For the second time in my life I’ve got a trust fund, and I don’t want to fuck this one up. So even though I’m not working, I’m careful with what I spend. I haven’t moved downtown, I haven’t bought a new wardrobe, and although I haven’t yet been able to bring myself to rent out the empty apartment on Commerce Street, I will I’m taking a writing class at the New School, a yoga class at Jivamukti, and a Web design class at the Learning Annex—that’s my insurance policy, the Web design class If I do fuck up this time, I won’t be left with nothing.
Of all my classes, yoga is the most fun. The class is in the East Village and the teacher is a real East Village chick, with tattoos on her biceps and ankles, fingernails and toenails painted black It’s a beginners’ class and most of the other students are, from the looks of it, people like me; people in their thirties who used to be cool and hip and are looking for a way to regain that confidence. No one talks to each other, we just smile and nod our heads in the sunlit room while we wait for Ms. Black Toenails to show up. It’s like waiting on line for a prescription at a drugstore, everyone is too wrapped up in her own problems to be too concerned with the next person’s shit, yet everyone thinks that the whole room is wondering, what’s wrong with her? We all look a little desperate. In a way it’s an admission of defeat, being here.
But it’s fun. We stretch here and there and feel the energy through our spines and get a thrill from coming close to Downward Dog, Upward Dog, the Cobra, and the Plow. The best part of class is the hop. We’re in Downward Dog—feet and hands on the floor, hips in the air forming a nice triangle, if it’s done correctly. Then the teacher says to crouch down and look between your hands. “Think light thoughts,” she says, “and hop forward.” The goal is to get your feet between your hands, and I come close. Out of all the moves we do in class, I’m best at the silly little hop Think light thoughts, and hop forward
I’m on my way out of yoga class one afternoon in the fall when I walk smack into Austin. Literally I’m walking south on Lafayette, planning to get the subway back uptown, when I change my mind and decide to go to an Indian restaurant on Sixth Street for lunch I make a quick full turn on the sidewalk and my left hand smacks hard into Austin’s ass. I turn around to apologize, I think to a stranger, and there’s Austin, totally stunned. Poor Austin: First I refuse to wait five minutes for him, then I hang up on him, then I blow him off for months, and now I hit him.
I laugh He smiles.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you.”
“No, of course not I’m sure you meant to hit someone else entirely.”
We both laugh. It should be awkward, but it isn’t.
“So. Did you find an apartment?”
“Yep. Thirty-eighth and Ninth. I got a real-estate agent. Maggie Maggie was great.”
“Better than me?”
“Well, she, you know, she took my phone calls. She would see me, speak to me, that kind of stuff, so yes, I have to say she was better.”
We both laugh again.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about that My mother was sick and I—”
“Didn’t deal with it very well?”
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly it.”
“I saw in the papers that she—when she passed away I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Thanks. I’m okay. I’ll be okay ”
“Good Well. .”
We’re on the corner of Lafayette and Houston, and I feel my heart breaking, it’s cracking into two and then four and then into a thousand pieces at the thought of Austin walking away.
“Indian food.” What I mean to say is, I’m going over to Sixth Street for Indian food, do you want to come with me?, but all that comes out is “Indian food ”
“Huh? Do you know a good place for Indian? Someone told me about this place on Twenty-sixth—”
“I know the best place On Sixth Street This is the best Indian food in the city.”
“One thing I’ve noticed since I’ve been in New York,” he says, “is that everyone thinks they know the best spot for everything. Everyone thinks they have the best Indian place, the best shoe repair place, the best sushi But no one knows where to get a good a haircut.”
“There is no place to get a good haircut,” I tell him. “None. Thirty years, I’ve never had a good haircut Listen, come with me to this restaurant for lunch, and then I’ll give you a haircut ”
“You can cut hair?”
He doesn’t walk away. Words are coming out of my mouth that I don’t understand, but he’s not walking away
“Of course I can It’s easy You have scissors? A good pair of scissors?”
“Uh, I—”
“We’ll buy some. Lovely Locks, about nine dollars. They’re the best. Trust me, I used to cut my own bangs Look, where were you going, right now?”
“Down to a show on Broadway, a gallery A friend of mine’s in it”
“It can wait, right?”
“I guess.” He looks happy. We’re both so fucking happy I could scream It’s ridiculous, to be this happy.
“So listen, we’ll go to this place for lunch which, I’m telling you, is the best Indian place in the city. Then I’ll give you a haircut ”
“I don’t know about the haircut”
“Don’t you trust me? Austin, I wouldn’t give you a bad haircut.” We walk east, and the pieces of my heart pick themselves up and stick themselves back together, perfectly, like a jigsaw puzzle