Meet My Guru (Working Title)/First 6 pages/Introduces Protagonist and Other Main Character

[Betsy Farber]

She popped a Xanax, leftover from her friend Louie’s stash, took a double shot of Jack Daniels and boarded the red-eye flight at JFK to Vegas. There, a black car service was to pick her up at the airport, head two and a half hours to The Green Door in Death Valley, California, arriving in time to make the retreat’s kick-off event. Cassandra would arrive the next day. 

The Green Door’s lobby buzzed with excitement. Lavender and tea tree oil, musky perfumes, expensive perfumes, swirled through the air. Rosie’s nasal passages tingled, overwhelmed by all the scents. A whiff of her day-old body odor, a stale stench of airplane clung to her skin and clothes. And there was something else.

Rosie Braun stank of regret. Her own. The familiar, self-loathing kind, that invaded all of her senses, first through the nose, sending shockwaves through the rest of her body, flashes of all the decisions, from years, months, in this case, a week ago, she’d made, reluctantly, no desperately, and brought her right to this moment–standing in a place that she did not belong. How did I get here? She’d been asking herself that question a lot these days.

A stream of women, mainly, women younger than her with dewy skin and chic luggage, wearing drapey linen pants and tiny tops and large sun hats, checked in at the front desk. How can these twenty-somethings afford this monied retreat? Rosie, in her twenties was still eating Ramen noodles and subletting New York apartments by way of Craigslist ads.

Older women streamed through too, distinguished-looking with salt-and-pepper hair and colorful wide-framed glasses. Inviting green and beige couches with big poofy coral and pink pillows, banana-leaf wallpaper, fiddle leaf figs in ornate terracotta pots accented the corners. Sunlight burst in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ethereal space was flawless, yet cozy like a dream. The Green Door was a magical oasis glistening in the dry California desert, where C-suite workaholics, A-list actors in search of a break from press junkets and awards seasons, bored socialites, and the occasional diplomat went to hide from reality. Restore. Rest. Reconnect. Or so she’d found from a few Google searches.

Rosie wasn’t there to do any of those things. Assist her new boss, Cassandra Knight, the editor-in-chief of BeGood.com was the only reason, made crystal clear. “I’m not sending you to an exclusive retreat across the country to relax or make friends,” Cassandra said, after Rosie had waffled over the position before accepting it last week. An assistant? At a wellness magazine? And I’m almost forty. Things were not going well. After being laid off from her low-paying, yet steady salaried job writing clickbaity, SEO content mimicking the news for the past five years, the sporadic catering gigs weren’t going to be enough. Do I have a choice?  

Rosie had known practically nothing about BeGood.com, even less about The Green Door. Cassandra’s lack of information left her in the dark about the place. There was no website. No phone number listed. No brochure mailer to request. A few Reddit threads and a sparse Wikipedia page. No one was even sure of its owner, an LLC listed. Marketing was word-of-mouth, invitation-only, since its opening back in the late 1970s. Mentions in the press of the high-end spa were limited, spa, not quite being the right word, as there was no correct noun for what The Green Door exactly was. Rosie found a handful of articles online. “Kate Winslet winding down at The Green Door following a stressful six months of filming,” Vanity Fair alluded in a recent article. “Demi Lovato Seen Entering The Green Door,” cryptically touted an US Weekly headline. The place’s raison d’etre was muddled and mysterious. New vegan restaurant? Rehab? New beauty treatment facility? Rosie would find out soon enough.

 

The foyer right off The Green Door’s main lobby, lined with pop-up vendors sold pricey yoga gear. Two-hundred-dollar rubber yoga mats. Colorful leggings promising a butt-lift, $150 a pop. Rosie owned no yoga attire. The black cotton leggings from The Gap, sans butt-lift, now faded gray that she’d packed, would have to suffice for the week. She bee-lined down the hall, to avoid the chaotic cluster, and followed the registration signs. 

“Are you here for the retreat?” A delicate-boned woman perched in a high chair behind a table asked. She had long, auburn dreads, hanging over her sharp, dainty clavicles and a septum piercing. Another woman with short spiky hair sat next to her, sipping from a wooden mug.

“I’m with BeGood Magazine,” Rosie said, a cool sense of relief washed over her. I’m not attending this hippy-dippy bougie nonsense by choice.

“I’ll just need your confirmation email,” the woman behind the table said.

“I should be on a press list. My name’s Rosie Braun, with Cassandra Knight,” Rosie said, attempting a slightly annoyed-at-the-confusion tone, but who could blame this woman? Cassandra seemed like the type who'd forgotten she hired a new assistant. 

“I’m registering,” a voice said. Rosie turned around to find a tall, thin blonde behind her. She seemed like the BeGood type, Rosie thought. A thirty-something yogi loyalist who could afford the poly-blend, butt-lifting yoga pants, and mats made from recycled tires. She probably loved kale and essential oils and being present. She was carrying a large blue Hydro Flask. Rosie became worried. Did I forget my cigarettes? Where do people smoke around here? She rummaged through her bag, hoping she’d remembered them. 

The woman with the dreads scrolled through an iPad, still searching for proof of Rosie’s existence. 

“Pearl, is my last name. I’m from New York,” the blonde her said, to the woman sipping from the wooden mug. She was still speaking over Rosie’s head. “Tori, but also check Victoria. Victoria’s my legal name. But I prefer Tori. So if you have Victoria, please make a note that I prefer Tori. Tori Pearl. Appreciate it.”

Tori Pearl sauntered up to the desk and stood next to Rosie at the table. Up close, she looked like a ‘50s film star. Regal and glamourous. She had green eyes. Where does she hide her pores? Rosie felt herself staring. She ran her hand through her dark tangled hair. Could I be more of a disheveled frump? 

Tori looked like a pearl. A rare, flawless stone that’d never experienced pain or hardship or rejection. Her entire extended family, all perfect too, and when they met every summer in Nantucket or the Hamptons, or whichever WASPY, white-sanded beach town, everyone got along, even the dogs. Unlike Rosie’s family, who got together every few years or so at a cabin in a mosquito-filled woods in Ohio or a crowded public beach and made no attempts at hiding their dysfunction. 

Tori looked familiar, though. No actual conversation had been shared. She’d remember speaking to such a creature. Rosie must’ve seen her somewhere from afar. Somewhere in the city? Passed by her on the subway? Scratch that. This woman doesn't take the subway. There was no way she lived in Queens, where Rosie did. Tori’s entire understated trying-without-trying vibe shouted Manhattan. No bridge-and-tunnel commutes for this chick, Rosie decided. 

“I’m so sorry for the mix-up,” the girl with the dreads said to Rosie. “Are you Rosie Braun or Cassandra Knight?” Rosie no longer cared that she was being ignored. She was used to it. Unlike Tori Pearl, no, she was a woman immune from being ignored. Rosie was staring again. 

“Excuse me,” the woman with the dreads said to Rosie.
“Are you Rosie Braun or Cassandra Knight?”
“Unfortunately, I’m Rosie."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tori Pearl smirk. The pearl has a sense of humor at least.

“I see what’s wrong,” the woman with the dreads said. “Cassandra Knight is no longer attending. You’re Rosie Braun?” 

“Yes,” Rosie said, "For the past 39 years," confirming again that she actually existed. “Would you like me to spell it?”

“Cassandra emailed us this morning that you’re attending in place of her to interview the guru,” the woman with the dreads said. 

The what-u? Rosie’s stomach flipped.

“Mmm…right,” Rosie said, hiding her confusion. “That's correct. I’ll be here in Cassandra’s place. Glad you’re on top of the change.”

“For your matcha green tea,” the woman with the dreads handed Rosie a wooden cup and a tote bag filled with a binder. The idea of drinking from a wooden anything made her suspicious. She tried not to make a face and forced a smile. 

“Excellent,” the woman with the dreads said. “We’ll be meeting poolside soon. Namaste.”

“Namaste,” Rosie repeated, unsure what that even meant. 

Scrambling through her bag, she felt her pack of cigarettes, awww I packed something right, and grabbed her phone instead. Still no service. No bars since leaving the Vegas airport. She had to get a hold of Cassandra.

###

Tori Pearl arrived at The Green Door the night before Rosie. The next morning Tori awoke at 3 a.m. PST, having forgotten to change her alarm set to east coast time, forgetting she wasn't at home, and taking a week off from her regular check-ins. Get out of bed. Sleep-walk to the bathroom to pee. Glass of room temperature ionized water with lemon. Open fertility tracking app. No period. Check. Intercourse. Scheduled for 8:45 p.m. Mood-worried, cranky, anxious, blah, frisky. Other symptoms- appetite increase, fatigue. Overall-nothing. Stomach-bloating, constipation. Cervical position-low, closed, medium firmness. 

Tori had a massive headache from attempting to maintain an extended meditative state on the flight and needed to hydrate. She depleted the minibar’s bottled water supply and the California tap was far too dicey, compared to her regular New York City grade-A H2O. Kombucha. A green juice. A wet, all-natural, no-added-sugar anything, beverage to help flush the chemicals out of her body was in order. Chemicals being last night’s room service, basil pesto with whole wheat penne, filled with gluten, how did I even get it down?! that made her bloated and could possibly affect her “geriatric” fertility, according to one specialist, and half of an Ambien before bed. I’m away from my routine for one week, it’s OK. It’s OK right?! It’s OK. 

She wandered down to the registration table and was thrown off by the crowded, noisy lobby. Was registration necessary for such an exclusive event? The menial task felt like a bother. She stopped at the café for a coffee. It’s OK right?! It’s OK. It’d been almost a year since the hot frothy foam off the top of a latté had entered her lips. Hands down, she missed coffee more than sex. Her new normal of scheduled, intentional baby-making fornication felt like a desperate act far from the primal Animal Planet kind she and Mason had when they first married. 

“What can I get you, miss?” Ahhhh, now that hits the spot. Tori loved it when people under 35, especially, the younger-looking-than-her demographic called her “miss.” The one salutation left that didn’t make her feel old and forgotten. I’m leaving a tip. 

“I’ll have a latté with oat milk, NO sugar,” Tori said, like she was asking for illicit drugs on the black market. It’d been so long. 

“Double or single?” 

“Hmm, a double.” How exciting!
“And what size?” 

“A small or a tall or whatever it’s called here,” she’d forgotten how to order. “And NO sugar!”

For the past year, her body had been her temple. Consumed with IVF treatments, fertility planning, clean eating, no alcohol, no pills, no caffeine, daily exercise, yoga. Every measure possible was taken to stay in tip-top shape, including no more working. A minor change, considering her acting career had flattened out years ago, aside from the rare commercial or soap audition, and, technically, she didn’t have to work. Mason, her husband, was a corporate lawyer, as charming as he was shrewd and doing just fine. She’d taken control of all the tiny details, to ensure her body was primed for a baby. The baby. The one she’d waited her whole life to have. 

Instead, her worst nightmares had become true. 

She was 35. Ten years together with Mason, two married. They were supposed to be several kids deep at this point, and her inability, (their inability Dr. Friedman would've corrected her), was devastating. Unfathomable. Unacceptable. Embarrassing. The fertility debacle bubbled to the surface and had hijacked her marriage. My entire life! It had seemed. Sexual frustration, emotional frustration, guilt, social anxiety, all the anxieties! She needed to get a grip but also let it all go, take a break.

"Stop trying. Do what makes you happy,” Dr. Friedman had frequently suggested.

What makes me happy? Pondering this question, night after sleepless night, in search of an answer to reveal itself on the ceiling. Outside of being a good wife and making a home, (made more by the housekeeper’s upkeep, who was she kidding?) yoga was her only escape. The world-renowned guru Sandrine Guptana’s yoga at the West Village studio, around the corner from their apartment, was the only thing close to a happy place. She’d never actually met the guru, but her teachings, taught by Tori’s favorite teacher and Guptana’s protegé, Inez, resonated. Cleared her thoughts, allowed her to leave her body. Inhale let, exhale go. Inhale let, exhale go. “That is your new mantra,” Inez guided her. Guptana’s became Tori’s sanctuary. Where she didn't have to deal with her friend’s growing families or doctor’s or her mother's prying inquiries about her grandchildren, "How are things in the baby department?" Her condescending tone crawled under Tori’s skin. "I had both of you girls so easily, the good old-fashioned natural way and no epidural," she’d said, on numerous occasions, as if Tori's struggles were self-inflicted, intentionally delaying getting knocked up. 

 

Back in her room and freshly caffeinated, the late morning sun was blasting over the California desert. Seated cross-legged on the floor of the serene Green Door suite, far from her daily chaos, Tori attempted her regular morning meditation. Inhale let, exhale go. Inhale let, exhale go. Her closed eyelids warmed from the light. I’m here. I’ve made it to the retreat. 

Before the happy hour, sharing the same airspace with her guru, Guptana herself, she needed to be centered. Less antsy. The jolt from the coffee rushed through her veins. Palms draped over her knees, she squeezed her eyes shut tighter. 

Forget what’s happened, what hasn’t happened. A new mantra, get my head in the right place. I’m honored to meet you, is what I’ll say to her. No that sounds pathetic. It’s my pleasure, Guru Guptana. I’m your biggest fan. Ugh, no. Inhale let, exhale go. Inhale let, exhale go. What if I’m ovulating? The fertility tracker could be off. Was Mason trying to forget? He needed a break too. I’m aware of my micromanaging tendencies. I’m like a fungus that’s ruined a healthy plant. Infertile, I might be but I don’t lack self-awareness. Inhale, let. Exhale, go. Relax damnit! Inhale let, exhale go. Inhale let, exhale go.

Her thoughts were all over the place. The deep breathing was making her nauseous. Still filled with gluten and Ambien residuals and now caffeine, and the weight of her first-world problems, what Inez called them, her stomach churned from the coffee. Away from the white noise of the city, sirens, and horns, the room felt eerily quiet. She glanced at her phone. 11:34 a.m. Still no service. I need to call Mason. Matcha happy hour at 2 p.m. Or was it earlier? A wave of nerves washed over her entire body like it was the first day of school. What if I just didn't go? She could lay by the pool all week, drown in lattés and endless pitchers of pina coladas. Alcohol! I haven’t had a sip in over a year. Skip the retreat altogether. Forget all this: the baby-making, the treatments, and the healing. The marriage. Go back to Los Angeles. Give her old agent, Kiki Dunbar, a call. Pretend like the agency never dropped her, after “Monica Knows Best” was canceled. The thoughts of parachuting out of her life crossed her mind before immediately erasing when she remembered what Inez said to her.

“Guptana will heal you.” Tori held onto that kernel for months, a little seed of hope that would solve all of her problems. “Don’t let the mind take over the body,” Inez frequently whispered in Tori’s ear, during class, in her soothing way. Tori’s lower body in supta badha konasana, soles of her feet touching, knees butterflied open. Inez’s hands pressing down on her inner thighs, seemingly the only force that could calm her nerves. And now she was finally going to be in Guru Guptana’s presence. “If you show up, meet the guru” Inez assured her, “she will show your body the way.” If only baby-making were that easy, she thought. 

Tori had to meet Guptana. How delightful it would be, to bend her body into weird positions in a hot room—the only state that put her mind at ease and made her disappointing reality disappear–finally feel the guru’s healing touch and wisdom. She tingled with excitement. 

 

 

[Steve Dunn]

"stale stench of airplane" "Rosie Braun stank of regret." I instantly like Rosie Braun. I also sense that she is going to kick some ass and take some names, possibly starting with her boss that takes advantage of her?.