In bed that night, McCormick, nerves blazing, objects to tomorrow’s plans.
“The ferry to Jersey City? Why do you need your files? Then the subway uptown and back? You can’t put color in your hair anyway. And dinner with Alison? Julie, Jesus! After what we just went through?”
She uses the patient-but-not-really voice that will not be retired just because she’s so wrong this time.
“It was Braxton Hicks, Michael. Spotting is normal. They have chemical-free dye. This isn’t a health crisis. Women have babies every day.”
“Well, you might have one tomorrow. On a boat in the Hudson River.”
He arrives early enough. Walkways are clear, although many benches are occupied. The homeless seem to sleep in.
There were sweeping city views the first time he was here, during the summer of online dating that lead miraculously to Julie.
That day’s Digi-Match was Greek. So is McCormick, on his mother’s side. She had shiny black hair and believed in angels. Told him about a friend’s child whose aura was indigo. Who had been born to save.
He called her again—Nikki—but she didn’t return. Ego dent. And new construction has made a narrow valley of this fancy park.
A shoulder tap. The teacher in remarkably thin linen, gently observing that his head should point to the center, not the wall. This, even fifty-two years into the project, could create several seconds of shame.
Today he laughs, swivels on the mat, deliberately brushing Julie’s arm, and receives the soothing suggestions.
Connect to a heartfelt desire…
(That we take the peace of this class home to our daughter.)
Move awareness through your body..
(Oh wow. My shoulder feels better!)
Witness your thoughts…
(I’m sorry I’m even in that book. That last line is embarrassing. Writing makes me unhappy. Please, stop.)
It’s Staff Appreciation swim, so members can’t get deck chairs or loungers until 10.
McCormick, taking a mere table, gives June an iPad. Watches the workers’ kids splash and laugh. When they get out, the regulars reclaim their territory.
Pretty quickly a toddler fight breaks out, causing several fit women to don DVF Cover Ups, extract their progeny, and retreat to separate corners of the roof.
The core of this epic meltdown, a neatly coiffed six-year old, won’t stop hollering “I had it first!”
McCormick—a Neiman Marxist—can’t resist the cliché: Brown children shared. White children did not.
Back home dudes shame him with handstands on the way down to chaturanga. On the beach he’s the only one jumping up to complete the vinyasas.
So he becomes that guy, rising unbidden from bridge into full wheel and doing a sweet, solitary shoulder stand before savasana.
After class he presents, sweaty and sandy, for an attaboy.
But teacher Whipple congratulates himself. “Dude you’re here without your wife? I’m super impressed! I converted you to yoga!”
Denied his dose of praise, McCormick smiles and nods and walks into the waves, which are cool and soothing, just like the day before.
At beach yoga McCormick checked the other towels. Sunburned ankles, vanilla thighs, sandy glutes. But no buzzing and slapping. The carrion call was for him.
Probably because of the knee he skinned falling of his scooter last week. (Oh, Mikey, remember how you reviled grownups on scooters?)
New flesh came off like pudding skin in the hot-tub. Left a puffy yellow glob. The flies thought he was dead already.
Ten hours later, while June naps, he runs Makena Road. Left his glasses in the room. Can’t read the heart monitor. But he feels fast and hot, even this close to sunset.
McCormick, peeking around the lockers to see who’s creating the ruckus, finds not a skin-tight, crew-cut, but long hair and eighteenth-century beard with a draped tank and mod Nike booties.
Whoa, what’s in the blender bottle? Gym Hipster, chugging, declares:
“This dick’s on my Instagram every day saying, you shouldn’t eat that after weights. I said, hey dick, I am 20 pounds lighter than you, I can outrun, outlift, and certainly outpunch you. Your arms are broomsticks compared to mine. Look at me and look at you, then tell me again what I need to learn about nutrition and definition!”
He’s even with Black Speedo Guy most of the lap, but in the final yards McCormick’s breathing falters. He takes a ragged gulp, a short stroke, hits the wall late.
The victor hoists himself out of the water, making a show of stripping off cap and goggles and pounding his ears.
The principle of this guy is his gut. It’s a big-pumpkin gut, a pregnant-lady gut, hanging way over his distressed Lycra waistline.
“Thanks for the push,” Black Speedo says, winking.
McCormick, who feels kinship with the manatee at even two pounds over his wedding day weight, says, “my pleasure.”