* * *
Aamil didn't feel like he could take it any longer. The silence, the loneliness, the prayers. The methodical, repetitious work of soldering small wires to small connectors of small electric components was getting to him. After the odd stranger banging outside his door last night, who he never did identify or speak to, thoughts of escaping this life filled his head. Where could he go? What could he do? He knew, or at least felt, that he was being vigilantly watched. He feared that if he was noticed doing anything outside of his routine that he'd be beaten, or worse, murdered. Just the thought of being seen on the street put a fear into him like he’d never experienced before. Yet, there was also something thrilling about it.
When he left the apartment for his early lunch, instead of turning left and walking to the corner, Aamil turned right, toward Central Park. He made the choice without thought. With each step, nothing out of the ordinary happened. No one approached him. While he felt he was being watched, he didn't turn to look back over his shoulder like he normally would, instead he moved forward, step by step, toward the green trees at the corner.
Aamil arrived at Central Park West and stopped. He took a deep breath and enjoyed the woody smell of trees mixed with the noxious bus and car exhaust. He longed to cross the street, to enter the park, to sit on a park bench. Instead, he turned right, walked to the next street, turned right again, made his way past the line of brownstones with their steep stoops, and arrived at the avenue. He turned right again, went a half block, and stopped in front of the restaurant where he had all his afternoon meals. He felt a great thrill. It was only a walk around the block, but Aamil had changed his routine and nothing untoward had happened to him. Before entering the kabob shop, he turned and looked back at the way he'd just come from, his boss was standing on the corner. The man nodded at Aamil; Aamil nodded back and entered the restaurant.
There was no way to escape.
Nine
The crowd separated a bit as two men argued just inside the sprawling 42nd Street and 8th Avenue entrance of the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Their volume rose louder and a third man got involved in an attempt to calm them down. Huge waves of bus and subway passengers came into the space from 8th Avenue and down the two-story high escalators. Everyone gave the three a wide birth. Two more people were suddenly in the throng of the noise, a man and woman, also shouting at each other. Three more joined in the fray. Passersby slowed their pace, rubbernecking to see what was happening, yet doing so from a distance.
Near a 42nd Street door a patrol cop instinctively placed his hand on his gun while simultaneously calling in the altercation on his radio. He watched as the arguing crowd grew into more than a dozen people. A second cop joined the first.
"What's going on?" Cop Two asked Cop One.
"I don't know, but it's starting to feel like a riot might erupt."
The evening commute poured a constant churn of humanity through the entrances. Some started to gather around the arguing group, forming a circle that blocked the view of the cops on the fringe. As the noise levels grew to a frenzy loud music boomed. The fighters took a silent, vogue pose, held it for a moment, and then started to dance. Those who circled them early applauded with joy. Within a few more moments, dozens of others, men and women in various styles of attire, from business formal to homeless rags, joined the synchronized movements.
"What's going on?" a business woman in skirt and sneakers asked the kid next to her.
The kid didn't turn his attention away from the view on his cell phone screen, "Flash Mob," he said.
"Like the one a few months ago?" she asked with an excited tone. She was thrilled to see a Flash Mob live.
The music built to a louder, rhythmic, hip-hop style. Those encircling the dancers started to clap along. Some would miss their busses and have to wait for the next. Others were avoiding being smashed into subway cars like sardines for a few more moments.
The backup requested by Cop One arrived. Dozens of men and women in blue uniforms stood around the perimeter of the hundreds of spectators watching the dancers.
Half of the dancers were from Jericho's show. Because they'd been working together, dancing together for weeks, they were graceful and in harmony. The others, like the first Flash Mob, were friends of friends. Many of them had been paired up with Jericho's "real" dancers. Their roughness, combined with the grace of the others created something special.
Jericho had stretched his repertoire on this Flash Mob dance sequence. He'd pulled, of course, from his own musical theater roots, but this time he also included a bit more hip hop with that genre's interesting angles and rip off movements. His early worries about combining so many different dance styles into one whole faded; the Flash Mob looked great and the audience loved it. Jericho suspected it was because of the dancers themselves who had such incredibly varied backgrounds and tastes.
There, in the middle of the other dancers, was Billy. He stood out just a little. Most people probably would never notice that the kid was better than the others. He knew each move that was happening and also perfectly set himself up for what was coming without showing any outward anticipation. For those watching closely, they'd see the other dancers glance toward Billy to check themselves both for movement and position. Jericho hadn't consciously singled him out at any point in the rehearsals. He certainly hadn't made him Dance Captain. But, there it was, happening naturally. Every dancer used Billy Lake as their benchmark.
As Jericho held the small video camera, parental pride filled and puffed out his chest. Events like this don't just happen. Jericho had learned and accepted that a long time ago. The universe had a wonderful way of bringing together souls who could mutually benefit from the other.
As quickly as the Flash Mob formed, the music ended and the bevy of dancers melded back into the crowd. Within fifteen seconds it was as if the Mob had never happened. Thirty seconds more and videos were already being uploaded on YouTube and emailed around the world.
What the dancers hadn't seen, what Jericho hadn't noticed either, was that a New York 1 News truck was on location with reporter Amy Senteri doing a story about the repaired water main break, just outside the doors on 42nd Street. A technician in the truck heard the call for backup on the police scanner and got inside with a camera. New York 1 News and Amy Senteri had another Flash Mob exclusive.
As the crowd dispersed, Amy scanned the entrances. There, in the corner, was Jericho Taylor talking to a very handsome young man. She rushed over to him, followed by her cameraman. "Mr. Taylor! Mr. Taylor!" she shouted through the echoey space.
Jericho turned toward his name, shocked that anyone knew him. Shocked, too, that anyone he knew might approach him in such a loud, obvious manner. He watched Amy and the camera rush toward him. Jericho smiled.
"Did you get any footage?" Jericho asked as they stopped in front of him, the cameraman already in position and taking video footage of the exchange.
"Yes, about a minute or so," said Amy, a little breathless from her high-heeled run across the hard tiled floor.
"Excellent," Jericho said, his eyes twinkling.
"So, it was one of yours? Another Flash Mob?" Amy asked into her microphone before shifting the black phallic looking thing into Jericho's face.
"Yes, it was another one of mine." He didn't say any more, but waited for the questions to follow. And, they did. Amy recorded a ten minute interview with the director that covered information on the Flash Mob and his upcoming revival of 42nd Street. It turned out to be a great night for the director. He'd find out the following day that the presale of the show now extended nearly six months. While not intended as a publicity stunt—because that would go against all he believed Flash Mobs were about—it did serve that purpose because he hadn't followed his own rule of melding into the crowd and leaving the space quickly following an event.
Throughout the interview, the very handsome Billy Lake stood quietly, just behind Jericho. He never offered a word. Everyone in New York would wonder wh
o the man was. Amy never asked him his name.
* * *
That evening in the news, on YouTube, and in a flurry of emails and blogs, Jericho's latest Flash Mob took on epoch proportions. The YouTube video alone garnered nearly half a million hits before midnight. It was a huge sensation. And, because it had occurred in such a well-trafficked location, instead of an audience of two hundred, as the Grand Central Flash Mob, this had been witnessed live by more than a thousand people.
Following the event, many of the dancers, along with Jericho, went to the Star Bar for a drink. Thom offered the first drink free to all the Flash Mob dancers. And, after Jericho told him about the NY1 coverage that was coming, he turned two of the wall-mounted television screens to the local station. The crowd cheered when their footwork appeared on the flat screens. They did capture the last minute of the routine. It ran over and over throughout the evening.
As the crowd in the bar grew in size and volume, Jericho escaped out to the private patio in the rear. For a few moments he was alone. The night air was surprisingly cool for so late in April. He lit a cigarette, vowing as he did with each one now, that he would quit as soon as the show opened. Jericho drew the smoke deep into his lungs, enjoying the taste and experience as he exhaled toward the sky.
"Oh, do you want to be alone?" Billy asked.
"No," said Jericho. He turned to the boy who was all ruddy smiles. "Come, sit with me." Jericho watched Billy approach in tight pants and abs-clinging T-shirt. The kid, despite his sharp angles, was graceful when he moved. Everything about Billy appeared effortless. He came across as always comfortable in his own skin. Of course, living with the boy, even in separate bedrooms, Jericho had seen him in his awkward moments. Jericho thought again of the morning hallway dick poke and smiled. Billy was smart, but uneducated and inexperienced in life. Nothing anyone can do about that, but live their life.
Billy offered Jericho the second beer he held. "Thought you might be ready for another."
"Thanks," he said as Billy sat down at the small table and settled into a plastic chair.
Neither spoke; both smoked.
Billy broke their silence: "Today was a huge success."
"Huge," said Jericho. He sipped his beer through a smile. He wasn't in the mood to talk, but didn't want to run Billy off, either. He liked Billy's company. It felt so easy.
Again they were quiet together as dance music pounded through the walls.
"Do you mind if I ask you a question, Jericho?"
"Ask away," said Jericho. He lit another cigarette from the tip of the previous.
"How am I doing? I don't get much feedback from you or the Dance Captain. Even the music director hasn't offered me much direction. Is that normal? I don't know, I thought I'd be learning more from you all." Billy hung his head and looked down at the butts in the ashtray. "Sorry, that came out a little wrong."
Jericho leaned toward the boy, placed his hand on Billy's leg. "You're doing great. When you do well you don't get much extra attention. It's like, 'good, the kid's got it; we can work on someone else's issues.'" Jericho didn't remove his hand, but leaned back a bit in his seat.
The hand on his knee caused a hard on. Billy's words rushed out of his mouth, his eyes not making contact with Jericho's. "It's not that I need extra attention, but some would be nice. We've been at it for awhile now. The show is coming together. There are lots of us doing well with it and…"
"What?" Jericho leaned in again.
"Well, we're feeling…I'm feeling unappreciated. I know that sounds childish or something, but that's how I'm feeling."
Jericho leaned in even closer, his hand slid up to the kid's thigh. "You're doing an amazing job and I'm so sorry that we've allowed you to feel unappreciated. You're incredibly talented. You look great in the company. Actually, you stand out a bit because you're so good."
Billy felt his knees melt. He wanted to cry at the nice words and sentiment. He also felt aroused by Jericho's touch and his dick grew even harder, as if that was possible. Billy leaned into Jericho and the two men kissed. It began as a soft, lips-barely-touching kiss. Just two sets of lips pressed together with meaning, testing the romantic waters. The intention of the moment grew stronger. Lips parted slightly. Their tongue tips played a quick game of tag. Billy reached for Jericho’s hand and slid it up to his fatally hard dick.
Jericho ended the game, backing up a bit, but still close. He allowed his hand to rest on Billy’s cock, enjoying the gentle throbbing as it pushed against the tight trousers. Their eyes locked together. He wanted to kiss Billy again. He wanted to stroke his hand along the kid’s dick, feeling that just a little attention would get him off. He wanted…a great many things.
It flashed through Billy's mind that if they slept together and it didn't go well that he might not only loose his job, but his current bed. That was a chance he wasn't willing to take.
The two men remained in that close position, faces almost touching, fingertips of one hand touching on the table, Jericho's other hand still on Billy's dick, while music pounded louder through the walls. Both wanted more of each other. Yet, for different reasons, they held back.
Jericho tried to think of some words. He was speechless. He leaned a little closer to Billy, but instead of kissing him again, Jericho whispered, “Soon.” He pulled back, settled into his chair, and lit a fresh cigarette. Billy didn’t say a word.
“Hiya, Boys,” chirped Sara ending the romantic, slightly awkward moment. “Mind if I join you?” Her sing-song voice and obliviousness to what had transpired between Jericho and Billy allowed both men to breathe a little easier.
* * *
Aamil watched greedily, longingly, as the latest Flash Mob replayed over and over on New York 1. He fantasized that he was among the dancers. He even went so far as to copy a few moves from the scene, as well as his tiny studio apartment would allow. That was the life he wanted, a life like those happy dancers on the screen. He looked toward his workbench and knew that he must find a way out of his current life and into a new one. Aamil didn't know how to do that, but he would do everything he could to discover it.
Ten
Jason Arrows approached before Jericho reached the theater's stage door. "Jericho, I need to speak to you," he said.
"Of course, Jason. Do you want to come into my office?" Jericho looked into the actor's troubled eyes. "Or, would you rather take a little walk?"
"Um, a walk would be better, I think."
The two men exited the alley and headed east on 47th Street. Neither spoke. Jericho lit a cigarette even though he knew it bothered the actor. Jason had been an annoying pain in the ass through the entire rehearsal process. If he weren't a big name draw Jericho would have fired him after the second rehearsal. His producers and their lawyers said it wasn't an option so everyone suffered.
They rounded the corner, walked another block, rounded another corner and stopped at Schubert Alley where they could get out of the foot traffic.
"Listen, I know we start previews tonight, but I just can't do it," said Jason. He looked Jericho in the eye as he spoke. "I wanted to quit weeks ago, but my attorney said not to, that it would get too messy, that you just didn't quit a Jericho Taylor show. He said my career would be over if I quit. You and I know better, right?" He looked to his boss for some words of encouragement, some reassurance. Jericho held a poker face. Jason continued: "But, I just don't feel good about any of this. I don't feel like I'm the right guy for the job. As hard as I've worked, I'm just not Billy Lawler." There were tears in the corners of his eyes. "And, I know that it's sucked for us both. It has for weeks, for months."
Jericho listened. He didn't know how best to handle this. Was it simply a freaked out, insecure actor with opening night jitters or was it something more than that? He so hoped it was the latter. He'd love to be finished with this actor and move on. He could throw the understudy on tonight and figure the rest out later. It would be done and he'd be rid of this asshole. Yet, still unsure of the speech he nee
ded to offer he held his facial emotions in check. Spending years as a chorus boy frequently paid off for Jericho. He knew how to form his face into a look of joy, interest, or concern and have those around him perceive it as actual, as real. Jericho remained silent. He could tell that Arrows had more to say.
"I wanted to talk to you weeks ago about this, but my lawyers said if I quit I'd be liable for the show and I just can't afford that. It's a really long story, but," Jason hesitated, looked around them, and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm broke. I lost everything in my last divorce and thought a nice, long Broadway run would get me back on my feet."
"So, let me get this straight, you only took the job for the money and now, with a sold-out preview in two hours, you're bailing on me?" Jericho attempted to keep his voice even. His distaste for movie actors increased. Instead of figuring it out on his own, Jericho decided to ask straight up: "Are you looking for the 'you can do it' speech? I can give you the one from the show you're in, the one Julian delivers to Peggy; or, are you looking for permission to bail on me, for me to just say that it's okay for you to run away from this?" At that moment, as the final word left his mouth, Jericho was solid in his conviction. Fuck Jason Arrows.
The actor didn't speak.
"Well?" Jericho asked, lips tight, spittle escaping with the small word. His emotions were no longer hidden.
"I knew you'd be upset," Jason said, tears now flowing from his eyes. He reached an arm up to his face and wiped his nose on his sweatshirt sleeve.
"How could I not be upset?" Jericho looked at the man while his mind whirled. If the guy walked, Jericho would have two hours to what? Cancel the evening's show? Put in the understudy? Who was the understudy? He tried to grab the name from the company roster, but at that moment, with the anger and fear rising in him, the name escaped him. Who knew if the understudy was actually prepared? It's only previews. No one quits during previews. "I've got less than two hours to fix this, whatever this is. Tell me what we're going to do." Jericho remembered. Billy Lake was Jason's understudy. If this guy walked, Billy would get a huge break. Jericho willed Arrows’ answers.
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