Flash Mob

by Gregory A Kompes

  Billy once again felt the electric chill wash over him as he remembered Jericho's hand on the small of his back. He'd longed for the man to move that hand down and feel his firm ass. As he recalled the moment, without a sweaty dance belt to hold off the progress, Billy's dick sprang to attention.

  He had a job to go to tomorrow. He'd be on Broadway in a few months. Billy pinched himself, actually raised his fingers to that soft spot he hated on the side of his belly and pinched until he felt pain. Yes, this was real. Yes, he'd made it. Or, at least he'd gotten a break. Billy let his fingers drift over his otherwise flat stomach, enjoying the ripple of muscles below the skin. He grazed the top of his pubic hair, letting his fingers drift lower to his shaved balls. He enjoyed the feel of stubble. He'd need to shave them again in the morning or he'd get a rash from a day of dancing and sweating. His dick was rock hard now. He stroked with his right hand in celebration of his good fortune and fantasized about Jericho Taylor fucking him in that foul-smelling rehearsal studio while sweat dripped from his body and he looked out at the city lights.

  Billy raised his knees. He moved his left hand to his ball sac and rubbed his fingers gently over the stubble as a ripple of excitement traveled over his whole body. He imagined that the hands gently caressing his cock and balls were Jericho’s. As he stroked his dick faster he raised his left hand and licked his index finger which he lowered and manipulated into his asshole. Billy wiggled that finger while moving his hand faster and faster, pumping his cock. He felt the come rising and tightened his asshole while pushing his finger deeper inside himself imagining Jericho’s dick pushing into him. Come exploded in hot splashes against his taught belly. He breathed in his own scent as he removed his finger from his ass and lowered his legs. Billy leaned toward the floor, groped for his boxers, and wiped himself clean before drifting into a fantasy-filled sleep.

  * * *

  Four

  Aamil drank coffee and watched the news. He knew the Bronx Bombing, as New York 1 called it, connected to the work he was doing. It had to be. Three days ago his boss arrived, gathered up all the pieces Aamil had put together, gave him new bits and pieces to assemble, said "three days," and left.

  He'd never been told by anyone how his pieces fit together with anyone else's, yet instinctively he knew, he wasn't stupid. Aamil also knew that he was working for the cause, as his father and brother before him. He knew that he was to do whatever his boss asked, without question. If he didn't, his mother wouldn't receive any money back home. If he caused any trouble, he'd never hear from her again. The rules were very clear.

  Images of his mother grew vivid in his mind. Her dressed in black as she mourned the death of her husband. More layers of black as she suffered the death of two of her sons. Those boys believed they'd be martyred for avenging their father's death. She implored Aamil to take the opportunity to go to America, to be away from the killing and violence. Too old to travel, she believed her place was there, near her own aged mother and the graves of her family members. But, her youngest, and now only, son should take the opportunity to escape to a better life in the West, a safer life. Aamil could see her tear-stained face from the day she’d pleaded with him to board the plane to America. He blinked her image away.

  Aamil didn't believe the rhetoric. He didn't believe a flock of virgins awaited his brothers, or him, should his own life end quickly in fire and shrapnel. Religion was all fairy tales. He didn't care for violence. Aamil liked art, music, dancing. He was different from his brothers, different, too, than most of his friends. When the opportunity came to travel to America, a promise of a better future, of education, of opportunities, and of wealth were his vision of the future during the multiple flights it had taken to get to the United States.

  What his mother didn't know, and there was no way for him to tell her, was that Aamil hadn't escaped. He'd only transferred the horrible hierarchy from one location to another. He wasn't independent. He didn’t spend his days attending classes in ivy covered buildings. He wasn't able to take advantage of the opportunities in America. He spent his days painstakingly assembling detonation electronics for high-end explosives. If he tried to walk away, tried to escape, he'd be killed. No one had ever said that, but instinctively he knew this place was no different than where he'd escaped from. When his boss spoke to him he used the same words of the men who had convinced both his brothers to join their cause, a cause that led to their deaths.

  While he believed religion was a fantasy, that Allah was made up, like the West’s Santa Claus and Easter Bunny, he still prayed at the appropriate times throughout the day. It was ingrained in him. And, he knew if it was discovered that he wasn't participating in the ritual, that he'd be murdered by the man that he believed followed him.

  The one difference was that here he had television. He watched this new world through the small screen. He was learning the language and customs. Aamil dreamed of going on a game show. He dreamed of traveling the world, alone, or maybe with a friend. A friend… Aamil admitted, if only to the walls of his little studio apartment and the ever-present roaches, that what he wanted most, more than game show fame or traveling the world, was a friend. A true friend he could trust and share his thoughts with.

  Aamil stabbed at the remote and the TV went dark. He sat at the cluttered workbench and soldered wires to connectors. He had to finish, his boss would be back today for another pickup, every three days, like clockwork. Every three days there was a bombing on the East coast somewhere within a hundred miles of New York City, and every three days he gave up his completed components for new bits and pieces. He wasn't stupid. He knew his actions and those bombings were connected. How could they not be?

  * * *

  Jericho had selected unknown designers to work with on this revival. His dance company was very young. It was one of his goals: to give as many young people a chance at their first Broadway credit as possible. More importantly, Jericho wanted the fresh energy that new, young actors, dancers, stage crew, and designers could bring to a project. Where he didn't bring in young, new talent was in the roles of musical director, stage manager, or the male leads that would play the role of Julian Marsh and Billy Lawler. For the role of Julian, the seasoned Broadway producer, Jericho chose Broadway legend Don Carrusone. At sixty, he was still fit and handsome. For the role of Billy Lawler, the young, male lead, his producers had pushed him to hire Jason Arrows. Arrows, who had never been on a Broadway stage before, was a top box-office movie heart throb.

  The stage manager, Nancy Ann, had worked on the last seven of Jericho's shows and the recent Flash Mob. After so many years and experiences together, she could anticipate Jericho. That aided his confidence.

  After checking them in and issuing scripts, Nancy Ann assembled the new company of actors and dancers at tables set up around the rehearsal space. Jericho hated sides. He didn't see the reasoning behind only giving bit players the few lines they needed to say; instead, he gave full scripts to everyone and expected everyone to learn the entire show. He'd been known to promote generously out of the chorus and wanted to make sure everyone knew his shows well, no matter what role they were initially hired for. Solid, well-liked Broadway shows could run for years. Just look at Template Lovers and Battle for Canarsie, his two record-breaking shows. The musical love story, Template Lovers, had been running on Broadway for nine years; the straight play, Battle for Canarsie, a three character study of prostitution and drug addiction, had been a hit Off-Broadway for 12 years, now.

  Here he was, beginning another new show. The air was fresh from open windows and unseasonably warm early spring breezes. The lead actors sat at a long table in the center of the room. The dance company sat at two tables off to the sides. The electric buzz in the large, rehearsal studio built as voices echoed off the hardwood floors and mirrors.

  Another exception to the new comers was Sam Elliot. Sam, one of the top musical directors in the history of Broadway, tinkled tunes from the show on the large grand piano in the corner. Sam w
ouldn't be playing for rehearsals, but today, the first day of rehearsals, he took the spot for fun. His rehearsal pianist stood nearby, ready to turn pages, run errands, or do anything else that Sam asked. Like Jericho, young men flocked to Sam in hopes that the legend could build a career for them; if it took a roll in the hay, which with Sam it usually did, so be it.

  Jericho entered the rehearsal space to applause. As he made his way to the front of the room he said "hello" to those he passed. He paused briefly here and there, with this actor and that dancer, and whispered a few words of loving welcome in their ears. Among the first he touched, just a hand on the arm, was Billy Lake. "Glad you're here," he said. Billy beamed, watching his savior move through the small crowd. Among the dancers and actors where more than half of the group who'd participated in Jericho's Flash Mob. Those dancers bubbled and smiled a bit more than the others. They'd already been chosen, singled out, selected by the great Jericho Taylor for special duty.

  "Okay, okay. Thank you for that warm welcome. Today will be fun. We're going to go gently along through the script. We'll sing the songs, very easy. No one needs to be a star today, except for you Margaret," Jericho said warmly to the actress playing the role of the “evil” Dorothy Brock. "Stand up and show yourself to the group."

  Margaret stood, her four-foot-eight, petite figure barely visible to those on the sides or at the back of the room. Everyone applauded wildly, whether they could actually see Margaret at that moment or not. While not known to most of the world outside NYC, Margaret was a legend in her own right, having played the young ingénue role of Peggy Sawyer in the first revival of 42nd Street. Now, some thirty years later, Jericho had brought her back into the nemesis role of Dorothy.

  "Our friend Sam will be playing," Jericho said toward the piano.

  "No, no Jericho. We've got my boy here to take care of the heavy lifting," Sam let out a high pitched laugh at his own joke. He smiled broadly, all teeth and mustache, while flamboyantly playing limp-wristed arpeggios from one end of the piano to the other. If anyone present had had a modicum of doubt about the musical director's sexuality, their question was answered. Sam's assistant beamed broadly, unaware of anyone else in the room except for the musical director.

  “Of course, you all know Don and Jason,” Jericho said and ushered both men to stand for the wild applause created by the young women in the chorus, mostly for Jason, of course.

  Not to be outdone, when Jericho introduced the newcomer, Angie Dream, in the role of fresh-off-the-farm, turned star Peggy Sawyer, the chorus boys let out with their own collection of cat calls and raucous applause.

  "Okay. Okay,” Jericho continued. “So, we’ll run gently through the show this morning and then in the afternoon, after lunch, we'll all take a look at the set and costume designs. After that, our chorus will go off for initial measurements while I meet with the leads. If you have any questions along the way, please ask Nancy Ann or my assistant Sara." Jericho turned to Nancy Ann, "Can I get a coffee and water, please?"

  "There, Jericho, at your spot," said the Stage Manager.

  "You're the best," he said, taking the spot at the table where his beverages and script were set. "Let's begin." Jericho opened his three ring binder.

  * * *

  Billy Lake received no special deference during the day of rehearsal. He liked that. He'd made a few new friends, although he did beg off going out for celebratory drinks at Don't Tell Mama's with his new friends that first night. He'd beg off all week, until he had a paycheck in hand. He only had $18 of the twenty Jericho palmed him that morning. It had to last from now until payday. To make his few dollars last in one of the most expensive cities in the world, he'd strategically planned to eat slices of pizza for both lunch and dinner throughout the week and bummed cigarettes from others throughout the day. Never the same person twice. Frequently, from strangers off the street or at the office buildings around the corner. He hated having to beg, but the thought of quitting his pack-a-day habit was even worse than the humiliation of panhandling.

  "Come, boy," Jericho said to Billy on the street. Billy sidled up to Jericho, awaiting instruction. "We'll be having drinks at a friend's bar, if that's okay?"

  "Fine by me, Jericho," Billy said with a smile. Anything this man wanted of him, given. He’d stick to drinking water at the bar to keep the cost down.

  Jericho hailed a cab and held the door for Billy. "Sam, you and that boy joining us at Star Bar?"

  Sam Elliot and the rehearsal pianist came up to the cab. "Of course, Jericho." After a moment of shift, the four men filled the cab and headed across town.

  * * *

  Star Bar was filled to the breaking point with Happy Hour patrons. Music pounded from the juke box. Jericho and his followers pushed their way into the small space and looked around. Thom quickly approached.

  "Hiya," he said, giving Jericho a quick kiss on the cheek. “Not sure what happened, but the word has gotten around. Follow me, I've got a table for you though."

  The four men, followed Thom, who tugged along a waiter, weren’t sure where they were being led. Past the restrooms, through the back room and office, they arrived outside. Tables and chairs were set up on the little patio. A bronze plaque in the center of one of the tables said "Patron."

  "Viola!" Thom exclaimed. "Private room. Your own table." I'll warn you that your waiter service might not be great out here," Thom eyed the waiter he'd dragged along, giving him a warning with his eyes about taking care of this group, "but you've got a nice place where you can smoke and drink away from the maddening crowd." Thom again kissed Jericho's cheek, shook hands with the other three men, and left them alone with the waiter. They placed their drinks order before settling comfortably into the high-end patio furniture.

  Sam pulled out cigarettes, he offered them around and both boys took one. Jericho declined. Sam left the pack on the table, lighted his cigarette, and exhaled up toward the night sky. "Jericho, we've done a good job with this cast. We'll of course run into a few problems as we go, but they look good, have lots of energy, and will pull together nicely. I’m a little worried about Jason Arrows, though. He’s only worked on the big screen and doesn’t seem to know how to project into a room. But, that should be easy to fix."

  As Sam and Jericho discussed their early impressions of the cast, the two boys quickly found common ground. With the passing of a bit more time, and the second round of drinks, the boys had their heads together conspiratorially, sharing gossip and insights that only two young gay men in musical theater can share.

  "Why don't you two hens go into the bar and fetch us another round?" Sam said, no attempt to hide his annoyance.

  "As you wish, boss," said the piano boy with a thumbs up gesture; he took Billy's hand. "Come on, lover," he said, leading Billy off the patio.

  Jericho felt a twinge of jealousy as the boys, who already appeared to be great, good friends, departed. He at first chided himself about having feelings for this chorus boy. Sure, Billy was hot as shit, but he had his pick of hot young men wherever he went. No, this twinge was different. He wanted this guy. His mind quickly evolved a fantasy. Jericho pictured Billy, naked and ruddy having just finished a shower. The two bumped into each other in the apartment hallway. Without words, Jericho led the guy into his bedroom, pulled him on top of him down on the bed, and pushed his cock into the kid’s ass and laid back to watch Billy ride him for all he was worth. Without thought, Jericho picked up the pack of cigarettes from the table, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He was half way through it before he remembered he didn't smoke any more.

  “Hey? You still with me?” Sam asked.

  Jericho smiled at his friend. “Sorry, lost in thought about…” He didn’t complete the sentence. Jericho smoked cigarette after cigarette as he and Sam talked about the latest terrorist bombings, the cast, and the remarkable weather. All the while, Jericho fantasized about making love to Billy Lake in every room of his spacious apartment.

  * * *

  "Two beers an
d a pack of Marlboros on Jericho Taylor's tab," said the Piano Player to the bartender.

  "Didn't he say to get a round?" Billy asked.

  "Oh, Sam was annoyed by us. We'll just leave them to the waiter. Where is that guy?" The Piano Player looked around the room, made eye contact with the waiter, and motioned him over. He whispered in his ear and the waiter departed. "There, I just sent them a round. Everyone is covered." The beers and cigarettes arrived. The Piano Player tucked the smokes into Billy's top pocket. "There, no more bumming," he said with a thumbs up.

  "Was it that noticeable?" Billy felt the heat of a blush rising.

  "No problem. We all go through those times between jobs. Stick with me, kid. I'll help you get through to payday. Do you have any cash?"

  “Well…I…” Billy stammered. The flush of heat increased to his ears.

  "That's what I thought." The Piano Player pulled out a leather wallet fat with cash. He thumbed through, took out a few of the crisp bills, and handed them to Billy.

  "I couldn't…" Billy said, looking at the five twenty-dollar bills in his hand.

  "A loan. You can pay me back in a few weeks once you're feeling flush again."

  Billy hugged the Piano Player tight. "Thanks," he whispered in the other man's ear. Billy did all he could to keep from crying.

  "Everything's good now," said the Piano Player, gently ending the hug. He looked at the scores of men posing around the room. "Star Bar is taking off; that's good," he said mostly to himself. He'd done his deed, getting some money into the boy's pocket. That's what Jericho asked him to do. He liked the boy, very cute. But, not on the market since we was living with Jericho. You never bite the hands of the directors, ever. You do as told and keep your head screwed on straight.