Benny Jay: Full Moon Yoga

I’m watching “Apocalypse Now,” when my wife walks out the door.

It’s the third or fourth time I’ve seen this movie, and my wife saw it thirty years ago and that’s enough for her.

She’s joining a bunch of women who will be practicing yoga on the beach under the full moon. They do it once a month in the summer — call it full-moon yoga. I’m not making any of this up.

See, that’s the thing about women. They’re different than men. They practice yoga under the full moon. We watch “Apocalypse Now” — again and again.

“Pick me up at 8:30,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, as bombs and shells blast away.

“I’ll be at Lawrence and the lake….”

“Yeah, right,” I say, not wanting to miss a beat.

I watch it to the scene on the beach, where Robert Duvall‘s making the soldiers surf while the bullets whiz by: “If I say it’s safe to surf this beach, captain, then it’s safe to surf this beach. I mean, I’m not afraid to surf this place. I’ll surf the whole fucking place!”

I like that line so much, I play it again. Somethings never get old.

I see it’s getting dark outside, so I pause the movie and drive to Lawrence and the lake, the exact spot where my wife said she’d be.

Only she’s not there. No one is. The corner’s empty. Pitch black, too. Spooky as all hell. I get out of the car and walk up a slight embankment to the top of a ridge that overlooks the lake. My God, what a sight! The moon’s like a big orange ball, casting its ghostly glow on the sand.

I see some kids throwing a football, but no women doing yoga.

It sort of irritates me. I’m easily irritated when I’m hungry and I’m hungry. Seriously hungry. And we’re supposed to eat at Annie‘s Chinese restaurant.  I’m already thinking about the Kung Pao Shrimp. I’m not kidding, this place makes the best Kung Pao Shrimp.

I look at my watch. It’s 8:20. I figure wherever my wife is she’ll call me when she’s done.

I go back to the car and turn on the radio. They’re playing The Who.

Another car pulls up along side me.

I crank up the volume. I pretend I’m Pete Townsend playing guitar: “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss….”

I’m wailing away on my air guitar when I remember there’s a car next to me. I sneak a peek. The guy in the front seat’s staring at me.

It hits me — he’s gay. The lakefront’s the place gay guys go to find other gay guys. Big Mike told me all about it years ago. Not that Big Mike is gay. He just knows lots of stuff.

This guy must think I’m gay! Why else would I be sitting in my car out by the lake all by myself in the middle of the night?

I think about calling out the window: “I’m not gay! I’m just waiting for my wife, who’s doing this full-moon yoga thing.”

But I think: What if he’s not gay? What if he’s just waiting for his wife  too? Or worse, what if he doesn’t believe my story. I mean, full-moon yoga? It does sound like a stretch. Who the hell does full-moon yoga? He’ll probably think I’m a rookie gay guy — just taking his first steps out of the closet.

Forget it — I put the car in gear and drive away.

But here’s the thing — he follows me. That’s right, up Lawrence and down the inner drive towards Foster. He’s got his high beams flashing off my rear view mirror so I can barely see.

I push on the gas, losing him at the light; then I shoot up Foster, down Lake Shore Drive, turning east on Lawrence until I’ve gone full circle, parking  right back where I started.

Another car cruises up and parks next to me. A different guy looks in. No! Not again!

My cell phone rings. It’s my wife. “Where are you?” she asks.

“Where am I? Where are you?”

“At Lawrence and the lake….”

“No, you’re not….”

“Yes, I am….”

“I don’t see you….”

“That’s cause it’s dark….”

“Walk to the street light,” I tell her. “Hurry up. I gotta get out of here. These guys are like carnivores….”

I sit in my car under the street light and, sure enough, from out of the darkness, come the shadowy figures of women, bearing yoga mats.

My wife and her friend, Jeannie, suddenly appear. They have the blissed-out, God-is-good-glow of women who have done two hours of yoga on a beach under the full moon.

Definitely more blissed-out than me, who spent the better part of the last thirty minutes on the run.

“Let’s eat,” I say. “I’m starving….”

“Me too,” my wife and Jeannie say in unison.

We drive to Annie’s Chinese restaurant on Sheridan and order a ton of food. Let me tell you — these chicks can eat! I mean, they’re shoveling it in. I thought I was hungry, but they’re staying with me, bite for bite. Right down to the last peanut in the Kung Pao Shrimp.

Hey, man, when you’re hungry, you gotta eat. I guess that’s one thing men and women have in common.

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