Fifty-seven

THE tardy movie crew arrived as Tristan Ferrell was wrapping up his introductory remarks, telling us how a painful failure in “the business jungle” drove him into a real one—the Brazilian rain forest—where he regained “balance and wholeness and wellness.”

As the Swipe to Meat cast filed past me to take their positions on the reserved mats, Punch spotted me, gave me an excited wink, and maneuvered his lanky, floppy-haired partner close to me.

Tucker seemed oblivious to his surroundings, locked in a whispered conversation with a pudgy, balding man wearing retro tennis shoes and white socks that ended mid-calf. I pegged him as the producer.

Soon their conversation ended, but my plan to catch Tuck’s attention was thwarted when the lights dimmed again, until only the garish green stage was visible.

“I want you to come back to that night with me,” Tristan said, “when I rediscovered my core. I became balanced. Whole. At peace with everything and everyone in the universe. Alone and naked, I could feel the jungle teeming with life. Tiny insects. Big cats. Long snakes. Short worms. Buoyant bats. Heavy hedgehogs. Then the revelation struck—”

Ferrell paused to smack his own head. “It didn’t matter their size or shape, whether they flew or swam or slithered or crawled. Critters don’t worry about fitness!”

Good grief.

“Critters are fit. And in that moment, The Critter Crawl was born.”

Honestly, I nearly lost it at “long snakes” and “short worms,” but the crowd was eating it up. Some even oohed and aahed. While Tristan continued his preamble, I tried to get Tuck’s attention.

“Psst! Psst!” I hissed. But it didn’t work. The only attention I caught was the teacher’s.

“I hear the call of the slithering snake,” Ferrell said with an approving nod. “Someone has been in my class before!”

Tristan then informed us we were about to learn our first position—the Boa.

“I want you to throw your arms back and thrust your chest out. Snakes don’t have arms, so I really want you to toss those useless old limbs away . . .”

A sudden scream marked the first wardrobe malfunction. A sports bra in flight slapped Tuck’s producer in the back of the head, while the bosomy actress it belonged to covered herself and bolted for the exit.

As things turned out, she was the lucky one. The rest of us were compelled to lie on our stomachs in the dim green lighting and slither like boa constrictors.

With the animal soundtrack turned back up and everyone busy flopping around in the faux jungle, I squirmed on over to Tucker’s long body. He was deep into method acting—he really was that snake—when I bumped him out of his trance.

“Clare Cosi! What in blazes are you doing wiggling around on an exercise mat?”

“That’s a question we should all ask.”

“Slither! Slither!” Ferrell cried. “I want to see you contort those stiff spines.”

A howl of pain signaled a slipped disc. Two animal-print musclemen rushed to the scene and hauled the agonized man off in a luxury stretcher.

“Oh, my,” Tuck fretted. “Now I know why they made us sign those releases!”

Several people threw up the arms they were supposed to pretend they didn’t have and headed for the exit. I longed to join them, but my mission here was not yet finished.

“Come on, Tuck!” I said, my plea muffled by the gym floor’s padding. “You have to come back to the Village Blend. We need you. Now, more than ever.”

Tuck tossed back his floppy brown hair and peeked nervously at the pudgy, balding man, who was earnestly boa constricting with the best of them.

“Clare,” he whispered. “I’m here on business. Could we talk personal later?”

“Only if you promise you will talk to me.”

“I promise.”

“Right after class. Downstairs in the juice bar.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied, still wiggling.

“I’ll be waiting.”

As I Critter Crawled back to my mat, I heard Punch’s exasperated groan. “This is horrid, humiliating, and no fun at all! I’ll take my mother’s favorite workout over this, any day.”

“What did she do, jumping jacks?”

“No. Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies. It was awesome! Everyone sang along—and wore nice comfy shorts and tees. None of this pinching spandex. Why can’t I find a workout like that anymore?!”

“I don’t know about Oldies,” Tuck said, writhing with effort. “But if you can find me a workout called Sweatin’ with Donna Summer . . . and the Village People . . . and the Bee Gees . . . and KC and the Sunshine Band—I’ll be the first one to sign up.”

“OMG, Tuck. You just created Sweatin’ with the Seventies!”

Tuck froze, mid-slither, as it hit him. “OMG, Punch, we have to produce that!”

Punch nodded like crazy, put up his palm, and the two high-fived each other.

“You there! No hands! No hands!” Tristan yelled. “You’re a boa. The Monkey Climb comes later!”

The jungle guru’s words were punctuated by another embarrassed cry as a man squirmed right out of his shorts.