Yoga Camp

April 3, 2008

I heard my phone ring, but because my hand is still slightly stiff and swollen from my recent surgery, I had a hard time fishing my phone out of my pants pocket in time to answer it. It was Brian, and he left a message: "I have some bad news," he said. "I went to my mom's house this past weekend and saw my brother-in-law. (Brian's brother-in-law is a pediatrician.) Apparently, I'm dying from several infectious parasites."

Brian has been suffering intestinal difficulties for the past few years, beginning with his first trip to Indian and worsening with his second. He's been to see several doctors and has investigated various alternative medicines, to no avail.

The message was silent for a moment, and then he said, "April Fools."

"Asshole," I muttered as I listened to the rest of the message.

"Seriously, though, I've been diagnosed with Epstein-Barr Syndrome. I'll tell you more about it when I talk to you."

When I called him back, he told me everything he knew about Epstein-Barr Syndrome, which was about as much as his doctor knew, which was about as much as the researchers know, which is to say, not a whole hell of a lot.

"My doctor told me to avoid spicy foods," said Brian, which, given that he's been burning the rim of his asshole with fiery shits of acid for the past couple of years, seemed like long overdue advice. "I'm going back to that ashram upstate next week," he said. "Or, as the guys as work call it, 'Yoga Camp.' I'm just going to lie low, meditate, relax, and try to clear my head."

"Take responsibility for your own healing," I said.

"That's right. Let go and let God."

"One day at a time."

"First things first."

"This too shall pass. And so on. In any case, I'm glad you're not really dying. I mean, at least not any more than the rest of us are. When are you leaving for Yoga Camp? You want to try to meet up for dinner before you go? Maybe get us a delicious Indian curry somewhere?"

"No way, dude, no way. But yeah, maybe we can meet. I'll call you later in the week. I gotta get back to work now. What are your plans for the day?" he said. "You working?"

"No, I have the day off. Deborah does, too. It's the anniversary of our first date. We're going out to dinner later to celebrate, and then Deborah's friend Arlan is playing a gig at The Delancy at 9:30. I haven't been to a show in a long time. I'm pretty jaded about live music these days, but it'll be good to do something different. It seems like all I've been doing lately is working and going to doctors’ appointments."

"You and me both. Okay, man, I'll talk to you later."

"Okay. If I don't see you, have fun at Yoga Camp."

"Thanks."

Deborah and I ate at Moto and then hopped the J train to Delancy Street. We arrived early, and the place was empty, save a girl sitting alone at the bar, talking to the bartender. We paid the cover charge and went downstairs to the stage, but none of Deborah's friends were there yet. The opening act was still setting up their equipment and appeared to be at least twenty minutes away from starting. "I knew Arlan wouldn't go on at 9:30," said Deborah.

We went upstairs, bought a couple of drinks at the bar, and then took a seat under the large window that faced the street. A large gas fireplace was burning in the center of the room, and Deborah commented that it felt weird since it was so warm outside.

Halfway through our drinks, Deborah's friends arrived, and we followed them downstairs to watch the opening act, which was a jazz organist backed by a lounge band with an art-rock guitar player. "This next song is called Snakes," said the keyboard player. Something to do with snakes, anyway, I can't really remember. "It was written by me and the guitar player after a seven-course snake dinner at a restaurant in Hanoi, Vietnam."

The band launched into a jazzy vamp over which the guitarist played what sounded like a completely different song full of exotic scales and electronic effects. After a few more songs, it became apparent that it was the guitarist's style to antagonize the audience with a spray of uncooperative Schoenberg-style scales, punctuated with woops, pops, and whizzes from an array of electronic devices that he kept bending down to adjust.

By the time the first band was finished, I was ready to go home, but we had to stay, "at least for a few songs," said Deborah, whose patience was equally exhausted, but had a deeper sense of obligation.

We returned to the upstairs bar to wait out the changing of the guard. By then then it had started to pour outside. A torrential downpour was turning the streets into a grid of rushing rivers. It made the fireplace seem a lot more cozy. We sat right in front of it. Deborah took off her shoes and warmed her feet. "We need a fireplace," she said. A projection screen was set up above the fireplace, showing The Exorcist. It didn't take long for us to get comfortable, nestled in front of the fire, watching a movie as if we were home, or better still, at a vacation home. It was entirely too soon when one of Deborah's friends found us and told us the band was about to start.

After watching the band jam through three boozy songs, we felt we'd done our duty and headed home.

"Sitting in front of the fire, watching a movie, sure was a lot different from the last time we were at The Delancy," said Deborah, as we stood on the subway platform, shaking our drenched heads and stomping our soaking wet shoes.

The last time we went to The Delancy was with Raymi, in town from Toronto for a long weekend. The bar was packed then, and we all got sweaty and stupid amid a mass of other sweaty and stupid 24-hour party people.

"What a difference a day makes," I said. "Or a year."