Pace Turner
Cindy stood at the sink and sighed. Maya’s wine glass swarmed with fruit flies, a dense cloud above the inch or so left, some afloat, fluttered or dead. Others further out, circled aimlessly, not sure if they were coming or going. ‘Maya’s inch’, Cindy called it, “Inch?” She’d say, like a little kid, at restaurants, parties, family functions, hold up her thumb and first finger close together, to indicate she wanted what Maya had left, who never finished. Maya used a drink primarily as prop, would smack her lips and analyze what it needs or has too much of, gesture with the glass, forever look like she was about to take a sip, as she laughed or said one more thing. Worked expensive restaurants in college and loved to display her knowledge of wines and bar craft, always left an inch in the bottom at least, had ever only one drink. Except beer, she never drank beer. Cindy too hated beer. For Tom, her ex-, beer had been a routine, like brushing his teeth. She bought a 12-pack of Miller Lite a week or Coors, if it was on sale, so he could have one or two a day, usually one and fall asleep. The excess got transferred each week to the basement refrigerator for ‘The Party’ they would have one day when, heads above water, it was time to celebrate… a day that never came. Things migrated from bad to worst—the dairy collapsed and they lost everything, owed a lot of money. Cindy did the dishes and felt… almost forty… rapidly vanishing baby dreams… unemployment and debt anxiety… Maya worries…
While shooing fruit flies, she spied, out the windows above the sink, a man approaching Lakshmi from the street, like unsure if he was in the right place or not? Lakshmi—their super cozy, hypo-allergenic and ultra green inner Southeast Portland home, Cindy had come to love, after a rocky start. Something familiar/unfamiliar about the man… she couldn’t place. The way he started down the drive, then turned away, backed up, seemed nervous and looked at his phone; talking either to himself or someone Cindy couldn’t see, until Brooks leaned over the porch railing and pointed him towards Lakshmi. Maya was due back at 1:00 for personal practice and a nap/snuggle session. Cindy looked at the stove clock—10:38, then back at her reflection in the window and the man in the drive walking through it… realized it was her brother, Scot. A knock… This can’t be happening… Is he really here? She thought, shuffled to the front door and knowing not what else to do, opened it up a crack and stuck out only her head. He stood on the top step, oddly dressed. His lack of ball cap, delayed her recognition. Scot always wore a ball cap of some sort, usually Blazers or Seahawks. But now he was all done up, hair layered back, fleece turtleneck, tight fitting blue hoody. Had on what looked like… black yoga pants? Prana brand? He was wearing glove shoes, with little suction cups rounding up the sides. Seeing she saw them, he wiggled his toes, stood palms forward, arms out a little ways from his body, head cocked and turned slightly to one side, looking out the corner of his eye—posed, as if to say, “Bet you didn’t expect me to see me?”
Cindy held tight and stayed behind the door, “Call first. We agreed?”
“What? Jesus, Sis, been a long time… Maya here?” He feigned a look past her, pissed Cindy off.
“Maya? What do you have to do with Maya?” She should have slammed the door shut.
“I came from Mom and Dad’s. They told me about Tom,” he said, as if that explained it.
“Scot… you can’t just show up. We have an agreement…”
“I’m here to meet Maya… and the name’s Pace, Pace Turner. Please, call me Pace.”
“For real?” He sounded like a salesman, “What happened to Silas… Riding Mower?”
“Wild-Nower! See? Nobody could remember that shit. Okay, okay, it was overreach… I admit, a bridge too far. I was young once. Pace Turner though… classy, eh?” Cindy made a face indicated, not so much. Impossible to please, you have no sense of humor, he thought but did not say it, “I came early to visit with you, I haven’t seen in like forever. Coffee? Stumptown’s close, no?” He turned several directions, not knowing where, held up and pointed at his phone, “I was just at Mom and Dad’s,” as if they were inside it, “they’re going on a cruise, told me about you and Tom and Maya… interesting. Isn’t Division around here? I need some Stumptown! Only thing I miss about this shithole.”
She should have slammed the door in his face, locked it and insisted he leave but hearing him say Maya’s name, tripped her up, “What do you want, Scot?”
“Pace… please? It’s legally changed. In town on business, just want’n to say hello, catch up and have coffee with my baby sister? Why the nth degree?”
“Baby sister? We agreed! One thing, you can’t even do! Call first?” Her hand cramped from gripping the door handle so hard. She needed time to process, “Goodbye!” Started to close it.
“Come on,” he instinctively stuck in his foot, “Have coffee with me… please? Nice place…” he indicated the house, “I met… what’s-his-name?” He pointed back up the drive, where Brooks had been,” Stumptown’s close, no? Division? Isn’t it right over there?”
Compassion for all Beings… Cindy was trying to be more positive and not overreact to things, “You buying? Cuz… I got no funds,” she wanted coffee and a treat but had no money, talked herself out of it (raiding the kitty) all week and took his mysterious appearance as a positive sign, her reward for moderation—a chance to reconnect with her brother and have some Stumptown.
“Of course! On me, yeah,” he backed off a step, “Mom said give you this,” pulled from his pocket and waved at her a hundred dollar bill.
Cindy reached out and snatched it, said, “Be right back,” closed and quietly locked the door, stood a moment and contemplated not going… wait till he leaves and go on her own later or put it all in the kitty, score some points with Maya. But… here’s a chance to do what you should… patch things up if you can… she grabbed her purse, a scarf and sweater and left Maya a note—At coffee with my bro (whom you know???) back for snuggle sesh at 1:00… Out the door and down the drive they ambled along, side by side. Her need to know—how Scot knew Maya, a percolating boil. He was going on and on, as they walked along, how different everything in Portland was… how long it’s been since… traffic that and this… she didn’t listen, focused on her breath, rooted in the heart, tried to keep the mind quiet. Realized this was a test of how far she’s come.
Cindy developed early, a voluptuous body. Scot, two years older, when this happened, would on occasion watch her bathe through a hole in the wall between laundry and bathroom, lie on a pile of dirty clothes and masturbate, as she undressed stepped into the tub and got wet, sang pop songs, lathered up, washed, rinsed, toweled off and put on pajamas. Unless… he heard the telltale creak of their wooden stair steps and landing, whence he’d slip from the dark room before someone came up. One day, parents away, Cindy took a bath and somehow knew he was there. Took her time and played to the audience. Loved her big brother—quarterback of the football team, best at everything, straight A student and most popular kid in school, even though he was a junior and still 16. Skipped a grade, set the bar high, was great at math, in a band, played every sport and took out the trash without being asked. Cindy, a year and a half younger, idolized him and did whatever he did—played rough in neighborhood games against bigger boys, took a lot of risks, mouthed off to people, knowing he’d back her up. They had many of the same friends and for a long time she wished she was a boy too, got along a lot better with guys.
Knowing he was watching her felt strange but almost like he’d always been there and only now she chose to notice… at one point, eyes closed, she lay still in the tub, held her breath, funny feelings filled her belly, slipped under and stayed long as she could, let go a few bubbles and then emerged with a great gasp of breath, she could tell startled him, stood and got out of the tub with a big splash, stepped close to the hole and picked up her towel, dried off right in front of him, put on panties, went to her room and lay on the bed. Still steaming from the bath, she began to sweat, felt the cool air moving over her body, caught her breath, started to shiver and thought, I should get up and close the door… but didn’t. Scot came in, moments later, no pants on, fully erect, closed the door, took her hand and showed her how to stroke it. She turned on her side as he stood next to the bed and moved her hand slow up and down his penis like he showed her, then put it in her mouth, when he said. This only lasted a few seconds. It tasted bad and she refused to do it again. Even when he promised he’d do her too, if she wanted? “Down there… we can both feel good. It feels so good…” All this spoken in rushed whispers, even though their parents were gone. She let him touch and suck on her breast and it felt nice but he kept trying to put his hand between her legs and climb in bed so she told him to leave, said she was afraid and didn’t want to do anymore. He tried to convince her she’d like it and put his hand between her legs once more but she pushed it away and covered up with a blanket, said it did not feel good and started crying, “You’re such a baby!” He said and left and she cried, not knowing if it was because something happened or because something hadn’t. That was it. They never spoke about or acknowledged it and it never happened again.
Cindy felt nothing much about the incident, other than it shifted their relationship from close to distant but nobody seemed to notice and she pretty much forgot it, until the bathtub dream. The bathtub dream surfaced late in her senior year of high school, during a stressful time of not knowing where she was going to college, afraid she wouldn’t get in to U of O, where her best friends were going. She would be in a claw-foot tub out at sea—the claw feet more like flippers, propelling her along. Tiny sailors scurried between her vagina (she assumed but couldn’t see) and the tub drain, shouting instructions back and forth in French, trying to raise something from the depths with a broken chain. No water in the tub, occasional spray, it felt cold to the touch and she could see where a plug had hooked on once and the broken chain. She had no control of the sailors, could sort of feel them scurrying around, taking care of business. Just so long as they don’t come up here—she’d think and look at sails, billowing… shower curtains really, decorated with tropical fish and seashells, gulls in flight, breaking waves and colorful shapes on a background of fluffy clouds, all flapping in a stiff breeze, moved her along. She could not understand what made the tub sail or find ways to control it or even know where she was headed… it could be a waterfall, though… and she imagined going over the edge. The dream would often end, short of breath, in panic, sailors gone, bathtub sinking and her struggling to breathe, something caught in her throat, unable to find her hands or know which way was home. lamenting the lost plug… she’d awake, unable to breathe, take a long time getting back to sleep and for days thereafter not want to, for fear of the bathtub dream.
Cindy had a breakthrough connecting this dream and the encounter with Scot, around age 26, just before she and Tom met. In therapy with Ms. Alison Jaynes, a Jungian influenced psychotherapist, friend of her mother’s (who paid). Cindy had difficulty in relationships (to say the least) felt unable to express, say no, or ask for what she wanted. Often felt left out of important decisions and misinterpreted, repeatedly found herself in situations with people doing the opposite of what she wanted but she would cover up her disappointment, pretend to be pleased. Fear of the bathtub dream kept her from deep sleep. She felt always anxious and running on empty, could never quite catch her breath. When she admitted sexual difficulty and asked for things to slow down and change, happen a certain way or not at all, her relationships became strained and soon ended, with partners saying things like, “You’re too needy, such a drama queen,” and, “Why complicate it? Relax, go with the flow!” But the more she tried to enjoy the ride, the more distance and anxiety she felt inside, outbursts occurred, crying fits and pains in her chest, unable to catch her breath. She’d get urinary tract infections and couldn’t get rid of them, believed it came from sex but couldn’t ask for better hygiene, feared hurt feelings.
Surprisingly, Cindy enjoyed exploring the sexual encounter and bathtub dreams. Ms. Jaynes helped her see the trauma in the encounter as something (not her fault) that went too far, before she knew any better, stole her power and froze/stunted her growth as a sexual being and probably his too. Introduction to sex under such hyper-sensitized and taboo conditions—watched by a brother bathe, guardians away. Abandonment—he whom she saw as her protector, betrays and exploits her instead, uses her as an instrument for his own enjoyment. Bigger and stronger, force may have been implied if not applied.
“But he didn’t force anything and I went along with it,” Cindy would insist, had always felt the encounter mutual and not abusive, felt bad for him, from whom everyone expected so much and were always suspicious of, thinking he was getting away with something… he probably was.
“That’s a compensation story, false empowerment, hetero-normative family dynamic, makes such fantasies palatable to the status quo—fairytale essentially. But it’s not how your unconscious experienced the event—the subtext. We see that expressed in the bathtub dream. You, were obviously not conscious of the gravity of such an encounter, it’s taboo nature—out to sea, as they say. Was he? That would be helpful to establish. Any progress bringing him in?” She did not wait for an answer, “Normalizing is an ego survival response but ultimately regressive.” They went over Cindy’s litany of realizations, represented in her Soul-Collage®, a workshop for Deep Remembering®, Ms. Jaynes taught. Cindy brought hers along and hung it on the wall each session. There was meaning in the bathtub dream, a template for relationship and gut feelings constellated around sexuality. They reviewed symptomatic changes following breakthroughs past. It was true, she slept better than ever and felt good enough at last to confront Scot, speak her truth out loud and hear his perspective on the whole thing. Cindy wrote a note, with Ms. Jaynes help: Dear Scot, Would like for you to join me in therapy. I have been recalling some things that happened between us as teens, I need to explore and would appreciate your help. It means a lot to me and would further my process. Please… Your sister, Cindy
Scot showed up late and very irritated, “Where you s’pose to park ‘round here? Cost a fuck’n fortune. You got a voucher or something for me?” He sat down, without taking his coat off.
After some small talk, Ms. Jaynes asked if he recalled their sexual encounter as teens? He didn’t. Cindy shared her version, abridged. Scot said he had no memory of it… might have glanced through the laundry chute, a time or two, while doing his laundry, back from college, maybe. Cindy challenged him with more detail, other instances when she knew he watched her. As he grew more irritated, he started messing with his ball cap, turned it that way and this, took it off, smoothed his hair and put it back on—nervous habit, “You bring me here for this…” He addressed Cindy but pointed at Ms. Jaynes, “Bullshit? To be interrogated by… who the fuck are you?”
Poof! Went her progress. Cindy lost it, got angry, angrier than she’d ever been. Enraged, she attacked him, wanted to tear his face off, screamed like a banshee, tried to hit him in the face with her fist, felt around for something hard to hit him with. Scot fought her off, twisted her arm and threw her to the floor, had to be restrained by Ms. Jaynes when he started kicking her and yelling, “You’re fuck’n nuts! You bitch! What the fuck? This is bullshit!”
Cindy wanted to kill him but was getting the worst of it and Ms. Jaynes intervened. A stout woman, she pushed Scot to the door with one hand and made him leave, while holding Cindy back with the other, who jumped up and fought against her restraint until, door closed, she turned on her and said, “Cindy! Stop it! Stop giving your power to him,” like some paralyzing charm, this made her go limp and the energy shift. She lost it… fell back on the couch and cried, incredulous and defeated. Somewhere in those minutes of madness she lost it, all the ground she thought she’d gained, all the progress… her power… gone.
“What did you expect?” Ms. Jaynes said, incredulous at her violent reaction. And that question became, from then on, the measure of all her experience—What did you expect? Not that! Cindy felt betrayed and disillusioned, “This is just one step in the process,” Ms. Jaynes counseled, “Remember, he too is traumatized and repressing memory, incapable of empathy because he can’t feel his own pain. You saw his anger, snap judgments, violence. In his unconscious… The encounter you describe could very well represent failure, impotence, disembodiment and trigger an over compensation response that no doubt affects his sexual relations too, which you have spoken of yourself, yes?” Cindy revealed things about Scot’s relationship history, their mother had shared with her and now she wished she hadn’t, felt embarrassed. It all seemed so dull and stupid—a tar baby she should’ve ignored and not touched. They had one more session but Cindy felt sick of talking about it, exhausted, hated Ms. Jaynes and never went back. Had a major blowout with her mother because she paid for… yet another failure.
Cindy met Tom, shortly after ending therapy, at Nature’s Fremont, the health food store where she worked as cashier. He was doing a one year apprenticeship at Sunshine Dairy in Gladstone, Oregon; learning the business, checking things out. He visited Portland regularly, had a friend who lived near where Cindy worked, shopped there a lot and asked her out one day (on a whim) to show him around town. They did some unusual things, she introduced him to Powell’s Books, went to the Elvis Museum, watched the swifts return to a giant chimney at sunset, split a bottle of wine, had amazing sex… and started dating. Cindy felt stuck at the time, living in her parents’ house, unsure what she wanted to do next? Knew it wasn’t cashier at Nature’s forever. Therapy had been her excuse for, “treading water,” as her father put it and now he insisted on grad school, “before she forgot how to think,” but a PhD in Women’s Studies seemed ill advised and she did not feel qualified for anything else, really wanted kids.
Tom, the Ferryman (as she now thought of him) helped her cross this difficult stretch. Nine months after they met, sick of Sunshine Dairy, Tom proposed to Cindy and asked her to move with him back to Indianapolis, for a fresh start, clean slate, live somewhere different, settle and raise kids. She accepted, was so excited, seemed the perfect time. They moved right away, neither of them had much stuff, got married in a park in the town where Tom grew up, a small ceremony, with her parents and Tom’s mom, sister and kids. Scot was not invited.
Cindy considered herself a radical feminist and in Indiana, she was, didn’t shave her armpits and still wore tank tops. Tom let her do what she wanted and did what she wanted him to do, where and how she said… at first. Tom was prompt and things got done. He made good investments and they had plenty of money. An inexperienced lover, Cindy took over his tutelage. Tom was a good learner… and for Cindy things finally settled. She found her groove, the right man, had equal say, respect, enough money, owned property, wanted a baby but not right away, felt her future would fall into place. Indianapolis (or Indiana-no-place, as she called it) seemed twenty years behind Portland and culturally challenged but this didn’t bother Cindy at first, felt rather like an opportunity to catch up and integrate what she learned in therapy, maybe bring some things in town up to date, look into business opportunities, open a health food store…
Tom did well in the market, didn’t go out much, except to parks or farm shows, played basketball Sunday mornings at a nearby gym. She sometimes went, liked the guys he played with but none of their wives ever came. They attended shows at the IRT, if there was something good and went to movies. Cindy started to think about babies until, a year in… everything shifted. She missed Portland, started to hate Indiana, got depressed and gained weight. Everything turned gray. Nothing seemed to change. She didn’t start anything new or rearrange. The house stayed the same. Tom’s mother and sister moved to Portland. He didn’t go anywhere, except to do occasional repairs on their rental, started watching sports on TV again. Where once they talked for hours about a good movie or play and channeled its angst into long walks or lovemaking? Now they had nothing to say, couldn’t wait to get to sleep, dreams the most exciting part of the day… if they weren’t nightmares. No mountains, no ocean, all the rivers and lakes stagnant, brown and opaque, no cozy venues to see music, like in Eugene and Portland. Cindy had no friends, didn’t like the neighbors. Tom never did anything with his, except basketball. Didn’t like to go to bars and just sit and talk, liked to be doing things around the house or in the yard. She tried to shake it, put in a garden, repainted and talked about getting pregnant. But Tom wouldn’t consider it unless she was happy and content with where they were at present, was adamantly opposed to having kids as antidote for a lack of direction, something which had not gone well for his sister. That is when the dairy idea came along. Dissatisfied with their too sedentary life, Tom wanted to farm, had always been a dream of his. Hated losing the house he grew up in and wanted something to leave their kids—a place they can always return and remember what happened. When his mother and sister moved, the ball started rolling and they soon followed… like lambs to slaughter.
Cindy hated it from day one. All they did was work. Her libido dried up. Sex became a chore, Tom robotic. The practice of hiding her true feelings returned with a vengeance and the bathtub dream spun a new twist—tossed on stormy seas with her strapped in, trying to signal passing ships but unable to speak or raise a hand, her predicament worsening with every ship’s pass. Tossed in their wake and fearing to sink, she’d pull at her bindings until the tub tipped and underwater, would wake up, gasping for breath. Thus sleep-deprived, anxious and suspicious, on edge, constantly pressed to do things she didn’t want to, Cindy fell into a dark and pessimistic mood, took it out on Tom, who, even when tortured, remained optimistic and just worked harder, always talked about seeing light at the end of the tunnel, “Probably another train,” Cindy would say, and he’d chastise her for being negative.
Scot, going on now about how great Stumptown used to be and Coffee People before they sold out and how he started roasting his own and, “That’s the way to go, where flavor comes from most is the roast. There’s a lot more to it than you think. And the grind’s got to be matched to the tone.”
Cindy got a skinny double and scone, sat down and asked, “Why didn’t you ever call me?”
Scot squirmed, looked at his phone, rolled his eyes, smoothed back his hair, “You never called me! Why am I the bad guy? You didn’t even invite me to your wedding,” paused, stirred his coffee with a straw and said, “I’m sorry Sis but the past is not big on my list to revisit. I’m more like… forget and move on, water under the bridge you know? Off a duck’s back… and I never got into the therapy thing. Guess I’ve gone more the Zen route, like be here now, you know? It is what it was? Get on with it? You ever hear of Lisa Cairns? Adyashanti or Gangaji? They’re my therapists. All that stuff seems… like a different life… I barely remember.”
She wanted to argue, make him see that no matter what he thinks about it, she was fourteen and affected in profound ways by choices he made, things he did… but, “You can’t just make people remember what they don’t or remember it how you want them to, or make them responsible when they’re not,” Tom would tell her, in his blunt, water-under-the-bridge sort of way. Cindy would argue this is different, some things you can’t forget. But then he would point out how little she recalled of what they had said and done together, so much so he wondered how they’d ever look back and share memories in any but an antagonistic way, arguing about how things actually went? It was true, Cindy had a tendency to remember events how she wanted them to be, something drove her parents nuts, who felt it was self-deceptive.
“All I want is acknowledgement it happened and that it’s been difficult for me,” she tried again. It seemed important.
“Cindy… I don’t remember. I was doing a lot of stupid shit… sorry and whatever… hope it gets better,” he glanced nervously from her to the door several times, as if expecting someone or planning an escape. Next time their eyes met, “Can’t we just be friends?” He said, “Brother and sister… again?”
“What is up with your eyes?” She didn’t remember them being so blue or intense.
“My eyes?” He looked at his coffee, as if in a mirror, “Oh, colored contacts and Adderal, make my eyes dilate… dilate? Or what’s it called when they get big… or are they small?” He looked at himself with the camera on his phone, “Big, yeah… awesome stuff! Man do I get shit done. And clean! Amazing! You wouldn’t recognize my place. Doesn’t gnash your teeth, developed for fighter pilots to fly long missions and not get all tense or unable to sleep when…”
“You’re on Adderal?” She interrupted, “What? Really? Since when?” He shrugged and looked away, obviously not interested in talking about it, so she redirected, “How do you know Maya? You tell Mom and Dad your new name?” She laughed.
He laughed, “They don’t care. You know the drill. Dad blanks, acts like he didn’t hear what I said and goes back to work. Mom sneaks in a jab just before I leave, “It doesn’t make him happy, losing the family name…” On my way out the door, so there’s no way I can respond and not like, force the issue, “Well that’s tough, Mom… cuz it dies with me and I’d rather shoot myself in the head than be around kids and with Sis go’n lesbian? What’s Dad think about that? Cuts down the chances of grandkids to nil, I’d say.”
“You did not? What do you expect? How many times is this?” She felt pain in her chest and shortness of breath when he said she wouldn’t have babies, “Lesbians have babies.
“I told them about my new job. The old man was impressed—Pace Turner & Associates.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“We manage spiritual superstars, increase their exposure, audience, cash flow, arrange loans to pay the back taxes they all owe, that sort of thing. Pace Turner: Turn It Up or Down, Turn It All Around,” he gave her a card.
Cindy laughed but was impressed, thought it very clever, “And you know Maya how?”
“Aha! That’s the ticket! Refill?” Pace got up but Cindy wasn’t done. She drank coffee real slow, dipped a scone until it got cold and left a little. Too much coffee made her tense and Maya could sense it, would comment, make her do relaxation practice instead of snuggles and sex.
Back with his refill and a Danish, Pace made his pitch, “Okay—I’m an agent, right? Just like actors and athletes have agents, so spiritual superstars have agents now mostly too. Before me it was energetic volunteers, fervent believers in the cause, who know nothing about timing, markets, advertising, etc., they just trust Spirit to tell ‘em what to do, ha! The West Coast market is saturated and even true gurus need exposure, need their edge in a market like this. We identify the top players and convince ‘em the time is now—Spring Ahead or Fall Behind. I expand their profile in the market, online and off, get them ten times what they were making, if they take my advice, do five star campaigns and testimonial surveys, flood the networks. Anyway, cut to the chase, I don’t know Maya, yet. Would love to sit down and talk potential, hook you guys up…”
Cindy stood, her heavy oak chair screeched on the flagstone floor and fell over with the weight of her purse and sweater. She bumped the table and coffee spilled all over, picked up her sweater and purse, left the chair where it was and headed for the door, enraged. Lost track and went into the bathroom instead, which was fine, she needed it. Once finished, she found her way out and there was Pace, on his phone. He hung up and rapidly approached, as she came out the door, “Go to Hell!” She screamed and went the other way, unable to even think where?
“Come on Cindy!” He followed, a few feet behind, “Talk to me at least! Come on, Mom asked… said you need work and owe a lot of money to Dad. I came to see you and help out. Come on, talk to me? Why can’t we work together? I’m not a bad guy.”
Cindy stopped, spun around as if someone called her name, looked past where he was… thinking there’d be someone… Tom? No… No one… she wasn’t breathing, started to panic.
Pace stopped, approached slow, turned to see what she was looking at but her angry eyes darted back to him before he did, “After all I’ve been through. You lie to me right off the bat?”
“I didn’t lie! Come on… said I was here to meet Maya and I am—I want to meet her! I said I’m here to see you and I am. Come on, cut me some slack. Jesus… you like analyze every word! Let me help my sister out. Things are going well, for a change. There’s big time money to be made.”
“You said you came early to see me, like you have a meeting already scheduled?” She broke down and cried, frustrated by these surprises in life, this too, too familiar exchange, her on the losing end and overwhelmed again.
“I did come early, checked her schedule and came to see you beforehand because Mom told me you were with her, which I didn’t know and didn’t want to just show up out of the blue with her. Far as I knew you were still milking cows with Tom. Maya’s not making anywhere close to what she could be.”
“Jesus, Scot! This freaks me out! You show up unannounced, angling to meet my girlfriend? After years of no contact!? Deny what happened between us… What the fuck? What makes you think any of this is okay?”
“The fact I didn’t know any of it had to do with you! Sorry, I’m sorry for yelling. I get it… I see what you mean… I do, really. Wish I had the luxury. Life moves at ridiculous speed in L.A. It’s dog eat dog and I forget people are… Look, I want to help… make up for being a lame-ass brother. And I can, if you give me a chance. This is big, Sis. I’m serious. It’s ground floor stuff Baby,” he twisted his body, cocked his head to one side and posed like their Uncle Bob did, when he made investment pitches to Mom and Dad. Cindy and Scot watched and were allowed to laugh because he was trying to be funny. Uncle Bob liked an audience and always told jokes. She relaxed a bit, couldn’t stay mad at him. They walked to Sewalcrest Park and sat on a bench while Pace made his pitch.
“Okay, this is big, really big, money hand over fist. People need hope and health more than ever and my clients produce and distribute it, can’t keep up with the demand. I’m talk’n books, pamphlets, all types of video, online classes, merchandise, social media—we manage it all with appropriate sensitivity. Undersell and over deliver. We’ve signed most of the bigs. A New Generation of Healers: Stazi Bliss, Shakti Love, Adyashanti, Lisa Cohen, Colt Medicine Bear.”
“Deepak Chopra?” Cindy read a book by him, Quantum Healing.
Pace scrunched up his face, “Ugh! So 20th century! Deepshock Chakra, Deepockets Ch-Opera? No, I’m talking up and coming… like Maya… grassroots, Main Street, by and for the people… like Kaypaucha! Ever seen that guy? He’s hot as hell! Pele Report? Over a million subscribers! We signed him and the next two months—profits doubled! Earned ten times what he’d been! Legion of Boom—We Enforce the Laws of Attraction, another of our slogans, till the Seahawks caught wind, sent me a Cease & Desist. You fuck’n believe that? I burned all their hats.”
Cindy held up a hand that found it’s way to his mouth, needing him to stop. She couldn’t breathe, felt nauseous, dizzy, “Sorry, but please… enough,” obvious he’d had too much coffee or Adderal or something made him talk so much… had he always talked so much?
Pace nodded, triggered by this, everyone so pathetic with their personal limits and needing him to rein it in, “Okay, okay,” he said, hands held up as if under arrest, coffee cup in one of them.
Once again, Cindy ignored a signal to cut bait, as Tom would’ve said and she let him explain how his latest client—Satori, for years let local volunteers put her up in spare bedrooms and yoga studios, until Pace made individual deals with each rep, Vancouver to LA, “Last stop Portland, easy-peasy, lemon-squeasy, for the most part, cut to the chase… Satori’s coming here,” he paused as if Cindy might know this? She did not and shook her head, “If I can nail down her living space… she likes pure and natural, like where you guys live, and a top-notch studio in Portland for her to do her thing in, then I’m ten for ten and she signs with us, no-brainer, does better than ever and realizes Pace Turner & Associates are Bring’n It All Back Om, as we say. She’s the real thing, Sis—Queen Bee, always on the road and way ahead of the curve. Is on a big anti-money, anti-capitalist kick and making bank… is who everyone wants to study with. You host her… hold the workshop at Yogaflow, five days and nights and she stays at your place. No worries, she like meditates most of the time, cooks her own food, barely eats. You guys walk with 5G plus incentives, if she sells out and she always does. You’re vegans, right? She is… I think, maybe raw too?”
Cindy could not believe her ears, “5G? You mean five-thousand dollars, for five nights?”
“You bet! Plus incentives! Satori’s legit. Word is—she’s worth it. People can’t get enough.”
“Sounds possible… I’ll talk to Maya. Would be up to her and Celeste. Sorry for being such a bitch. Hey, change of subject… you use to dance, didn’t you? At that place… Moves… Something Moves? Before you left?”
“Body Moves? Yes! I haven’t thought about that for so long! Love that place! Heard it got…”
“Tell me about it? I went on Sunday morning to Sacred Circle Dance at the Tiffany Ballroom? Remember? Where our proms were? I liked it! Great energy! Plan to go back… ecstatic dance.”
Pace had the best times at prom, “Yeah! I love that place! Man, I remember Junior year, Sasha Margolis… remember her? Huge tits? We snuck up to the fourth floor… it’s like a theater…”
“Dance?” Cindy interrupted.
“Right! Dance? That was a long time ago… I do remember all the women had this code then, said their name was Jenny, if you asked—like for protection, I guess, if they want nothing to do with you, someone told me later. I thought that was funny… knew something was up. Dance was awesome. Time of my life! Like a kid in a candy store, super-psyched about the whole scene—Polyamory, naked dance, multiple sex partners, Tantric orgies, festivals, Ecstasy. I got kicked out… don’t think I ever told you that? They said I could never come back… so I didn’t.”
“Really? Why?” She wasn’t surprised. Pace always pushed it, made people uncomfortable.
“I don’t know what it’s like now but back then everyone was hot for more sex… Poly this and Tantra that, eco-sex, naked dance, they thought it was liberation… but mostly the same old, same old, same old… when you scratch the surface, people trying to get what they want and pissed off when they don’t. A friend told me other day, said, far as he’s concerned you’re either in recovery or denial. I’m like dude, come on…”
“What happened?”
“What happened?”
“Yeah, Mr. Attention-Deficit! Why were you kicked out of dance?”
“Oh… right! Busy mind,” he tapped a temple, “Lot go’n on… so, uh… I’m a kid in a candy store, right? I mean what horny twenty-something dude doesn’t want to have sex all the time? With lots of beautiful older women, who know what they want and tell you?”
Me… Cindy thought and felt again as if she’d missed out, been deprived a vibrant sex life.
“Man could I dance! You know how I am? I’d get stoned and out on the floor, Sweat Your Prayers they called it, I’m like up for whatever. One Sunday, this new girl’s grinding on me, first timer I think, from out of town, very confident and theatrical, like… no holds barred, you know? I’m sex’n quite a few ladies from dance at the time, going to Tantric orgies and shit, live alone downtown… paradise right? Not! Powder keg! One of them—Feya Starlilly, I’m not making that up, ran the show for awhile, did the music and talked at the start… you know? The dour opening ode—how sick we all are and must get into our bodies and become one with the…”
“Jesus, Scot! What happened? Why did you get kicked out?”
“Pace! Come on! Call me Pace, please? Okay… oh yeah! Circuit overload,” he tapped a temple, gave his cup a swirl and checked his phone, “So… this girl grinding on me, takes her scarf off and binds my hands with it, like this,” he demonstrates, “holds onto my wrists and puts my hands on her throat like she’s get’n choked, arches back, super-flex, and holding my wrists for support puts her head on the floor and then lowers the rest of her body, so I got no choice but to follow and go down, like right on top of her, cuz she won’t let go. I wind up sitting on her hip area and, still holding my hands to her throat, she starts flopping around and making sounds like she’s being choked. I try and pull away but can’t, cuz she won’t let go of my hands and some douche-bag doughboy, nearby, thinks I’m really choking her, grabs me from behind, starts trying to pull me off and makes her head slam the floor! Several times. Claims later, I heard, that she went unconscious, which is total bullshit cuz she was still holding my wrists! Dude’s got his arm around my neck and pulls till he breaks her grip, drags me a few feet and lets go, goes back to check on her. The music stops, nobody’s dancing. People are shouting, gathered round, pointing at me. I jump to my feet and she’s just laying there, crying! Bunch of people around her now like she’s the victim and doughboy says, “You crossed a line there, Bro!” Comes at me… I’m like, what the fuck? I mean, imagine being dragged, out of the blue, from your bed, from pleasant dreams, into a crowd of lunatics talk’n shit, is how I can best describe it. Anyway, soon as he got within reach, I punched him in the face with both fists, my hands still bound with her scarf at the wrists. Didn’t see that coming… he dropped like a rock, hands to his face, blood everywhere. I pulled off the scarf, dropped it on him, figured he could use it to blow his nose with, grabbed my clothes and bolted. Lots of people yelling shit as I left. Don’t know why I punched him, instinct I guess. I was disoriented and pissed! Reminded me of that kid from Salem East, remember that? In the basketball playoffs? Holy shit! Blood all over the floor and I got thrown out and we lost? Kind of like that, I guess… big crowd. Like what the fuck do you expect? I was attacked!”
“They told you, you were banished?”
“Not right away… Feya scheduled a ‘clearing’ between me and the dance community, said I couldn’t come again until I did it. I’m like dance community? It all seemed so pretentious and exaggerated. I didn’t give a shit about any community, so I quit going and moved to L.A. Guess I didn’t really get banished. It was hard to leave though. Some great times and the most sex ever, all of it amazing… nothing like that since. The L.A. dance scene isn’t like that. Nobody wants to know anyone but their clique. I was too much, for them, I think, looking back—testosterone fueled young stud, homeboy, not afraid to be what they dreamed. No one else was bringing it like me. Except, Dance Man.”
They talked a little more about dance and how one gets into ‘the zone’, as they walked back and arrived at the same time as Maya rode up on her bike. Cindy introduced them and they sat together on Brooks’ back deck, drank peppermint tea, ate apple slices with vegan cheese, sesame rice crackers, flax oil and ghee. Maya did not like surprises and Cindy warned Pace, “Don’t hold your breath, she might walk right on by, like she doesn’t even see you,” secretly hoping she would. But she seemed to take it in stride, knew Satori, something which surprised Cindy, “Oh, I never told you about that?” Apparently they’d roomed together at a month-long Shadow intensive in The Palisades, with Paul6. Maya talked often about amazing workshop experiences but never mentioned Satori or Paul6. Had nothing but praise now though, talking with Pace. She agreed to host, when he shared with her a handwritten note from Satori, asking her to co-teach the workshop and split the proceeds 70/30. They agreed. Pace produced a contract, had all the details spelled out—Satori would stay with them. Maya would work out dates and times with Yogaflow and oversee registration. A flat fee of five thousand dollars plus incentives, “If the workshop fills quick, for instance or x number of certified teachers attend and with satsang options and privates, you guys could easily clear ten. You’ll love Satori! Everyone does.”
Once back inside, Maya gave Cindy a tongue-lashing—How dare she put her in that position? Does she have any idea how wide open she is and sensitive? Do boundaries mean anything? Sacred spaces? Aren’t there enough people that want things from her? Must she bring them to Lakshmi? Her refuge? What do you expect? Cindy felt bad, knew this was a possibility but still felt it worth the risk. They (she) needed the money and Maya would get over it. Maya felt manipulated and used, stomped around the kitchen, not knowing what to do, “I’m all discombobulated now! Thrown off rhythm. I have to teach this afternoon and have no appetite!” She cried, crushed a rice cake in her hand and left it on the counter. Cindy suggested she could call her brother and ask him to tear up the contract, if she wants.
“And how would that make me look?” Maya asked, “When your brother tells his hotshot clients I don’t keep my word? Look how I am?” She stood, eyes closed tight with clenched fists.
Cindy cleaned up the rice cake and got Maya to lie down in bed, rubbed her feet with warm oil. Soon, excited by the prospects, she admitted she loved Satori, heard her name a lot of late and even thought about inviting her to present at Yogaflow, which is probably the reason it manifested as it did—a signal from Spirit. Relieved that Maya was off the warpath, Cindy let slide this sleight of logic, felt Maya misrecognized who manifested what, wanted to tell her what she had to go through, to even consider working with her brother… but was afraid Maya would get upset. They got in some snuggles and sex before Maya had to go back and teach class. Whence, exhausted by the morning’s events, Cindy took a nap.
When she woke… it was dark and cold. Rice paper blinds, tossed about by gusts of wind, were knocking things off the windowsills in the studio and something broke. The only thing about Lakshmi Cindy hated was the rice paper blinds in the studio, which never worked right and swung around like mad, even in the slightest breeze, knocking things off and tangling strings. If it were up to her, the windowsills would be kept clean and empty of things that poke holes in or stain rice paper blinds, like Maya’s phone charger, sweaty towels, oil nebulizer, iPad stand… and the windows would open only below the lowest level of the blind so they wouldn’t flap like mad. That is not the way it went, however. Maya set whatever she wanted on the windowsill and opened windows willy-nilly and Cindy cleared off, closed the windows and put things back where they went. Maya loved to air things out and exercise to stay warm. Cindy liked to turn up the heat and get a place nice and cozy, until you could just be naked, although she seldom was. This made Maya feel wasteful and claustrophobic, thinking the air was stale, chi stagnant. So Cindy wore sweatpants and sweaters, ate warming foods and did breath of fire—if Maya was around. But today she did not feel well and had a chill. Emotional hangover… fearful she’d made a deal with the devil. Marveled at how, after ten years of not seeing her brother, she’d been so quick to deal with him, strain her relationship and for what? Money? She shook her head, felt like she failed a test, neck tense. Got up, took some ibuprofen, plugged in the heating pad and lay back down, put it on her neck and upper back. Why is this not a blessing? She asked, or perhaps a chance to heal my relationship with him? Be a family again? No… even the thought of her brother unsettled her and she didn’t trust him. And Satori didn’t sit well either, the way Maya talked about her, “Something’s rotten in Denmark,” she said aloud, as Tom would have.
Maya knew Satori well… well as one possibly can, during a month long Shadow Yoga retreat in The Palisades. Shadow practice brought up a lot of sexual heat, for both of them, and, with mutual attraction admitted and expressed, they agreed—what happens in The Palisades stays in The Palisades. Satori taught Tantric yoga partner techniques and every night, after meditation, they’d practice, alone in the studio, hours long sessions, ending often in powerful orgasms of great duration. This is where Tantra started for Maya, a mind blowing experience and her most intense intimate encounter with another, ever! Never matched, never close, a dream for them both. She had been teacher since then, with mixed results and a lot of resistance… feared someone like Satori might never come along again—an equal, who truly got her.
Maya envied Satori’s success. She traveled all over the world doing workshops. Things were going well at Yogaflow, her classes were full and she was making more money than ever. But Maya’s style was esoteric, deep Shadow, word of mouth mostly and nowhere near national or branded. She told herself—it’s not about that, stay focused in teaching and practice, which worked for awhile, success came, serious students and a following but now she felt stuck in a rut, ten classes a week and she takes home five-thousand a month, after tax, not much for what she gives of herself. Maya felt very alone and done with her present relationship. Cindy just didn’t get it, had not progressed in Shadow or showed particular acumen for Tantric practice. Maya longed for a well practiced partner, one who could turn on her full power—like Satori.
Satori stayed in the practice space, behind Japanese screens. Cindy never saw her sleep nor what she slept on, yoga mat and blanket perhaps, for that was all she had. Maya co-taught the workshop— Spiritus Mundi: Life Out of Breath. Cindy went to satsang the first night and was impressed. Resonated with things Satori said and took notes—overcoming the constant need for more, restless desire to get or resent not getting what we want… craving and aversion… not fighting ourselves… joy is our natural state… bridge the split and restore the mystery. The second night, Cindy, half awake and Maya out of bed… heard them breathing hard in the studio, doing some intense practice, put in earplugs and went back to sleep but not deep. The next day, suspicious, Maya’s energy different, stand-offish, Cindy had tea with Satori, asked her questions like, “What if your partner is attracted to others, maybe even engaging intimately with them behind your back? What should you do?”
“Well… I would say, play your part in full consciousness that that is what it is—a part, a stage,” she said, “Be true to the role that presents and what needs to express. Watch what your mind does, what it imagines will be or should have been… where your attention goes and how that repeats itself… stay with the sensation, not thoughts about when or why it came, or when it will change and to what? Say what you have to say… However unwilling we are all forced to act by the powers of nature, the Bagavad Gita says. Embrace action as change, when the field calls, respond in truth, which maybe isn’t what you think. Tough to accomplish but quite exhilarating and mysterious, free of the inner… critic, or whatever you want to call it—duplicity, I guess. You against you who thinks she knows best about what is and isn’t happening and why… bring them together—author and critic.”
That didn’t help and by the end, Cindy could tell. She could smell it. All week, they left early and came home late, well after Cindy went to bed, “That’s how kundalini workshops are,” Maya said, when she mentioned it, “You have to practice almost as much to undo what you’ve done. We’re just hanging out, doing pranayama, chants and relaxation techniques… not very exciting stuff… but you’re welcome to join us.” So… last night of the workshop, Cindy took her up on the invitation. One a.m., unable to sleep, she got up, put on some sweats and walked over to Yogaflow, like a zombie. The doors were locked, everything dark. She knocked, no answer, rang the buzzer… looked in several windows, saw nothing, until… in the alley behind the studio, she heard something… from a window above a dumpster, climbed onto it and peeking under the rice paper blinds, saw there, by candlelight, on the little studio floor, Maya, naked, drenched in sweat, grinding pussy to pussy on Satori, one of her favorite things to do, moaning with delight. Frantic, Cindy looked around, picked up a brick, which held down the dumpster lid, and smashed the window with it, cut her hand real bad, jumped down and ran back to Lakshmi, packed a bag, dripped blood all over her pillows… then called a cab and went to her parents’ house, got in with the hide-a-key, crawled into her childhood bed and cried herself to sleep. Woke in the early morning to her mother’s knock, asking, “Honey? Cindy? The police are here… asking for you. Is everything okay? Can you come talk to them, please? Why is there blood on your door?”