens, Lee, that we don't have. And we'd give you something
you
don't have—a platform to transform the lives of thousands of people. Tens of thousands once you begin training other teachers.

Fireplug: And we take care of all the money details. Hey, we understand it's not everyone's forte. With us, you have a guaranteed salary. Health insurance for the whole family.

Sinew: Zhannette and Frank are committed to health insurance for every employee they're mandated to give it to.

Fireplug: You'd have nothing to do but focus on what you love and do best. Which is probably what you've always wanted.

Thanks for telling me,
Lee thinks. But even so, it is true.

Sinew: We copyright your technique. No one else can teach it or use the name unless trained and certified by you.

Fireplug: Six-week teacher training program. Seventy-two hours, total. Forty-eight hundred dollars.

Sinew: We're going to call it “Deep Flow Meditasana.”

Bullies, but she does like the name.

“What's the catch?” Lee asks. There's always a catch when you're dealing with bullies, so she might as well get it out in the open now.

The guys look at each other and Sinew says, “It's an exclusive contract. You only teach at YogaHappens.”

Fireplug: And naturally, we would own the rights to Deep Flow Meditasana.

Sinew: But that's obvious, I'm sure. If there was a book or a tape or any of that.

Fireplug: But let's not get bogged down.

“Rights,” like money, are something Lee has never given much purchase. It's all legal prattle that doesn't have application in the real world or the details of daily life that she cares about.

While she tries her best to leave ego out of it, she has had a growing sense that there's something unusual, maybe even special about her teaching. So many people show up with injuries from other classes, or do poses in a random fashion they've picked up elsewhere that does more damage than good. She has thought about labeling what she does but never took the idea too seriously.

She looks over at Alan. He's sunk back into his corner of the sofa, arms folded across his chest. For some reason, the sexy clothes and the shiny hair look a little silly now. All style and no substance. But she's never been able to resist the urge to take care of him and, silly or not, she can't stand the thought of abandoning him.

“What about Alan?” she asks. “You said you're interested in him as well.”

“Naturally,” Sinew says, “we've been following the work you've been doing at the studio, Alan. You're a brilliant musician.”

“Amazing,” says Fireplug.

“The classes with his live music are always full,” Lee says.

“Exactly. And Zhannette and Frank have been trying to find the right person to play live music in selected classes. And they feel they've found him in you.”

“Have they been to the studio?” Alan asks.

“No, of course not.”

Of course
not? “Then . . . ?”

“We prefer not to discuss their personal lives with employees,” Sinew says and gives a little laugh. “I'm sure you feel the same way.”

Fireplug: The point is, we have a very, very nice offer for Alan as well.

Sinew: Once we've secured your position, Lee.

Lee's cell phone rings and she glances down at the screen. She doesn't recognize the number. “I'm sorry,” she says, “but I have to get this. We have two kids and they're with a babysitter.”

“The twins,” Sinew says. “Go right ahead.”

“Lee, I'm so sorry to bother you.” A harsh, slightly panicked whisper. A familiar voice she can't immediately place. “They gave me your number at the studio. It's Graciela.”

“Hi, Graciela. I'm in the middle of something right now, so if—”

“I'm sorry, Lee, but I didn't know who else to call. I'm at Stephanie's apartment.”

“Is everything all right?”

“No, no, it isn't. Not at all. I need help.”

S
mell?” Graciela asks the older woman. “What kind of smell?”

“Like I told you,” she says, “I don't get involved in other people's business. But it's not what I would consider pleasant or healthy. She's got those cats. Maybe that's it. But something's gotta be done.”

Cats, something else that Stephanie has never mentioned to Graciela. Graciela had two cats herself, but Daryl is allergic, so she had to find homes for them when he moved in. The family they ended up going to seemed loving and kind, and they'd get to go outside, but driving Martha and Chita up to Pasadena was so sad, Graciela doesn't even like to let the memory of it cross her mind.

“Does the super live in the building?” Graciela asks.

“He used to, but we've had to make some cutbacks, like everyone else. He comes in three times a week now. I had a chance to invest with Bernie Madoff, but I took one look at the numbers, and I knew enough to run in the opposite direction.”

“Ummm . . . good for you.”

Graciela knows that the only way to get through to a person like this is to appeal to her vanity. The woman might be a little batty, but at the moment, she's Graciela's only chance at getting into the building.

“Something I've always wondered,” Graciela says, “is whether it's okay to leave your jewelry on when you're doing hot yoga. I mean, those bracelets alone must get broiling hot against your skin. But since they're obviously worth a fortune, where would you leave them if you took them off?”

“I'm glad you like them. You've got taste. My daughters tell me I look like a hooker. The mouths on those girls! I never take this stuff off. Bikram won't let me. He says I add a touch of glamour to the class.”

“I'm sure you do.”

There
is
something glamorous about the woman, in her eccentric and extreme way. Graciela makes out a few details from the tangle of chains and bangles on the woman's thin wrists and compliments them. This has the desired effect, and after a few more minutes of chatting, Graciela asks the woman if she'd let her into the building so she can knock on Stephanie's door. She surveys Graciela, almost as if she's trying to decide if she has a concealed weapon, and then agrees.

“But I'm coming with you. I don't want to be responsible for any break-ins.”

“I'm Graciela, by the way.”

The woman is bent over, fiddling with a massive set of keys. The bracelets, necklaces, and dozens of keys form a musical accompaniment to her every gesture. If she even heard Graciela, she's not remotely interested in her name. The jangling is making Graciela even more nervous.

“You do have a lot of keys there.”

“I'm a collector. They bring me good luck even if they make it hell trying to get into the building.”

Once inside, Graciela notices the smells of garlic and incense in the hallway and the woman says, “Hmm, smells like Henrietta's having that baked chicken dish of hers again. Here's Stephanie's door.”

There is a strong, unpleasant odor near the door, partly disguised by Henrietta's garlicky chicken. It smells to Graciela like some bad combination of rotting food and old kitty litter. She raps lightly on Stephanie's door and puts her ear to the metal. There's no response and no sound from within. She tries again, a little more firmly this time. Still nothing. The woman comes up behind Graciela and nudges her aside.