Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) (11 page)

“Let’s stretch out those legs, get some warmth going.” Sidra bounced her legs out on the mat in front of her, and her overage pupils all followed suit. “For Boat pose, you’re going to start out sitting, with your legs out in front of you. I’ll turn so you can see me.” She turned sideways, but Rick, who was positioned off to the side, got more of a back view than a side view. “You want to use your tailbone and your sit-bones like a tripod, balancing on the area between them, like so.” She tilted her pelvis slightly, and just as she rolled back, Rick caught a flash of red peeking between the black strip of her waistband and the dash of yellow as her shirt rode up.

Fuck me, she’s wearing a red thong!

Sidra was explaining the benefits of Boat pose as she hovered and they all shakily followed along, but mentally, Rick was capsized and lost at sea. The tiny red triangle at the base of her spine was not unlike one of those warning flags staked in the sand back home.
High Hazard. Strong Currents. Danger.
He was being sucked in.

Everyone else was staring straight ahead. Did they not notice the exquisite ass of their instructor, trussed up in red satin and lace? Maybe he was the only one with eyesight good enough to see. Did she wear a thong to every class? Was it a testing tool designed to determine who could shut out distractions? If so, he was failing.

The next fifty minutes were a dreamlike state. He handled the class better than the NYU fiasco, but he certainly didn’t have the Zen-like look that many of the participants had as they shuffled out the door. Rolling his borrowed mat slowly, he watched her bid people farewell, her hand resting lightly on a shoulder or a forearm here and there. Gentle laughter. That smile was disarming.

“So . . .” She approached him. “What did you think?”

“I thought it was . . . fine. But do
you
think I belong in a senior citizens’ class?”

“I think you belong in a beginners class,” she snapped back.

“Do you always wear a thong to beginners class?”

Rick watched as his retort sent her eyes wide open, and her hand flew to her tailbone. He realized she hadn’t a clue and hadn’t done it deliberately.

Idiot,
he fumed.
You bloody fool.
“That was extremely rude of me,” he sputtered stupidly. “Thank you for the class. I’ll be back.”

Down Dog

Figures, the moment a man under the age of fifty enters my class, sex demands entrance, too.
Sidra angrily pushed the broom through the space, now devoid of mats and bodies. Boy, had she sure pegged him wrong. She thought of his last words, uttered in that clipped British accent: “I’ll be back.” Like she was supposed to drop to her knees—or strip to her thong—and thank him?

She had hurriedly dressed for camp that day, grabbing any old thing from her drawers, and hadn’t had time to even stop home before class.
I work my ass off,
she thought,
and some uppity know-it-all professor has the nerve to comment on its attire?
Irritation swirled around her, not unlike the dust her broom was kicking up. Eyes and throat stinging, she paused.
Enough,
she thought.
Moving on.
Wednesday night was Irving Plaza. She’d get to dance to her favorite band, Anam-Atman, have a couple of drinks, and relax with friends. She had that new handkerchief tank top she was dying to wear, and those Robin’s Jeans Fiona had convinced her to spend way too much money on. Of course she wasn’t looking forward to Charlie’s opening set, but she was perfectly content to hang out in the lobby and keep Seamus company while he peddled the merch.

Sidra straightened the mats and blankets in their baskets and readied the bricks and straps for the next day. After blowing out the candles in her tiny lounge, she collected the day’s punch cards.

While many gyms and studios around the city were selling classes in packs of five and ten, Sidra’s was the only place that utilized a novel and nostalgic way of tracking clients: using a punch clock that still hung on the wall from the old Sullivan and Son Bicycles days. She loved the retro chrome of the machine and its resolute thump as it clocked each and every person in. Not only was she able to keep track of the time and date for each student, she also had the ability to leave them quotes and notes of progress and encouragement on their cards. And when a student punched a total of ten times, she would leave them a gentle reminder about purchasing another punch card at the front register.

Twenty cards today, she tallied. But twenty-one students, if she counted the freebie she gave Mr. Import. No more Get Out of Jail Free cards for him. If he wanted to learn and work, he’d have to make a commitment like everyone else. Sidra breathed deep and plopped herself down on one of the couches. The newly extinguished candles gave up their last aromatic gasps. She loved the candles’ name as much as she loved the scent: Forgotten Sage. The smell was like nothing else in Sidra’s life: cedar and twigs, sage and sweet grasses from a faraway plain. It was foreign, yet peaceful. Smiling, she leaned forward and began to make notes on the cards.

Cindy: Your side angle pose is looking great! Just remember not to collapse forward.

Marilyn: Don’t lose patience! “Yoga doesn’t take time, it
gives time.” Ganga White

Jonathon: You should be able to do Warrior II between two panes of glass. Check your stance! Great high lunge today.

Vivian: Don’t forget to breathe, breathe, BREATHE!

Lia: It’s not about a $100 mat. As the great Rodney Yee would say: “The most important pieces of equipment you need for doing yoga are your body and your mind.”

Morty: If your hamstrings are still bothering you tomorrow, use a block to bring the earth up a little closer to you. Don’t be a hero!

Gina: You made it to your thirty-ninth class—holla! Hit up the front counter for a new punch card.

There was a rhythm to her method as she plucked each card from the pile, turned it over, and placed the pen tip down. But with each movement, her thoughts unconsciously and automatically drifted back to her conversation with that guy. The PhD professor. She wondered if he went by “Doctor.” And whether he wore a lab coat to class.
Do you always wear a thong to beginners class?
Her cheeks burned as his words echoed in her head. She recalled his smug, surveying smile, as if he were watching her swinging from a pole. Oh, if only she had a card for him. She’d share a few choice words in return.

Charlie’s devil-may-care whinny galloped down the corridor, adding to Sidra’s annoyance. Whether it was by coincidence or not, Mikey had an uncanny habit of scheduling her ex for closing on the nights Sidra worked late. She hastily finished up the rest of the cards and filed them back alphabetically into an accordion folder near the door. If Charlie was working up front tonight, Evie was probably keeping him company.
All the more reason to take the back—and the easy—way out,
Sidra reasoned, and slipped out the rear exit door.

Change from Within

“Are you kidding me?” Rick swore under his breath as Sam approached. The rest of the band had been marooned on a barge in the East River since ten o’clock, sweating under the June sun and photographer’s lights. And now Sam was strolling in come high noon, wearing Bermuda shorts, a loud tropical shirt, those ruddy flip-flops, and a shit-eating grin on his face? Unacceptable. Rick felt his stomach lurch, his body sway sickly in unison with the waves lapping impatiently at the side of the moored, flat boat.

“Let me handle it.” Adrian’s hand was on Rick’s shoulder briefly before he hopped to dry land and approached their bass player. Rick could feel sweat in rivulets behind his knees, and he was only in dark jeans. He could only imagine how Adrian was fairing in those leather trousers of his. A crowd had gathered on one of the South Street Seaport landings, watching as the band was made to mimic and mime for hours to the incessant whirl of the camera’s shutter.

Whose idea had this photo and video shoot been? Isabelle’s, of course. The scenery was admittedly a cool backdrop, with not one, not two, but three Manhattan bridges in steely gray against the brilliant blue sky. Rick glanced up at the faces peering down at them in generic curiosity and felt the all-too-familiar hot buzz of panic prickle down his nerve endings. He quickly dropped his eyes to the water. Amazing how much one body of water could differ from another. Back home in Hawaii the shores were clear and sparkling. The East River dirtily churned with a myriad of sins, and Rick shuddered to think what was floating on the surface: used condoms, syringes . . . and then there were his own ominous thoughts and secrets lurking below, hovering as silent and heavy as cement shoes at the bottom. He recalled how different his first view of this river had been from high atop the Upper East Side penthouse where Simone had lived as a girl.

Adrian’s steel-toed boots made heavy contact on the deck, followed by Sam’s weighty, slapping footfalls. While Rick had been hobnobbing through New York society as a teen with his parents on holiday, his two bandmates had been toiling day labor on the Portsmouth docks back in England. As they made their way toward him on confident sea legs, he felt his own quiver. The barge workers sprang into action at Isabelle’s command.

“You’re letting this thing loose?” Rick called out anxiously.

“We need some movement, some air flowing behind the band.” The video crew scuttled around Isabelle as she barked directions, but Rick’s ears only took in what he imagined was the call of the swallowing sea. How ridiculous to be out on a rusting barge with their amps and their instruments, posturing. A conceited cruise to nowhere, the band members basking in their own egos. If the boat went down, who would even care in the end?

“The three of us look like ‘the band,’” Rick stated, thumbing back at Adrian and Jim. “Sam looks like he stepped off the set of
Weekend at Bernie’s
. Unacceptable, mate. Thanks for wasting our whole day and the media budget.”

Sam stuttered apologies and excuses that Rick didn’t want to hear.

“We’ll stick him behind that oil drum so no one sees his flip-flops, and we’ll shoot in black and white. No one will notice.” Isabelle scoffed. “You are way too wired, Riff.”

Adrian unbuttoned his black Western-style short sleeve and tossed it to Sam. There was little chance Sam would be able to rebutton the shirt over his own girth, but at least it looked better than the loud tropical print.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Adrian stated, slinging his guitar strap over his naked, tattooed shoulder. Jim turned his baseball cap backward in determination and pulled a pair of ever-present sticks from the back pocket of his jeans.

Rick felt a dull ache blossom in his rib cage, followed by a sharp one in his arm. He loosened his grip on the neck of his guitar, trying to shake away the impending sense of doom as the dock receded from his sight line.
Deep breaths,
he thought, trying to conjure up the exercise Sidra had had them do in class yesterday. But with each inhalation, he felt a searing pain between his shoulder blades. A gull flapped its wings above, then seemed to float frozen in midair. Rick’s head joined it, suspended.
Symptoms? Of what? It’s nothing. My heart. Attack. No.
Another prickly wave of adrenaline rushed up his legs and through his core, radiating out his fingertips and buzzing up his spinal cord.
Yes.
Listen to your body.
His heart began to pound wildly, as if competing with the ache that was beginning to spread a leaden weight across his chest.
Dying!

He would die on this godforsaken barge, collapse in front of his brothers and all the strangers on board. And then what?
Nothing.
He wasn’t ready.

He lost his footing, arms flailing behind him in a futile search for stability. Strong fingers grabbed his forearm, and he looked straight into the concerned eyes of his best friend.

“It’s . . . the heat. And the water,” Rick gasped.

“Turn this thing around, we’re done for the day,” Adrian hollered, much to Rick’s relief.

* * *

“I’m fine,” Rick insisted. “Feeling much better.” In the air-conditioned confines of the cab, with a water bottle in hand, he was speaking the truth.
Silly. It was nothing.
“Let’s go back and salvage the shoot.”

Adrian shook his head. “Nothing doing. Let’s get you checked out first. I’ve got a guy.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“Not a dealer. A doctor.”

“Pill-pusher just the same.”

Adrian pushed his sweaty locks off his forehead. “He’s my family doctor. And he’s fitting you in. Deal with it.”

Rick thought to mention the recent clean bill of health from his own doctor, but realized it might unleash a flurry of fifty questions from his best mate that he wasn’t quite ready to answer. So he dealt. Besides, a second opinion couldn’t hurt.

The Upper West Side waiting room was utilitarian. Hard-backed chairs for long waits. A plant of undetermined species looked a little too green to be true, given the windowless room. Rick was tempted to dump his water into the soil hiding under its leaves, but refrained. Adrian checked them in with the receptionist and took a seat next to his friend.

“You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I will. And then you’ll come back to Lauder Lake with me for the night.”

“What, for bloody observation?” It was Tuesday. He had hoped to make Sidra’s six o’clock class. And to hopefully make up for his horrid thong comment. “No.”

“Why are you arguing with me? Here, read a magazine.”

Rick glanced at the men’s health magazine Adrian was offering and shook his head.

“Have you already read it?”

“No, but look at the date. December of last year.”

“So?”

“So it’s old news. Expired. Possibly misinformation at this point.”

“You’re impossible.”

Adrian’s mobile rang, giving them both an excuse to stop talking. Rick listened to the one-sided conversation. “Yes, luv. No problem . . . Uh-huh. Probably sixish. Can do . . .” Adrian procured a pen from the front desk and began to hatch letters in the crook of his forearm, one of the few places the tattoo needle hadn’t touched. “Yes, I’ve written it down so I won’t forget. Love you.” He slid the phone back into the front pocket of his leather pants.

“What’s that, then?”

Adrian held out his arm with a grin so his friend could read it.

“Kitty litter, lemonade?”

“Shopping list. Kat’s without the car today; I drove it in.”

He had scrawled the words in a slanting, jagged font, almost like they were an extension of his tattooed time line.

“Sounds like the makings of a new song lyric.
‘Kitty litter LEMONADE!’
” Rick sang in a growling grindcore, followed by a King Diamond–inspired falsetto. Adrian joined in, laughing, as they made a mocking parody of their own genre.

“Kit-ty. Kit-ty Litterrrrrr. LE-MON-ADE!”

Luckily, the waiting room was empty. A nurse came to fetch Rick, and he could still hear Adrian singing under his breath of the perils of kitty litter as the door closed behind them.

The nurse was comfortingly schoolmarmish and took his vitals quickly. The symptoms he recited were pecked into the keyboard in the corner of the room, its monitor blacked from Rick using a privacy screen. “The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

Left alone, he surveyed the room. Glass containers held cotton and tongue depressors. More outdated magazines hung from a rack on the wall. Rick shivered, even though he was still fully dressed in head-to-toe black. He contemplated the sealed sharps container hanging from the wall next to him and thought of Adrian out in the lobby. What did his friend, an ex-junkie, think about when he saw the discarded needles jumbled inside? Was there ever a yearning, a nostalgia, for that life of escape? To break back into that biohazard, that haphazard habit?

Adrian was the strongest man he knew.

The nurse hadn’t lied; the doctor was indeed with him in a minute, filling the room with his large presence and the scent of antibacterial soap as he quickly pumped Rick’s hand. “Richard Rottenberg! Another member of the tribe?”

“I guess you could say that.” Rick studied the man’s name tag—
Phillip Rosenberg, MD
—as well as the heavy gold Star of David pendant that hung from his neck. New York Jews were fiercely proud of their tribe, it seemed. More Jewish here than in many other parts of the world.

“I’ve got one for you,” Dr. Rosenberg said, reaching for the blood pressure cuff. “Jewish guy and a Chinese guy walk into a bar. After a few drinks, the Jew hauls off and punches the Chinese guy. ‘That was for Pearl Harbor,’ the Jewish guy announces. ‘But the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,’ says the Chinese guy. ‘I’m Chinese!’ ‘Oh, Chinese, Japanese . . .’ says the Jew. ‘You Asians all look the same.’”

The doctor paused to listen to Rick’s pulse as it pounded beneath the strangling cuff before continuing. “So they keep drinking. When all of a sudden, the Chinese guy wallops the Jew and knocks him off his stool. ‘What was that for?’ the Jew demands. ‘That was for the Titanic,’ says the Chinese man. ‘Iceberg, Goldberg . . . You Jews are all the same.’”

Rick burst out laughing. What a difference an hour made.

“Blood pressure is perfect, now let’s give a listen.” Dr. Rosenberg dropped the Mel Brooks act and set his stethoscope with a no-nonsense thump onto Rick’s chest. “Don’t hold your breath, it’s okay to breathe normally.” He moved behind Rick. “So . . . you married, Richard? Now a deep breath, please.”

Rick drew in as much air as he could muster. “Widowed,” he expelled with a hefty sigh. The doctor slid the stethoscope to more areas of Rick’s back, as if contemplating moves on a chessboard. Rick continued to inhale deeply, exhale fully, and answer his questions.
Where’s home?
Hawaii.
Kids?
Three boys.
Ages?
Twenty-five and the twins are twenty-one. Rick wished they would stop with the small talk. How on earth was this man supposed to detect possible abnormalities or arrhythmia if he wouldn’t shut up?

“And you’re here in New York for work?” Dr. Rosenberg tilted Rick’s head gently and set his stethoscope on the side of his patient’s neck. Rick didn’t want to speak, and he couldn’t even nod. Luckily, the doctor answered his own question. “I’ve been Adrian’s doctor going on ten years now. I see other musicians, too. Carpal tunnel, pinched nerves, bulging discs, tendonitis. Not to mention the hearing loss. It’s a hard life, rock and roll.” He draped the stethoscope around his neck, apparently finished with it. “You guys make it look easy. It’s not. I give you all a lot of credit.”

“Thanks,” Rick said, feeling humbled and undeserving. Here was a man who studied to save lives, acknowledging the lowly profession of rock musician.

“Your heart sounds fine. Strong. Healthy. I’m going to do an EKG just to make sure, but I suspect it will be normal.”

Relief flooded Rick. The same nurse brought in a cart, and together, she and Dr. Rosenberg began sticking patches on Rick’s arms, legs, and chest.

“Sorry, not exactly dressed for this,” he mumbled. Although he had removed his leather motorcycle boots, his jeans were second-skin. The nurse shimmied them up his calves just the same.

“Shirt off, if you would.”

Rick peeled the black T-shirt off. He saw the nurse’s eyes flicker over his body art before she strategically placed the sticky discs.

“Now lie back and relax, but stay as still as possible,” the doctor said as his nurse began to wire Rick to the machine, clipping the leads to each patch.

“Will this hurt?”

“Asks the guy with the body piercings and tattoos?” the doctor said with a laugh. “Worst part will be pulling those electrodes off at the end.” He winked.

The EKG machine hummed, and Rick attempted to relax.

“Perfect, perfect.” The doctor consulted the computer screen, clucking happily. “All done.” Just as systematically, the nurse unhooked each wire and pulled off the patches.

“That’s it?” It seemed too easy. “Don’t I need a stress test, too?” Rick pulled his damp T back over his head.

“Certainly not today; can’t have you running on a treadmill in boots. I can write you a script for one, but honestly, I don’t think it’s necessary at this point.” The doctor patted Rick’s knees. “Your heart appears healthy. You gave us no history of heart disease in your family. Stress and anxiety can wreak havoc on your mind and your body, I’m not downplaying that. I can give you something to take the edge off—”

“No. No drugs, thank you.” He pulled on his motorcycle boots resolutely.

“Are you exercising, off-stage?”

“Yoga.” Rick said the word with such conviction that he actually startled himself. He expected the doctor to raise a brow or roll an eye. Instead, he gave a curt nod.

“That’s a great start. Take some time for yourself. Here’s one: A yogi walks into a bar, orders a drink, and slaps a twenty down. The bartender brings him a drink and pockets the twenty. ‘Hey,’ says the yogi. ‘Don’t I get any change?’ And the bartender replies . . .” Dr. Rosenberg paused for effect, eyes twinkling. “‘Change must come from within . . .’”