Page 6

Emily Bond

Sort of Seeing Someone

Joe n’ Flow canceled the rest of the classes for the day as Gavin had to make himself available for an impromptu visit from the City Inspector, courtesy of the worst possible random customers the studio has ever had.

I don’t know if the engineers were more excited that they were able to witness a structural failure in real-time, or that they successfully evaded having to do a downward facing dog for the first time in their lives.

Regardless, the closure didn’t bode well for our regulars—this includes Yasmin, who was depending on the forty-five-minute flow to complete her morning ritual, so much so, she panic bought a drop-in class at some chain yoga place in Pacific Beach(PB is the cross-town antithesis of OB) an hour later.

“Soulless” she described it via text. “Absolutely soulless.”

With my day unexpectedly cleared, I went on to treat myself to a leisurely afternoon strolling the shops of OB. For as long as I can remember, I’ve made it a habit to do two things on my birthday: go for a long walk by myself, and buy myself some new piece of clothing.

The walk part stems from my Intro to Anthropology course in college, where I learned that a Walkabout is a rite of passage in Australian Aboriginal society during which time adolescent males live in the wilderness as a show of spiritually transitioning into manhood.

I liked the concept of that, so I tweaked it ever so slightly to be more gender-inclusive and less rigorous.

So, for the better part of the last five years, I have made it a point to spend time outside walking as far as I can before my legs get too tired to take another step.

I reflect on the year I had and attempt to connect with what’s ahead in my life.

Today, the latter feels especially hard, but I still pushed myself—one foot in front of the other.

And for the clothing part, I’ve worn all black my entire adult life.

Not because Steve Jobs did it, but because I once heard that your clothes tell someone a lot about you.

I don’t subscribe to that. If I run into my soulmate in the yoga studio, I don’t want a floral maxi dress, or neon tube top, or yellow halter top doing the talking.

I want to do the talking. A simple black t-shirt and leggings says nothing, which means if Mr. Right wants to get to know me, he’ll have to make conversation.

And that’s the stubborn story behind why I add one black piece of clothing to my wardrobe each year and will do so until I’ve met the one.

Today clearly isn’t that day, which is why I shopped local and added a black long-sleeved A-line dress with a contrasting white collar to my collection.

By the time I returned home from my walkabout/shopping excursion,Yas texted me again to thank me for saving her life—or at least her perfectly symmetrical facial features—amidst a close call.

While I assured her it was no big deal, she insisted upon having me over for a birthday drink before my appointment with Esther.

Yas lives with her husband, Gordon, an often-traveling author of best-selling business self-help books.

They have a glorious condo in a boutique, mid-rise building with lots of hotel-like amenities in a neighborhood called Little Italy, just down the street from the psychic.

I take her up on the invite, primarily because I don’t have any booze in my own house at the moment and I feel like “a littletipsy” is the way to go into my forced visit to Ms. Higgins.

“Your place is amazing,” I say, as Yas lets me into her top-floor corner unit.

“Thanks,” she says, handing me a champagne flute. “A little blanc de blanc for the birthday girl.”

We clink and I ask where Gordon is.

“On tour again,” she laments. “Seattle.”

The thought momentarily crosses my mind to ask her if I can move in. As long as Gordon keeps writing books on “how to crush it in the conference room ” she must hate how big this place feels when he’s on tour.

“Don’t tell him I said this, but I secretly love when he’s gone. So much space to myself,” she says, quickly debunking my theory. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

She leads me through her open kitchen—her palm-print caftan billowing behind her—as we arrive in her living room area. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sun is setting behind the skyline just over the water. The view from up here is spectacular.

I take a seat on a leopard-print upholstered chaise lounge that somehow isn’t as obnoxious as it sounds, and set my purse down on the floor.

“Oof. Never, ever place your purse on the floor, mama,” Yas says, promptly picking it back up and putting it on a marble side table next to her.

“A bag on the floor will cause you to have bad luck with money. You didn’t know that?

And just after your palms were so itchy earlier, you don’t want to cancel out that good fortune so soon. ”

Yas’ Abuelita-superstitions are strong today—much stronger than they normally are.

“I like your lipstick,” I toss a compliment her way to change the subject.

“You do? You know what’s funny? I thought of you when I saw this color. Look what’s it called.”

She hands me a tube from her purse, which is also noticeably not on the floor, and I flip it over.

“Blood Moon,” I read aloud. Thoughts of being teased in high school when I bled through a maxipadflood my mind as Ihand it back to her. I keep that story to myself.

“That’s for you,” she says. “Happy birthday."

“I hardly ever wear makeup,” I say, as if that needs to be explained.

“Sure. But once in a while, it’s okay to feel a little special —like on your birthday, the best day of the year.”

Best day feels like a far cry from where I’m at now.

I found out the house I’m renting is set to be demolished, the guy I was dating dumped me in an a highly ambiguous text, and things at work literally came crashing down all before noon.

On the plus side, it can’t get any worse.

And if anyone can help turn the tide, in Yas I trust. So I pop the lid off the tube and glide the creamy lipstick across my lips.

“How do I look?”

Yas stares at me like I’m a Homegoods tchotchke that she’s decidingwhether or not will work on the mantle.

“Would you excuse me for a moment?”

That bad, huh?

A moment later she returns, handing me a mirror with a ring light around it.

“It’s so good on you, mama.”

“Wow,” I say. Instantly I know there’s not enough gusto in my reaction, but I’m just distracted by the dark-colored lip. “I sort of love it,” I finally sprinkle on. And I mean it.

“Me too. I’m obsessed. It’s spot on for your vibe.”

I’m the greeter at a yoga studio in Ocean Beach— dark is so far from my vibe . But apparently Yas thinks I remind her of a goth Florence Pugh, which I sort of also love.

Yas takes a sip of her champagne as she lights an orange candle on the coffee table between us. Instantly the smell of citrus fills the room.

“There’s something in the air today with you. Something…different. Something…a little supernatural, mama.”

“Let’s not go there,” I say.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” she goes on. “But whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon. And you’ll have to tell me all about it. I love a good paranormal coming-of-age story.”

Just then, my phone rings.

“I’ve got to take this,” I say. “It’s Gavin.”

Mindful of the time, and Esther Higgins’ late policy, I ask permission to let myself out. Yaslovingly shoos me toward the door, and I thank her again for the makeup as I chug the rest of my bubbly and hand her back the empty glass.

Gavin never calls me. He just texts things like, “Make sure to order more organic toilet paper for the bathrooms,” or “Can you upload a job posting for another Yin teacher?” So I’m a little caught off guard as I slide to answer knowing he promised an update on the ceiling sitch.

“Hello?” I hope I don’t lose him in the elevator.

“Moonie. Hey. Look, I’ve got some bad news for you—well, for the whole Joe n’ Flow team, actually. But you’re my first staff call and I haven’t perfected my script just yet. So, bear with me, will you?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, beginning to pace the sidewalk outside. Here, in Little Italy, the air perpetually smells like high-quality weed and roasted garlic. Someone should really make this into a bar of soap—or a candle for Yas’ condo.

“Well, you know how I had to deal with the City Inspectors today? They confirmed it was something much worse than a water-logged ceiling tile we were all hoping for. There’s severe structural damage due to the building settling into the sand over the last decade or so.”

“What does that have to do with the ceiling tile falling?” I ask.

“Part of where the building is sinking puts pressure on a water pipe. That burst and caused a leak at the top of the pipe which just so happened to be above the studio. It’s a miracle that the damage was contained to blowing out just that one section, but over time, in the not-so distant future, more of that kind of thing will happen…

to every square inch of the place until the whole thing implodes on itself. ”

“Wow, that sounds really bad, Gavin. How can I help fix it?” I ask, grateful again that no one was injured today. “Should I order some caution tape and cones to rope off certain sections of the studio while the work is being done?”

“I wish it was that easy. The whole building needs to come down. Then, new foundation that can withstand the softer ground needs to be laid. Then, rebuild the structure from the ground, up.”

I immediately think of all our clients—like Yas—who rely on at least an hour a day in the studio just to function outside the studio, and begin to worry for them.

“Does insurance cover that? Do you need my help filing a claim? How long do you think that will take?”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m calling you, Moonie. The inspectors say it’s a multi-million-dollar project that will take at least six months to complete.”

“That seems excessive. How about I call a contractor and get a second opinion?”

“No one’s opinion matters but the City Inspector,” he says.

“Besides, I just don’t have that in me. Not the time, not the money.

I started Joe n’ Flow ten years ago because I thought it would be a good idea.

And it was! It was a great idea. But like any living force in this world, it’s subject to the circle of life.

We have to accept the way the tides are turning.

We have to accept that this is our fate.

I can’t force any other outcome. The ship is going down. ”

He sounds like the captain of the Titanic and at that, we are doomed.

I take a hard swallow as I dig deep for the last bit of optimism I can muster.

“There’s got to be something you can do.

What about opening in a different location?

I can walk through OB tomorrow on my day off and look for vacant store fronts.

I might not find something two levels, or on the beach necessarily.

But that’s okay. Maybe we can scrap the coffee side of the biz and just focus on the yoga.

We can reopen as just Flow —no Joe , you know? ”

I realize then I sound like I’m reciting some weird slam poetry verse in a desperate attempt to save the business.

“I appreciate your passion, Moonie. I always have—that’s why I hired you. But this is the sign I’ve been looking for to close up the shop and follow my heart toward its next great adventure.”

These OB people and their signs .

“And what might that be?” I ask, genuinely curious if perhaps his new endeavor might be hiring a front-desk person.

“I’m going to move to South America and lead ayahuasca retreats in Chile.”

Yeah, no.

“I’m so sorry, Moonie. This isn’t how I wanted it to happen—it’s so tragic, and so abrupt. But, it is what it is.”

I hate that I have to cue up this next question.

“So, when’s my last day?”

“Well, in theory, it was today. The City Inspector can’t let anyone back in the building for fear of collapse, so we’re officially condemned.”

I resist the urge to ask if he needs help putting up that flyer.

I know I should be grateful. Grateful that the engineers in class today had the foresight I didn’t to know that whatever was going on with the ceiling was much, much worse than what met the eye.

But I’m pissed at how it’s all going down—no pun intended.

It irritates me how much joy that Euro guy took in tattling on our studio.

Couldn’t he have at least let the dust settle—literally—before sending me to the unemployment line?

On the topic of employment, Gavin goes on.

“I can pay you as if you were working full-time for the next two weeks as a sort of severance. Consider it a thank you for all that you’ve done for me.

You really were my right-hand woman in all that Joe n’ Flow became over these last two years.

My only regret is that I didn’t have you from the very beginning.

And I think all of our clients would agree with me there. ”

“That’s really nice of you, Gavin. Thank you. Speaking of our clients, do they know what’s going on?” I ask.

“I’m going to work my way through calling our entire customer base, one-by-one.

This news is going to disrupt so many people’s daily routines and I feel so bad about that.

All I can do is refer them to a yogi friend’s place in Claremont.

He’s going to offer waived membership fees for the rest of the month to anyone who signs up.

If you think you’d want to pick up some shifts there, I can put in a good word for you.

I’m sure he’ll need to staff up with all the new business I’m sending his way. ”

Claremont. Le sigh. All I can say about Claremont is it’s the land of strip malls and a twenty-minute drive to the nearest Pacific Ocean entry point. You might as well live in Iowa.

“I’ll think about it, Gavin. Thanks for delivering the hard news, and for giving me a shot back when I knew nothing about pigeon pose or matcha lattes. I’m really, really going to miss Joe n’ Flow.”

“Me too, Moonie. But, hey. Come visit me in Chile anytime. Take care of yourself.”

There it is. My second break-up of the day.