Page 11 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“I’ve got to take this,” I say. “It’s Gavin.”

Mindful of the time, and Esther Higgins’ late policy, I ask permission to let myself out. Yaslovingly shoos me toward the door, and I thank her again for the makeup as I chug the rest of my bubbly and hand her back the empty glass.

Gavin never calls me. He just texts things like, “Make sure to order more organic toilet paper for the bathrooms,” or “Can you upload a job posting for another Yin teacher?” So I’m a little caught off guard as I slide to answer knowing he promised an update on the ceiling sitch.

“Hello?” I hope I don’t lose him in the elevator.

“Moonie. Hey. Look, I’ve got some bad news for you—well, for the whole Joe n’ Flow team, actually. But you’re my first staff call and I haven’t perfected my script just yet. So, bear with me, will you?”

“What’s going on?” I ask, beginning to pace the sidewalk outside. Here, in Little Italy, the air perpetually smells like high-quality weed and roasted garlic. Someone should really make this into a bar of soap—or a candle for Yas’ condo.

“Well, you know how I had to deal with the City Inspectors today? They confirmed it was something much worse than a water-logged ceiling tile we were all hoping for. There’s severe structural damage due to the building settling into the sand over the last decade or so.”

“What does that have to do with the ceiling tile falling?” I ask.

“Part of where the building is sinking puts pressure on a water pipe. That burst and caused a leak at the top of the pipe which just so happened to be above the studio. It’s a miracle that the damage was contained to blowing out just that one section, but over time, in the not-so distant future, more of that kind of thing will happen…to every square inch of the place until the whole thing implodes on itself.”

“Wow, that sounds really bad, Gavin. How can I help fix it?” I ask, grateful again that no one was injured today. “Should I order some caution tape and cones to rope off certain sections of the studio while the work is being done?”

“I wish it was that easy. The whole building needs to come down. Then, new foundation that can withstand the softer ground needs to be laid. Then, rebuild the structure from the ground, up.”

I immediately think of all our clients—like Yas—who rely on at least an hour a day in the studio just to function outside the studio, and begin to worry for them.

“Does insurance cover that? Do you need my help filing a claim? How long do you think that will take?”

“Well, that’s the reason I’m calling you, Moonie. The inspectors say it’s a multi-million-dollar project that will take at least six months to complete.”

“That seems excessive. How about I call a contractor and get a second opinion?”

“No one’s opinion matters but the City Inspector,” he says. “Besides, I just don’t have that in me. Not the time, not the money. I started Joe n’ Flow ten years ago because I thought it would be a good idea. And it was! It was agreatidea. But like any living force in this world, it’s subject to the circle of life. We have to accept the way the tides are turning. We have to accept that this is our fate. I can’t force any other outcome. The ship is going down.”

He sounds like the captain of the Titanic and at that, we are doomed.

I take a hard swallow as I dig deep for the last bit of optimism I can muster.

“There’s got to be something you can do. What about opening in a different location? I can walk through OB tomorrow on my day off and look for vacant store fronts. I might not find something two levels, or on the beach necessarily. But that’s okay. Maybe we can scrap the coffee side of the biz and just focus on the yoga. We can reopen as justFlow—noJoe, you know?”

I realize then I sound like I’m reciting some weird slam poetry verse in a desperate attempt to save the business.

“I appreciate your passion, Moonie. I always have—that’s why I hired you. But this is the sign I’ve been looking for to close up the shop and follow my heart toward its next great adventure.”

These OB people and theirsigns.

“And what might that be?” I ask, genuinely curious if perhaps his new endeavor might be hiring a front-desk person.

“I’m going to move to South America and lead ayahuasca retreats in Chile.”

Yeah, no.

“I’m so sorry, Moonie. This isn’t how I wanted it to happen—it’s so tragic, and so abrupt. But, it is what it is.”

I hate that I have to cue up this next question.

“So, when’s my last day?”

“Well, in theory, it was today. The City Inspector can’t let anyone back in the building for fear of collapse, so we’re officially condemned.”

I resist the urge to ask if he needs help putting upthatflyer.

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