Flash Mob

by Gregory A Kompes

  "Do you have any coffee?" she asked.

  "Yes, of course," said the effeminate bartender.

  "Can you get the pot and pour it on my feet?" asked Sara. She got a Victrola record dog stare from the bartender. "A cup of coffee with cream would be perfect," she revised. Cute, but young and dumb, she thought to herself. Another fag-hag crush.

  Sara, with coffee nearby, put her head down to her Blackberry, thumbs working like crazy. She started adding the names of those she knew Jericho liked. Without asking for help this time, she quickly amassed 34 potential dancers for the Flash Mob. Not many spots left to fill. And, best of all, she knew that any dancer she approached would want to take part in one of Jericho Taylor's Flash Mobs. For months they'd been the talk of the town.

  "What are you working on?" asked a man who sat next to her at the bar.

  "Huh?" Sara looked up at the man, feeling confused. She'd forgotten where she was.

  "You seem diligently at work there. A pretty girl like you should be having fun sitting at a bar, not working."

  Sara looked into the man's sparkly, steel-grey eyes. He was a bit older than the usual Star Bar crowd. Was he hitting on her? Could he possibly be a straight man in this bar? "Oh, I make lists. It's what I do." Another handsome fag to fall in love with.

  "Well, why don't we have a drink together and we'll make a list of the reasons you should go to dinner with me."

  He had a charming smile. He was broad, but not thick. He looked solid and cut a nice shape in his open overcoat. Based on the suit and shoes, she could easily see he had a little cash to call his own.

  "That sounds like a fun list to create," said Sara, turning off her Blackberry and chucking it in her purse.

  "Thom?" said the man over the bar. "What would you like?" he asked Sara as Thom approached.

  "White wine," she said, pushing the coffee cup away from her. Sitting next to this stranger she found she was no longer cold.

  "Thom, can we get a white wine for the lady and a scotch rocks for me, please."

  "You got it, Chuck," said Thom from behind the bar.

  "Chuck, huh?" said Sara. She felt a wave of disappointment. The name Chuck implied tailgating at football games and crude jokes at parties.

  "Don't be so quick to judge, Miss List. My name is Charles. Charles Montgomery. Thom and I go way back, all the way back to high school, in fact. He insists on calling me Chuck even though he knows I hate it."

  The drinks arrived. Thom served and disappeared.

  "Cheers," said Charles.

  "Cheers," she said. They clinked glasses.

  "What's your name?"

  "Sara."

  "Well, Sara the list maker, what do you do for a living?" Charles settled into his stool. His eyes looked deep into Sara, as if she was the only person on the planet.

  Sara enjoyed the trill of energy that passed over her. "I'm a personal assistant for a Broadway director." She didn't like to give out Jericho's name. Every time she met someone and led with her boss’s name all the other person wanted to talk about was Jericho and his accomplishments, and if she could get them a job or get a script into the mighty Oz's hands. They always ended up handing her a picture and resume or worse, asking about free tickets to 42nd St. "And you?" she asked, hoping to shove the subject away from herself.

  "I work downtown," he said, taking another sip of his drink, but not taking his eyes off of hers.

  "Well, we're two very vague people," said Sara with a small smile, her favorite smile. She knew her eyes lit up and effervesced when she used it. She'd spent her entire junior and senior years of college in front of mirrors perfecting it.

  "I don't think we're vague. I think we're more interested in each other in this moment than in what the other does for a living."

  Sara looked at his face. She liked the subtle dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he smiled. She wondered if he worked on his smiles in the mirror like she did, or if his just happened naturally. She imagined how his five-o-clock shadow would feel on her cheek when he kissed her. The earlier chill had been replaced with a light film of sweat forming at the color of her sweater. She took another sip of her wine.

  "So, should we work on the list of reasons you should have dinner with me?" Charles asked, his eyes still penetrating into Sara's.

  "I think," she started and hesitated. "I think we should go to dinner and work on a different list." She flushed a little at her forward words. This wasn't like her. She never made a move like that with a stranger. It was one thing to flirt with the gay boys who constantly surrounded her, but with someone straight? Not like her at all. But something about Charles Montgomery, the way he looked, the way he made her feel, the fact that he knew Thom, all of it combined to make her feel safe and comfortable.

  "Excellent," he said.

  The couple left their unfinished drinks on the bar as they walked together toward the door. Jericho's list could certainly wait until tomorrow. Sara was taking an evening for herself and she didn't care who knew or what they thought. Her knees went just a little weak when Charles held the door for her. A gentleman, she thought to herself. I could certainly use a gentleman in my life.

  * * *

  Nasser slowly opened his apartment door and quickly surveyed the hallway. He also had a clear view down the flight of stairs nearest his door. With no one in sight, he quietly closed his door and held his breath as he moved. He counted. One, two, three… That was the number of steps from his door to the stairs. Four, five, six, seven… Like a cat, he leapt, taking two stairs at a time. Nasser paused at the bottom, eyed the hall. No one was present. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen… He arrived at Aamil's door. They had a secret knock. In anticipation of the door being quickly opened, he wrapped his knuckles lightly against the door…knock, pause, then knock, knock, knock, three times very fast. Always, by that third quick knock, Aamil had the door open. Nasser rushed in, his heart pounding, a smile on his face. By the time Aamil closed the door, the two were entwined in each other's arms.

  The young men made the dash to each other's apartment several times a day. They only spent short intervals together, mostly for a quick blow job or even a fuck while both were mostly clothed. They tried not to be careless, but both had reached a point where they didn't really care if anyone found out. Not about the gay sex. That would be devastating. What they didn't really care about was that the two of them might be seen together.

  They started going out to the kebab shop together for lunch or dinner. They knew they'd be seen at those moments and Aamil experienced a thrilling sensation that he was out with the man he loved and no one was the wiser for it.

  "Boys."

  The voice behind them was strong, but not loud. They both knew that voice and froze in place. Aamil wanted to take Nasser's hand in that moment; he'd seen other men do that on the streets, but didn't dare. As they turned to face their boss, both young men felt their hearts enter their throats. They were ready for a verbal assault. It didn't come.

  "I'm glad to see the two of you together, that you've met each other." He leaned in closer to the boys, speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "It makes this life a little easier when you have a friend," he said.

  Neither of them spoke. They waited for more, but that was all the boss said. They watched him turn and walk several feet away before they, too, turned and continued their journey back to their apartment building around the block.

  After that meeting, they felt they had permission to be together. Maybe not for the real reason, the attraction they felt toward each other, but at least now they didn't feel they had to be so careful. Even so, Nasser still counted the steps between the two apartments.

  As the sun dropped and Aamil's small apartment faded from shadows to darkness, Nasser, wrapped in Aamil's arms, spoke. "What do you think of pooling our money?"

  Aamil whispered into Nasser's ear: "Why?" His dick, still semi-hard, remained inside Nasser’s ass.

  "For our escape," Nasser whispered back. He cl
enched his ass cheeks in an attempt to keep Aamil in him as long as possible. "I think between us we have enough money to leave town, to start over somewhere.

  They both thought for a moment, silent. They knew they'd have to leave the city if there was any hope of enjoying a more normal life together, a life that they had control over. Aamil’s dick slid out of Nasser.

  "I'm in," said Aamil squeezing his arms tighter around his lover.

  “No, you’re out,” Nasser said playfully.

  “No, I mean, I’m in on the plan.” He playfully tweaked his lover’s nipple and kissed his shoulder.

  Two days later, Aamil returned alone from lunch to discover a note stuck to his door. He ripped it down, looked around at the empty hall, and entered his apartment. He read in amazement. It was from Sara, there was another Flash Mob. He was thrilled that she wanted him to bring a friend.

  When Nasser burst into Aamil's apartment later that afternoon, after quick reciprocal blowjobs, Aamil told his boyfriend about the next Flash Mob. "Do you think you can dance well enough to do it?"

  "Yes," said Nasser, trying to keep his emotions in check.

  Together they walked to the kebob shop for dinner and walked the long way back around the block near the park. Nasser watched as Aamil phoned Sara and told her he did have an interested friend.

  The two men almost ran back to the building, taking the stairs in multiples, and arrived at Nasser's door. They entered quickly and hugged each other tight.

  "Aamil, I've got it. We'll do this dance mob—" Nasser was out of breath in his excitement.

  "Flash Mob," Aamil corrected.

  "We'll do this Flash Mob and we'll leave the city immediately after that."

  "What about our stuff?" Aamil asked, his heart pounding at the thought of their escape out of the city.

  "They've got lockers at the train station, right? How much stuff do we have? What do we really need? A change of clothes? A toothbrush?"

  "We don't even know where this event will be. We won't know until the morning it happens."

  "It doesn't matter. We'll take our stuff with us if we need to." Nasser pulled away and looked deep into Aamil's eyes. "You're not afraid, are you?" The words came out as a challenge.

  "No," said Aamil, without conviction. His heart pounded with a combination of fear and excitement.

  "Really, this is the moment. Don't you see?" Nasser's hands had become animated. "We'll already have snuck out to do this thing. We'll have to work out those details. So, it's only one step more to get on a train or a bus and get out of town; out from under all of this."

  Aamil felt a tug. He really wanted out. He'd fallen in love with Nasser. And, his boyfriend was right. This was the moment. "Yes. Yes, I'll do it. We'll do it."

  For the next few days, the young men planned and plotted their escape.

  In his moments alone, Aamil continued his work. He didn't know why his boss had put added pressure on him, but out of the complicated tangle of wires and transistors, he built the detailed electrical components as instructed. He could feel that something was coming, that something was going to happen. He hoped that he and Nasser would be long gone before it did.

  Each night, as he lay in bed alone, he wished Nasser was with him. While both knew that spending the night together wasn't a possibility, it wasn't safe for either of them to do such a thing, Aamil felt the longing for his friend's body pressed tight against his own. He imagined, looking out the little window at the neighbor's lights, that soon they'd be together, out in the world. "Where shall we go?" he whispered into the darkness. Each night he answered that question with the names of American towns he'd heard before in stories and conversations of tourists on the streets of New York: Cleveland, St. Paul, Peoria, Los Angeles…visions of cities he'd never seen filled his dreams.

  * * *

  Twenty-One

  No one returned Jericho's calls. He'd left a dozen messages for Sara, to no avail. The new boy he was dating was of course in some class at Columbia. It's never fun dating a college student, they had so many things to do, not to mention all that reading and studying. Hank's mother had left, so Billy was never home. And, to top it off, Thom, who never took time off, had decided to take a vacation to Key West.

  Of course, Thom had invited Jericho to go with him. The two men, when they were younger, traveled together all the time. In between one-night-standing boys they'd see the sites. But, Jericho had declined this time. Now, at this moment, with no one returning his calls and his apartment so quiet, he wondered why.

  The excuse was the Flash Mob rehearsals, but those could be scheduled any time. And, then there was still the hope that he'd get one more chance to bed Billy Lake. Those hopes were fading fast. Billy and Hank were practically inseparable. The boy hadn't said anything, but Jericho was no fool. Certainly they were living together, or at least playing at that. And, this mood certainly wasn't caused by the new young man he'd been sleeping with. He knew that boy wasn't really interested in him beyond the name Jericho Taylor.

  Jericho sipped his morning coffee and absently turned the pages of the newspaper. He couldn't focus on the newsprint. He didn't really care all that much about the latest terrorist bombing. They'd become almost daily news, making them feel surreal. The headline told of another US military supply warehouse being destroyed, this one in the Philadelphia area. He'd given the terrorists credit, actually. They weren't going after civilian targets. Very few had died from their actions. They were making a statement, plain and simple. The op-ed he couldn't focus on that morning explored the idea that the people setting off these bombs and causing warehouse destruction were most likely American citizens tired of the ongoing wars. Sure, bombs and destruction aren't the best way to influence political policy, but they were certainly making a statement.

  Jericho shoved the paper away with thoughts of postponing the Flash Mob, but quickly pushed the idea out of his head. That was the whole point of these impulsive events, give people hope, help them drive the fear away about being in public spaces.

  He was alone, and for the first time in his life he felt lonely. Jericho dialed Sara's cell phone number again, already knowing she was blowing him off this morning. Why shouldn't she? He worked her too hard, calling her at all hours of the day and night. Before hitting the call button, Jericho turned off his phone.

  He pulled his journal toward him and thumbed through it looking for a page of notes he'd made awhile ago. Barry's business card dropped out. He turned it absently in his hand remembering first the day he and Barry had met on the street outside the rehearsal studio and then trying to remember their brief affair so many years ago.

  "What have I turned into?" he asked his coffee cup. Jericho reached for a cigarette. He picked up the crumpled pack, looked hard at it, and crushed it in his fist. "I'm done with you," he said to the pack. "I'm done with you," he said again as he tossed the red and white crinkly paper and foil into the trash can. He surveyed the clean kitchen with its well stocked refrigerator and gadget collection. Jericho walked down the hall, looking at the gathering of photographs on the walls. Jericho Taylor with a bevy of smiling, famous people, Broadway stars, three New York City mayors, two US Presidents, everyone smiling, shaking hands, hugging. What did it mean? What was the point? He'd spent his whole adult life in the theater, meeting people, making money. What was the point if he ended up alone in the world?

  Jericho walked into the bathroom and tossed his robe on the floor in disgust. He looked at his out of shape frame in the mirror. His chest hair grew greyer by the day, just like that still left on his head. He fingered the dark circles under his eyes and caught sight of yet another liver spot emerging on his wrinkled hand.

  "How did this happen?" he asked his reflection in the mirror. "How did I get so old so fast. This is all going way too fast." Words, ideas, and images whirled in his brain. It was too much. Jericho reached over and turned on the shower. He again looked himself in the eyes, waiting for the water to heat up. He stood there, facing him
self, until his reflection faded into the steam, like a curtain falling on the final act of one of his musicals. "Pathetic old man," he said and stepped into the shower.

  * * *

  Sara snuggled up to Charles. She took a deep breath. He smelled of sweat and her perfume. She knew when she checked her phone and her email there'd be dozens of messages from Jericho. It was after nine in the morning. She pushed thoughts of her boss from her head and reached around the beautiful man in her bed. She let her hand wander across his lightly haired, taught stomach, down again to his penis and scrotum. She loved how his balls felt in her caressing hand. As Sara fondled, Charles' breathing changed. His dick began to grow hard. She wanted him inside her again. It had been so long since she'd been naked with a man that she'd allowed herself to forget how lovely it could be.

  Without a word or even opening his eyes, Charles rolled toward Sara. With just a little more effort he was on top of her. With his eyes still closed he entered her and gently rolled and rocked on top of her, whispering her name between light kisses.

  * * *

  Fresh from a shower, feeling a little less self loathing, Jericho picked up his phone and called the college boy. He left a message and dumped the kid. Next, he dialed Barry's number. He got the man's voice mail at the prestigious bank. Jericho left his name and number and an offer to get together for dinner or drinks.

  * * *

  Aamil watched New York One. He knew that the latest bomb near Philadelphia, like the others in Boston, New Jersey, and Queens, was somehow connected to the components he worked on. The reporters talked about knowing that this latest terrorist act was linked to the earlier ones because of the same detonation electronics. Aamil felt a wave of disgust. He didn't want to kill or hurt anyone anymore. He didn't believe in the cause he aided. The attacks weren't yet getting bigger, but they were growing more frequent. He somehow felt they were planning something bigger: Something like multiple targets at the same time, on the same day in quick succession, or possibly a larger, single location. He'd had to assemble more and more little detonators over the past few weeks. He just knew that there would be more people hurt in the next, larger wave. The pattern was so familiar to the way it had gone back before he'd come to America. This was how it felt just before his brother had died.