Nalini
The headquarters of Rossi Construction is in an old tobacco warehouse a few blocks away from the Durham Bulls stadium, halfway across the downtown area. I’m not entirely sure what I expect from this meeting but Sam and I go way back to West Point, and if anyone can help me figure out the design for the biggest gamble of my life, it’s Sam.
The destruction from the storm six weeks ago has given me an opportunity. A chance to expand.
I’ve been needing to find a bigger space for about a year and a half.
And I’ve been stalling. Because…fear.
And now that choice has been made easier by…I don’t know if it was pure chance or divine intervention but I’m taking the leap. And I am terrified.
That’s where Sam comes in.
He is one of the few people I’ve kept in touch with from our class. He was an ace in our engineering classes back at West Point. In the first few days after the storm, when I was surveying the wreckage of everything I’d built with my own two hands, Sam was a lifeline.
I’m deliberately trying not to think about Caleb. I’m grateful he helped with the chainsaw and the initial clean up. I’d wanted to offer to cook dinner or something as a thank you but when I turned around, he was gone.
No number. No good-bye. Just…gone.
I joked about Caleb being a single-serving friend but as it turns out, I guess that’s exactly what he was. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about that, to be honest. But at least staying busy trying to get into the new building has kept me from dwelling on his complete disappearance.
I suppose it’s for the better. I have far too much to do these days without worrying over someone I just met.
And now I’m sitting on an old building that I’ve just signed a mortgage to, as opposed to shelling out ten thousand dollars a month in rent.
I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to make this work and I’ve shut the studio down for a month. I’ve been doing classes out of an old conference room above the local bookstore but my clients are starting to grumble.
I have four weeks to get the warehouse ready for the first class, planned for the first night of Diwali.
A month to do a massive overhaul of a building that’s most recently been home to a small but industrious and still illegal pot-growing operation. That venture came to an unfortunate end as a result of some overzealous cops.
Because why not, right? I inhale deeply, thinking of the destruction of my studio. It happened. It’s time to use that destruction to create something new.
Besides, Sam will disown me if I chicken out. No matter how much my anxiety about the finances is crushing my lungs, I will make this work.
I know I shouldn’t be surprised when I walk into the Rossi building and am immediately encased in a sense of warmth. The floor is polished ebony concrete mixed with a silver and gold stain. Industrial lights illuminate the space. Black and white photos of old Durham during the Civil Rights marches decorate the brick walls.
The words Rossi Construction are burned into what looks like reclaimed barn wood.
The place radiates style and class.
In other words, classic Sam. Even his office space is clean and classy, sheltered behind a plate-glass window. He’s arguing with someone on the phone. He grins when he sees me and holds up one finger. I’m happy to wait.
Once upon a time, I would have loved to have…ahem…gotten the finger from Sam. But that was before we both realized he and I would never be more than friends. He hangs up the phone and leaves the glass-enclosed office, his smile wide and welcoming against his dark skin.
“I still can’t believe you never said yes when I asked you to yearling winter weekend,” he says by way of greeting as he pulls me into a hug.
God, but it feels good to be held by one of my oldest friends. I forget, sometimes, just how important regenerating a real connection is.
“Yeah, well, why ruin a perfectly good friendship by screwing it up with dating?” I say, still smiling.
There’s something warm and familiar about being around Sam. He was an ally at West Point when too few men were strong enough to stand up to the assholes who said women didn’t belong. I was grateful to him then and I have more than a few reasons to be grateful to him now.
He leans back, his beautiful dark skin pierced by his brilliant smile. “I’m so glad you’re finally doing this.”
I suck in a deep inhale, holding it then pushing it out against the back of my throat in the ujjayi breath. “Let’s not put too many expectations out into the universe. It sounds so much more intimidating when you say it out loud.”
He ignores my anxiety. Not because he’s insensitive but because he knows me well enough to know that I don’t need any help in marinating in it.
“I’ve done some market research and looked at some of the leading names in yoga to get some ideas. I’ve come up with something that’s a mix of Indian and contemporary American style.” He motions for me to follow him through the wide open space, to a table constructed out of the same old barn wood as the Rossi Construction sign. A cream twelve-by-twelve folder on it stands out in stark contrast against the dark stained wood. “Before we start, can I get you some coffee? Tea?”
“Tea would be great, thanks.” My eyes are drawn to the folder and he grins.
“Go ahead and flip through it. I’ll be right back.”
I sink into a rich leather couch. My palms are slick as I reach for the folder. Everything about this is terrifying. Expanding into my own space is everything I’ve ever wanted but it’s such a huge risk. Most yoga studios don’t survive six months and if they do, they barely scrape by.
I’ve been going strong since I started two years ago and I’m running out of room because my classes keep filling up. These are good problems to have but I’ve been resisting the move. The storm merely forced me into a decision point that I’d been avoiding.
If I want to continue to serve as an entryway for people to learn about the Dharmic way of life associated with yoga, I need to change. To reach back to the country where I spent so many summers and bring something authentic to American yoga, like Swami Vivekananda did a hundred years ago. Guru Iyengar’s teachings are helping me stay grounded in authentic traditions. But to survive in this marketplace, I have to adapt. To create a fusion between East and West that somehow stays true to both.
It’s a massive, massive risk. People in America tend to think of yoga as a fitness program, and for some people that’s fine. But commercialism has clouded the meaning and the spirituality behind it.
Unfortunately, I’m part of the commercialism, despite wishing it were otherwise. I tell myself that at least I’m trying to make it something deeper, even if people do still have to pay for my classes.
I’ve been heading back to my roots for a long time. This is just another step along the way, one the universe apparently decided it was time for me to take.
Sam settles onto the couch next to me, handing me a mug that looks handmade. The tea smells rich and earthy and faintly of cinnamon.
I flip open the folder and I’m hit with a sense of…rightness.
“We’re going to stain the concrete to warm the space up. We’ve got a couple of designs you can do in the floor but I think large colorful mandala designs would strike the right tone. Painting the walls will brighten it. We don’t have to replace most of the windows, which will save you a ton of money, but we should paint the trim and redo the ledges. I emailed your Uncle Prakash in Mumbai and he’s already lined up shipping for the fabrics for the window hangings as soon as you make a choice. That will save you painting time.”
The design is incredible. He’s somehow managed to overlay a multicolored mandala in the middle of a stained concrete floor at the entrance. The walls are a pale powder blue, a color that strikes me as the color of Shiva. A tapestry of the elephant god Ganesh hangs on one wall. Between two windows in the main studio hangs a spoked wooden wheel—a symbol of the Buddha.
The details he’s found. I’m speechless, staring at his design as though my space isn’t currently a rundown warehouse filled with cobwebs and boxes of discarded dreams from the previous owner.
“Sam…this is amazing.”
He presses on, as if I’m not sitting there on the verge of happy tears. “The good news is that you can do a ton of this work yourself, like you wanted.” He flips the page. “This is the part where you’ll need some help.”
He lays out the designs behind constructing dividing walls, a task which is both necessary and intimidating. “You’ve got two options if you want to create a heated space. You can build it into the space, and that means building walls and a ceiling and running ducts for the heat. Or you can make the heated studio in the basement. You know which one I recommend, right?”
“Yeah, the idea of building walls by myself doesn’t sound too appealing.” Then again, neither does building the heated studio in the basement. “Is there any other way?”
“There’s the possibility of simply dividing the space in two but you’ll have to have an electrician put the air on two separate circuits. You don’t have to decide immediately but it’s a big decision you have to make relatively early on.” He flips the page. “The flooring inside the studios is bamboo. Sustainable and incredibly durable, and this way your members aren’t doing yoga on concrete or nasty mats that absorb bacteria.” He glances over at me. “You’re good with installing flooring?”
“Yeah. I put together my first studio. I can handle flooring, painting, and installing shelving. Walls, though…”
“If you take my advice and make the basement into two separate spaces, it’ll make the upstairs a lot cleaner and easier. I’ve got a team that can help with the framing of the necessary dividing walls in the basement. And we’ve got to clear the building of lead paint. I’ve got the permits and hired a team. They’re ready to get started once you get everything cleared out.”
I breathe out again. “I’m…this is real. This is really happening.”
He grins over at me. “You deserve it. You know that, right?” He’s said that to me before. Many, many times.
It’s hard to hear but I learned a long time ago not to ignore Sam Rossi when he tells you something. His faith in the people around him is…astonishing.
I look down at the designs. “There’s so much that could go wrong.”
“Everything already did, with the storm. This is cake for someone with your stubbornness issues.” He smiles wickedly, lifting his coffee to his lips. “Consider me your fairy construction godbrother.” He slides an invoice toward me. “Wholesale discount on the flooring ready for once we’ve cleared the building for reconstruction. You’ll have one large area that remains stained concrete and the smaller studios will be wood. The heated studio is going to take a little longer but you should be able to get this done in two weeks, no problem at all, leaving two weeks for cleanup and any errors. I’m assigning Bruce Forsythe to work with you on this. He’s doing it pro bono because we’re all about supporting a fellow veteran-owned business.”
“Yeah? That’s really awesome.” For a fleeting instant I think the name Bruce should mean something to me but exactly what slips out of my grasp. I am not going to say no to help. It’s my biggest weakness and I remind myself to say yes. “My entire staff is working on this. I shut the studio down so we can focus. Thanks be to Mother Nature and all that.”
I study the floor plan. There’s a small area set off for the entrance and a desk edged with stone detailing. “People will have to walk through the retail area to get back to the studios,” I murmur.
“That’s smart business. Helps with impulse purchases. And here you’ll have a small café. Uncle Ganesh has come through again with tea being shipped from the Mumbai Tea Company. You’ll have a studio that no one in the area can match for uniqueness and authenticity, and that’s something that people are willing to pay for. Cinnamon Chai’s manager is interested in renting space from you if you decide you want to farm the café out rather than run it yourself. Seeing how you’ll own the whole building and all that, bringing on renters would be a smart financial move.”
I sip the tea, the warm cinnamon warming the back of my throat. “I’ll think about it. I’m honestly not sure I’m ready to turn this into an entirely commercial space. I’m on the fence about so many things. I haven’t even started thinking about expanding the retail section. I wish I could run this place without it but, yay capitalism and all that, right?”
“You can support fair trade products from Mumbai and support local vendors here. You can do this in keeping with your philosophy.” God, but he says that with so much confidence and calm. Like the world is just going to make this dream a reality.
I glance over at him. “Sam, thank you so much for this. I can’t even tell you how amazing this is. I don’t know how you did it but this is exactly what I wanted.”
“To new spaces and old friends.” He clinks his mug against mine then pins me with a look. A look that says he’s about to ask a question I don’t want to answer. “Speaking of friends…What was going on with Caleb and the chainsaw?”
I smile. Only Sam could make such a personal question so not threatening. “He was caught in the storm and we ended up taking shelter before the worst of it blew through. He…stayed the entire time then showed up with this miracle chainsaw. Then he…vanished. I wanted to write him a thank you note for his work with the chainsaw but he was just…gone.”
“So you spent a couple of hours trapped in a basement with a complete stranger who then shows up with a chainsaw, helps you remove a shit-ton of big ass tree and then vanishes like a chainsaw-wielding fairy godfather?”
“Well, it does sound a little crazy when you put it that way.” I sip my tea. “Caleb was…interesting. And fascinating. Did you know he’s an Old Grad? He was one of my problem cadets, apparently, our firstie year.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.” That seems to have caught his attention. “We were in the same battalion. He was a serious fuck-up as a lieutenant.”
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard you say anything…harsh about anyone.”
Sam narrows his eyes at me. “He… Let’s put it this way. He didn’t have his shit together.” There are so many different ways I could interpret that statement. “But…”
“You don’t need to finish that thought. This is going exactly nowhere. I don’t know where he lives. I don’t have his number. He was helpful and, well, I don’t need any distractions from work. Not this month, anyway.”
He shakes his head. “No one dies thinking ‘wow, I really wished I’d worked harder’. You need to take some space and time for you, Lini.”
I shake my head. “What makes you think he’s part of that space and time?”
He shrugs and damn it, I wish he wasn’t so damn nice all of the time. “I can hope that maybe someone will come along and help you…feel like you again. I know how important your studio is and I know you can get there without needing to depend on anyone.” He grips my shoulder. “But this life is too short to go through it alone. And if I had to bet on one thing, it would be that the universe didn’t put him in your basement for him to disappear on you without a reason.”
I roll my eyes and bump my shoulder into his. God, but I love this man. Why couldn’t my own family be as supportive of me and my life as this man I love like a brother? “You should write novels, Sam, because that is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Look. Just…never mind. Let’s talk lighting.”
I’m not sure why he changes the subject but I’m grateful. I can handle the teasing. I can handle the urging me not to work so hard.
I can’t handle the worry I see in his eyes when he looks at me.
Because it makes me feel incomplete. Like my healing from the attack in Syria isn’t over.
I want it to be. I want to be me again. Whole. And I want to get that way on my own terms. I don’t want to be fatalistic and depend on the universe. I don’t want to challenge the universe to destroy something in my life.
I just want…to be myself again.
* * *
Caleb
Bruce doesn’t do counseling. Which is definitely not what I expected when he dragged my ass out of that alley a few months ago. I fully expected some hippie group therapy meetings about finding a higher power and admitting you have a problem.
Granted, he did sort of get me to confront that I had a massive fucking problem when I was in the throes of the DTs.
Kind of hard to go yep, everything is fine when you can’t stand up without heaving your guts up and are pretty sure there’s one of those little alien things running up and down your spine.
I deeply regretted any life choices that involved binge-watching the Aliens movies before I dried out.
I do not recommend that. At all.
But I survived and now I work in one of those Maker Spaces where people come to use the 3D printer or the tools. My job is weird. He doesn’t ask me about staying sober. Doesn’t ask me about how late I stay at the shop to avoid not sleeping. He can see when I close the shop up at night and set the alarm. He trusts me to shut it down at midnight per his instructions.
No, we work on furniture, we talk about life, the universe and everything in between. But in the spaces between actual meetings, I’m on my own, working on whatever furniture project needs to be done and trying to find the pieces of me that are either still missing or still being reconstructed.
It’s the strangest therapy I’ve ever even conceived of. And oddly enough, I’m doing okay. I’ve managed to stay sober. Almost four months. Every day, it’s a struggle. Some days are harder than others.
But working with my hands is good. I like it a hell of a lot more than sitting in classes at business school, where my mind wanders and questions the futility of it all.
Building takes a concentration. A flow.
It turns out, I like working with my hands. I guess I forgot that after my mom died.
I walk into Bruce’s office bright and early. Funny thing about not sleeping: you’re always the first one at work. His office looks like a construction foreman’s office—a rickety metal desk covered with scattered paperwork and folders and a thousand misplaced sticky notes. A coffee maker, with a pot that hasn’t seen the inside of a scrub pad in this decade at best, leaves the room filled with the smell of slightly burnt coffee. The floor, though—the floor is what busts me up every time I walk into his office.
It creaks. The kind of old wood creaking that is guaranteed to announce the killer is approaching during a horror movie. I guess this is what it feels like to walk into a waking dream where you’re not entirely sure you’re going to hit a fantasy or a nightmare.
Maybe they’re one and the same.
Today, though, something stops me at the door. Maybe I’m overtired. Maybe I’m just cranky, but standing in the doorway to Bruce’s shop, I’m hit with a sense of familiarity that physically hurts. I can practically hear the gentle tinkling of the wind chimes in the corner of the shop. The smell of fresh sawdust is clean and crisp and damp. I am suddenly ten years old, standing in the doorway of my grandfather’s woodshed where he used to spend hours a day building things and drinking away memories of Vietnam.
It was a memory I’d long forgotten until just now. One I’d apparently buried after I lost my mom and the life we had.
Bruce strolls out, his pepper-gray hair covered by a red bandana that’s striking against the sun-damaged tan of the skin on the top of his head. “Was starting to wonder if you were going to show up.”
“Isn’t there a standing threat to hunt me down and kill me if I don’t?” He reminds me of my old first sergeant. Don’t get it twisted—he will show up at my apartment. He’s done it.
So I try to make sure I show up every day.
“Yeah, well, glad you took me seriously.” He’s gruffer than usual today.
It’s easy to fall into the bullshitting that soldiers are famous for and that I find I miss something terrible. There’s something comforting about talking shit to the men to your left and right when you’re sitting in the woods in the cold and the dark.
“What are you working on today?”
“We’ve got a new job. Come on; I’ll show you real quick before we have to be where we’re going.”
I have no idea how this is supposed to work. I have no idea how I got here except that Bruce sat me down and told me that being a drunk fucking sucked and ordered me to come to his woodworking shop. Said I looked like I needed something to do with my hands.
At the time they’d been shaking because I’d needed a drink, so I guess he wasn’t too far off.
We walk past two-inch thick, long wooden planks spread out on a workbench. They’re at least eight feet long. They’re dingy gray and look like they’ve been out in the woods for far too long.
“This is going to be a table?” I’m skeptical, to say the least.
He runs a gloved hand over the edge. “Funny thing about wood. You can beat it up. You can burn it. You can warp it. But if you apply enough pressure and heat, you can remold it. Shape it into something beautiful.”
He sounds like a lover caressing his partner’s skin.
“So how does this work?”
“Well, first we’re going to scrape off the old. Rough sandpaper to take off the outer layer that’s protected the inner layers.”
This is quite possibly the strangest therapy I could have imagined. But whatever. He’s not wrong. I need something to do with my hands.
“But this piece is warped. It doesn’t even sit flat on the table.”
He grunts and points to a furnace-looking thing. “That’s what the kiln is for. We apply heat and pressure, and it’ll be flat as the day it was planed.”
Okay, then.
I follow him out to his truck and get in, glad I actually was able to eat breakfast before I came to the shop today. Food is still challenging sometimes. For several seconds neither of us speak as he drives.
“So did you get into woodworking first and the saving of souls came second, or was it the other way around?” I ask as he pulls to a stop in front of a flashing railroad crossing sign. I find myself suddenly needing to know why he found me and kicked my ass into sobriety. Funny how I never questioned it before now.
He shoots me a quick look. I can’t decide if it’s fuck you, smart ass or something else.
I shrug and watch a passing train. “Just curious,” I mumble. I can’t figure out what his problem is today.
Bruce drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “I was one of the thousands who were told ‘thank you for serving’ after Desert Storm and then given my marching orders when the Army decided to downsize. I tried a couple of corporate jobs but they just didn’t work. Got myself divorced because I was drinking too much and pretending I was still a stupid enlisted guy. My uncle scooped me up—kind of like I scooped you up—and taught me how to keep my hands busy. So I think the woodworking came first. And I don’t know a damn thing about saving souls.”
“So you just woke up one day and decided that scooping up random drunks and putting them to work with things that can dismember them was a good idea?”
“Well, this ain’t the Army anymore, so I can do my own risk assessment. And if I really thought you were going to show up drunk, you’d be drying out somewhere else first.”
I shake my head and say nothing, the unexpected jab at my struggle with sobriety slicing at me. I like Bruce. I can’t say why because he’s somewhat cranky and likes to drop surprises in people’s laps without warning. But today, he’s off. Grumpier than normal.
“So, how goes the not-drinking thing?”
Ah, another question I don’t really know how to answer. “Good. Except for the not-sleeping part.”
He makes a noise. “I think I’ve got a solution for that.”
I glance over at him and say nothing. I don’t know where we’re going.
But I think I’m okay with that.