Flash Mob

by Gregory A Kompes

  Now, all the men in his bed were younger, often much younger. Most had ulterior motives: getting a Broadway gig out of the Great Jericho Taylor. And, now, Jericho was the one saying “too young” or “too old” to those who auditioned for him.

  Jericho stood at Fifth Avenue and lit another cigarette. The landscape changed. Everything was cleaner here as he crossed from the West Side of Manhattan to the East. The buildings shifted from two-story red brick and brownstone, to five and six story limestone and marble. Jericho walked another block, his thoughts still caught up in his past.

  Having the boy living with him, seeing his own history alive again in another, as he had in so many of the young men who had passed through his life over the decades, brought a hint of melancholy. Openly, Jericho would never admit to any regrets, but secretly, in his own mind, the Great Jericho Taylor knew the truth. He'd always wanted a shot at being a star on stage. He still dreamed of playing a romantic lead, even as the years and decades brought him fame of a different sort. Deep down, he'd always wondered what would have happened if he'd had a chance, been given a shot, connected with the right part at the right time.

  Jericho stopped at the coffee cart on the corner. He liked the old couple who ran the cart. They’d been in that spot for years and years. They always greeted him with a smile and a kind word. They’d inquire about the project he was obviously rehearsing in the studios on their corner. They were true New Yorkers, taking pride in all the events and keeping up on all the current news of the day.

  He sipped his coffee on the street in front of the rehearsal hall, smoking his umpteenth cigarette of the day. After quitting six years ago, one cigarette with Billy and another at a bar had him back up to three packs a day almost over night. He enjoyed the smoke filling his lungs; he anticipated the three or four minutes of contemplation that came with each freshly lit cigarette. He vowed to quit once the show opened, knowing how much easier that was said than done.

  "Jericho? Jericho Taylor?"

  Jericho looked up from his melancholy memories. "Yes," he said, weary of the moment. He didn't recognize the speaker, a handsome forty- or maybe even fifty-something in a flashy suit and custom leather shoes. But that was normal. When you're a star in Manhattan there's almost no way to keep track of all the people you meet.

  "I guess you don't remember me. I was in Love Me, Hate Me way back when. Just a chorus kid."

  So strange that Jericho had just relived all those decades on his walk across town and this chorus boy, who was no longer a boy, showed up.

  "Timmy, right?" Jericho could see him as he looked twenty years ago, a gangly dancer with bright eyes and a killer dimple, stretching before a show. The director wondered if the guy had maintained his perfect ass.

  The man beamed at being remembered by The Great Jericho Taylor. "I go by Barry now."

  Jericho eyed Barry's business attire. "Not in the theater anymore," he said, tapping the guy on the lapel.

  "No. Investment banking. We both know I wasn't cut out for the theater. But, you were always so supportive, flattering even in your encouragement in those days. Truth? It was easiest to be gay in that environment."

  Neither man spoke for a moment. The statement was true and didn't need any further elaboration. What Jericho had never said allowed to Timmy, now Barry, was that he was only encouraging of the dancer with the desire of sleeping with him. And, of course, once they’d slept together Jericho was glad that that show only ran for four weeks.

  "Wow! I'm impressed by that Flash Mob thing. I was actually at the station when it happened, just getting off the train. I heard the music, but didn't get to see the event, not until someone emailed me the YouTube link."

  Jericho smiled, silently smoking.

  "When all the news coverage got going and I heard your name, well, it brought back some wonderful memories." Barry reached out and touched Jericho’s arm. It was a kind and friendly gesture. A touch that negated the decades.

  Jericho thought back to Love Me, Hate Me. Yes, he had fucked this guy.

  "If you decide to do another one of these mob things, I'd love to be involved. I'm not the best dancer in the world, but I'd love to be part of an event." As he spoke, Barry pulled out a stiff, glossy business card. It caught the radiant morning sun and flashed it into Jericho’s eyes.

  "We're talking about doing another one at some point," Jericho said. He could have simply invited him to take part in the Flash Mob he was currently putting together, but for some reason, he didn’t. Instead, he took Barry's card, gave it a once over, whistled in approval of the prestigious firm, and shoved it in his top pocket.

  "Well, it was terrific seeing you again. I've got a meeting and have to run."

  They stood there; neither moved.

  Finally, Jericho tucked his cigarette into his lips and offered his hand. The two men shook. Barry smiled a dazzling, dimpled smile and departed on his path downtown. Jericho watched him walk away thinking how strange it was that the universe pushed people together at such random moments.

  He tossed the butt into the street and debated getting a fresh coffee before going upstairs when he was surrounded by his company of dancers rushing out of the rehearsal hall on a break. They all lit cigarettes and headed for the coffee cart.

  "Jericho!" exclaimed Billy, his exuberance uncontrolled. "Wow! What a great rehearsal. This is going to be a terrific show!"

  His walk down memory lane ended. These young people, unknowingly, pulled Jericho back into the present. He was no longer Jericho wanting a lead in a show, but instead The Great Jericho Taylor again. He took a moment to scan the group. Which would become stars? Which would, like him, harbor secret regrets?

  "Glad you're having fun, boy. I'll see you back upstairs." Jericho patted Billy's shoulder and headed into the building.

  * * *

  The morning chimes sounded. Aamil rolled out his mat, dropped to his knees, and did pray. He knelt on the mat and thought about his day, another in a long string of days to be filled with the same activities. He'd pray, he'd work, he'd watch a little news, eat twice at the kebob stand, pray some more, work some more, sleep.

  He wanted something more. He wanted a little friendship, someone to kick a soccer ball around with, someone to josh with. He missed his mother and her wonderful cooking. He missed his friends from home. Not that he wanted to return to Afghanistan. No, this life was better. Yes it was boring, but he no longer lived with the fear of random violence or misguided bombings by one side of the fight or another. He had money in his pocket, and if those in charge weren't lying, so did his widowed mother.

  But, even though better by degrees, he found his life to be miserable. Being lonely, especially in a crowded city like New York, felt like a great waste of time.

  His English was improving. That's why he watched the television news stories. Little by little, he was becoming more comfortable with the strange sounds and odd grammar. He began talking back to the news reporters and game show hosts in English. Aamil forced himself to speak in English at every opportunity, even when only talking to himself. The exceptions, of course, was at the kabob stand and to his boss. Soon, he'd be able to strike up easy conversations with some of the men at the kebob shop. It was only a matter of time.

  Aamil had been watching a boy at the stand. They were about the same age, dark complexion, handsome. That boy laughed easily with the others at the shop. He patted other men's backs, smiled while making eye contact with them. Late at night, tucked into his tiny bed, Aamil's thoughts turned frequently to that boy. He wanted that type of camaraderie.

  Until then, he'd continue to spend his time alone, in near silence, with only the television and his fantasies of the boy to keep him company.

  Seven

  Jericho sat in Central Park just outside the Children's Zoo entrance. It was his bench. Not just because he liked it; He'd made a large donation to the Zoo Conservancy. His only request was that his name be placed on his favorite morning roost. He felt, with the little plaque
poking him in the back, that he had the right to sit there whenever he wanted. It was the best vantage point to see his favorite animals without having to pay an entrance fee into the zoo. From this spot he'd watched the seasons in the city pass for decades.

  The Delacorte Clock chimed the hour and music played while its bronze animals spun.

  Jericho returned to the leather journal in his lap. He wrote about his growing infatuation for Billy Lake. He lamented in words written with an expensive fountain pen on rich cream paper about how he longed for the boy, actually ached for him. Jericho was resolved to hold strong, to not make a move on Billy, come hell or high water, until after the show opened. He was determined to get to know this man before taking him to bed. For the first time in his life he wanted to fall in love. Not just play at love, not just use the word in a moment of ecstasy, but to really feel it. He wanted to be in love with someone; based on his current emotions, that someone was the handsome and talented Billy Lake.

  As he fantasized about his future with Billy, he contemplated on paper how he’d improve Billy’s career. Being the lover of The Great Jericho Taylor would certainly hold great advantage for Billy.

  All his adult life Jericho had slept with men, grew quickly bored with them, and moved on to the next. It was easy when he was young. He'd been trim and handsome. It was still easy, even with grayed temples and a soft middle. The men no longer looked at him when he entered a room, well not at whiplash speed. But, the young handsome dancers were still interested in him. It's just that the reasons had changed. It was no longer because he was hot; it was because he was famous. Jericho made careers and there was a long line of handsome young men looking for their big break, even if it took a romp with an aged, chorus-boy turned director.

  Yet, something had changed. Jericho wasn't satisfied anymore with the endless available line of chorus boys. He wanted to be in love, to feel love for the sake of love, not because of an ulterior motive.

  The clock chimed the quarter hour.

  Every morning he possibly could—ran or shine, snow or wind, boyfriend or not—he came to his bench and sat alone. In good weather, he wrote in his journal. In poor weather he still came, dressed in raincoat or winter parka, and watched his friends, the sea lions and polar bear, live their confined lives.

  He knew the activists who hated zoos were wrong. He couldn't get into the heads of the animals, but he thought their existence had a few positives. After all, there weren't any predators here for them to worry about. Their meals were delivered by caretakers. They were loved by all of New York. Celebrity status wasn't only for the Homo sapiens after all. These creatures were beloved by school children and adults alike. They were as much a part of the fabric of the city as Broadway or Wall Street and they had to know that, they just had to.

  Over the decades, Jericho filled dozens and dozens of leather bound journals with his thoughts, choreography, and rough drawings. He'd watched the park and the zoo evolve from a flowerchildren hangout. He’d smoked grass with them, although never considered himself to be one of them. He’d somehow managed to escape the draft and horrors of Vietnam. Next, the park became a haunt for pickpockets and homeless. He’d been mugged several times walking to and from the zoo. Yet here it was, the late-90s, with a terrorist mayor who cleaned up the subways and park through tenacity and brute force, providing a clean, safe haven for bicycle riders and soccer moms. All the while, the bronze figures of the Delecorte Clock watched over him.

  Today, Jericho admitted to his journal that he felt good. This was one of his favorite times of year. The small hills around Central Park were blanketed in spring flowers: thousands and thousands of daffodils with their bright heads showing off every conceivable shade of yellow.

  Sure, he hadn't opened up to the boy yet, but over the past six weeks he'd choreographed a revival of 42nd Street. He'd staged the scenes. Now came the real work, getting the company so comfortable with the show, its music, and dance numbers that it was all just like breathing for them. The bigger challenge would follow, keeping the well-rehearsed company feeling fresh and excited about their jobs. He smiled to himself thinking about the presale sellout of all the preview nights with two weeks to go before they started. He'd also made plans for his next Flash Mob. There was a rehearsal that night for the next Mob event. His professional life had never been better.

  In a few more weeks, the show would be open and he'd be free to pursue Billy. He knew that this relationship would somehow be different than the others. It was obvious from the way Billy looked at him that he wanted him. He prayed that this boy wasn't only interested because of his power position, because of what he could get out of Jericho and his name. He said a small prayer that this boy, this handsome young man, would want him for him, would love Jericho because of his heart. He knew it would happen; it had to happen this time.

  Jericho, with eyes closed and a smile on his lips, raised his head toward the sunny morning sky and fantasized about the first time he and Billy would flop into bed together. He knew it would be intense after all these months of desire they were obviously both feeling.

  "Looks like the cat ate the canary."

  "Huh?" Jericho said, looking up at the nearby voice. His fantasy hadn’t even gotten to both he and Billy being naked, yet. Even with the sun in his eyes, he recognized his friend. "Thom!" While glad to see his best friend, he wondered what would cause him to be out and about so early in the morning after his late-night work schedule.

  Thom sat down and offered Jericho one of the two coffee cups he held. "I thought I might find you here."

  "Where else would I be on a lovely spring morning?" Jericho asked, accepting the coffee. He took off the lid, sipped. "Perfect."

  "So, what has you so happy?" Thom asked. He was a little strange out of the bar. He was calm, his demeanor slow and even, his skin pale from so many indoor, late nights of music, dancing, and booze.

  "Oh, just pleased with myself. Rehearsals are going well." Jericho didn't want to share his plans and hopes about Billy with anyone, not even his best friend. Jericho placed a hand on Thom's knee. "How are you, my friend?"

  "I'm good."

  The two men sipped their coffee and watched the early morning parade of walkers and bikers on the paved path. To those passing by, they looked like the two middle-aged guys on a park bench that they were. What the voyeurs couldn't see, couldn't know about this scene was that it included more than twenty years of friendship. They'd spent a brief stint living together as lovers, an experiment that ended horribly. But, they'd survived as friends, somehow, very good friends. They'd been through just about everything together. They'd lived through safe sex. They'd buried many of their friends. They'd fallen in and out of love with a very long list of men and comforted each other through the heartaches, heartthrobs, and heartbreaks along the way. They'd watched and supported each other's life journeys. Of course, it wasn't until after their own brief love affair ended and the friendship solidified that Jericho shared his "secret" morning hangout with Thom.

  "Any new boys in your life?" Jericho asked as the clock chimed and played on the half hour.

  "I don't know why you love sitting here by that fucking clock," Thom said. "It annoys the shit out of me." Thom considered throwing his cup at the spinning animals, but decided that would be a waste of good coffee.

  "Are you avoiding my question?"

  "Of course. I just dumped the latest. You know the rule: three weeks and they're gone. I liked him, but he was so young. They seem to be getting younger every day."

  Jericho had endured his own three weeks of sex with Thom. "Yes, I'm sure it's them getting younger and has nothing to do with you," said Jericho.

  Thom ignored the dig. "And, to be honest, I'm just not all that interested in sex anymore. I mean, I enjoy it, of course, but once I'm done, I'm done. These young guys, well you know, they're like that battery rabbit."

  "Middle age," said Jericho.

  Again, Thom ignored his friend's commentary. He was here o
n a mission. "Well, the thing is, I don't really care for guys our own age, either. We've all lived a bit and come with this U-Haul full of baggage."

  "Careful, you're starting to sound like a lesbian." Jericho chuckled. He was curious about where this was all headed. Thom always had a point to make, even if the route was circuitous.

  "I'd rather be a lesbian. They seem to handle their baggage better than gay men."

  A group of young children passed by in single file, each with their right hand on a rope strung between two teachers; construction paper name tags billowed from yarn wrapped around their necks.

  "What about you? Have you fucked your young dancer, yet?" Thom was oblivious to the dirty look he got from the end-of-the-rope teacher.

  "No, I haven't done anything with the boy beyond giving him a job and letting him sleep in my guest room." Jericho felt flustered. He didn't want to talk about his feelings, even with Thom. This was his and he didn't want to share it. Jericho had decided, at least in the pages of his journal,that his relationships all failed because he talked about them. He knew that he doomed them from the start because they weren't private and personal, but rather fodder for the jaded queens that he and Thom were becoming. When they were twenty years younger they despised men who were now what they'd become.