Flash Mob

by Gregory A Kompes

  "Here you go, Miss. It works out to twenty dollars even," the elderly lady in the cart said. "When's the show open?"

  Nancy Ann handed the lady $25. "Keep the change," she said. "It's a special event."

  "Really, dear," the lady said as her wrinkled hand caused the money disappeared into the cart. "Another one of Mr. Taylor's riots?"

  Nancy Ann chuckled. "Mobs. Their called Flash Mobs."

  "Oh, how silly of me," said the old lady adding a few napkins to the collection of cups on the small silver counter at her window. "Where's this one going to be?"

  "Penn Station in two days," said Nancy Ann, followed quickly by "Fuck!" She couldn't believe she'd blurted out the place and date of the next Flash Mob. How could she be so stupid? It didn't seem like the woman understood. Nancy Ann knew she should tell Jericho, but didn't want to chance his wrath.

  "Is there something wrong, dear?" the lady asked.

  "No. I just don't have enough hands." Nancy Ann scanned the dwindling crowd of her coworkers still on the street. "Hey, Hank!" she called toward the nearby crowd. "Can you give me a hand?" Nancy Ann pointed with her head at the cups on the small counter.

  "Sure, doll," said Hank with a smile and his famous wink. He approached, and like a giant octopus, hands and arms came from what felt like all directions to pick up the remaining cups on the counter. They headed into the rehearsal building and waited for the elevator.

  "This is amazing," said Hank. "I can't believe the amount of work and detail he's putting into this one."

  "He said it's going to be his last Flash Mob. I guess he wants it to be his best," said Nancy Ann as they entered the elevator. "Where's Billy?"

  "Breaking the news to Jericho that he and I have moved in together."

  "Now? He couldn't wait another few days?" Nancy Ann nervously pushed the elevator button over and over hoping to rush the ancient piece of equipment into faster motion.

  * * *

  "We have to go back up," Aamil said to Nasser. "That was the stage manager who just went inside."

  Nasser didn't move. "I don't know if I can do this. I'm not really a dancer." He kept his eyes on his feet.

  "Listen, all you have to do is watch and copy what the others are doing. I'm sure you can handle it. And, we can work on it together alone so by the next rehearsal you'll be perfect." Aamil tugged at his friend's sleeve.

  "You'd do that?" Nasser looked up at Aamil in disbelief.

  "Of course! We're in this together, right? We're a couple, right?" Aamil gave another tug to the sleeve. "We shouldn't even be out here; someone might see us…someone that we don't want to be seen by." The two young men playfully jogged and jostled together back into the rehearsal building. They skipped waiting for the elevator and headed up the stairs.

  * * *

  The elderly lady exited the small coffee cart, walked a few feet, and lit a cigarette. As she smoked she looked to see if all the dancers were gone. Not seeing any of them on the street she pulled out her cell phone and hit a speed-dial button. She waited. Into the voicemail she said: "Amy, this is your mother, dear. You should call me back. I've got the date and location of Taylor's next Flash Mob. It's in a few days, so call me back soon. Love you dear. Oh, that piece you did on the polar bear in the Central Park Zoo was wonderful. Call me."

  The old lady looked around the street corner. It was one of those rare moments in New York. She, her husband, and their cart were the only thing on the sidewalk. "Being told is certainly better than trying to eavesdrop," she said under her breath. She took another long drag off the cigarette and tossed it into the street. "My daughter is going to be a television star," she said to the trash can.

  * * *

  Sara sat in a chair, among the row of chairs under the expansive windows. She had her notebook out, ready for any new direction from Jericho. But, her job had gotten easier. He'd done most of the major choreography for the three minute Flash Mob. He was now just working the poor kids over and over, moving people around, hollering at their inability to move the way he wanted. It also helped that Nancy Ann was taking choreography notes, too. After rehearsal they'd compare what they had to make sure they'd transcribed everything.

  She looked out the window, watched the old lady from the coffee cart smoke and talk on her cell phone. She wondered who the woman was talking to. It was a game Sara played when she was bored. She'd watch people talk on phones and make up stories about what was being said. She knew it was stupid and childish, but it's what she did. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Nancy Ann writing something. Sara turned her attention back to the rehearsal. She too added something to her notes, a question mark and the time.

  Sara looked at all the young, sweaty dancers. Some of the boys were cute, but it was easy to see they were all gay, all but that one darker skinned guy. His friend, Aamil, she remembered from the last Flash Mob event. She looked back at her notes. His name was Nasser. She watched the guy. During the brief moments between movement and direction, beyond looking a little deer-in-the-headlights, obviously not a real dancer, he was watching all the girls. Definitely not gay, Sara thought to herself. If she weren’t dating Charles, she’d make a play for the guy. She’d never been with a middle easterner before. But, she was with Charles. He hadn’t said it yet, but she knew he was falling in love with her, and he was rich, which meant soon she’d be married and wouldn’t have to work for a living.

  Her attention once again drifted out the big windows. She was a little surprised that Jericho had left the blinds up. Usually, he pulled them so that everyone was forced to keep their focus in the room. It was nice to see outside, the blue spring sky, the traffic moving down Lexington Avenue, the old couple selling coffee and doughnuts to the passersby.

  Her mind drifted uptown, to her little apartment where she'd left Charles, naked and snoring in her bed. She really liked this guy. He was handsome and kind. He treated her well, both in bed and out. He seemed interested in her as a person, not just as someone to fuck. That made her feel good. She also liked that he had a real job. She didn't exactly understand what he did, even after he explained about moving paper and money around all day, but she did understand that he worked for a firm on Wall Street and that he made good money. This man wasn't like the guys she usually dated, these actors and dancers who were lots of fun, but always broke.

  "Sara," Nancy Ann whispered. Sara looked up to see everyone in the room looking at her. "Jericho is talking to you." Nancy Ann's face was red with embarrassment for her friend.

  "Sorry," said Sara to anyone who might be interested in hearing the word. It didn’t sound convincing to her when she said it.

  "Shut the blinds, please," said Jericho. His face was taught and he watched her get up from her chair and move to the end of the row of windows.

  One by one, Sara closed the blinds feeling her own vision of the future closing with the tattered rolls of heavy plastic. She knew she had to get out of this job. But, it paid well. Maybe, she thought to herself as she closed the last blind, maybe he'll ask me to marry him. He'll move me to a house in Connecticut and I could be a housewife and have tea with Martha Stewart on Tuesday afternoons.

  * * *

  The Blonde and the Redhead headed to the ladies room during the afternoon break. They locked themselves in the small room. While the Blonde sat on the toilet, the Redhead looked at herself in the mirror.

  "That director is a dick," said the Blonde.

  "You wanted to be part of this Flash Mob. You begged me," said the Redhead.

  "Don't care. He's an asshole. I can't believe how his mood seemed to flip from the morning to the afternoon. Maybe his drugs wore off or something."

  "He's a perfectionist is all," said the Redhead in Jericho's defense. She wasn't thrilled with the guy's attitude either, but she wasn't about to let her friend know that.

  "I look dreadful," said the Blonde, pulling lightly at the skin next to her eyes. "I've sweated off all my makeup."

  "Told you not to wear it today,"
said the Redhead while sitting on the john in front of her friend.

  "Hurry up, I really have to pee," said the Blonde, turning to assess her friends urinary progress.

  The Redhead pulled a wad of paper from the roll and blotted herself dry. She got up, pulled up her sweats, and flushed the toilet. The two girls shifted locations.

  "I can't believe you've shaved your pubes," said the Redhead to the Blonde.

  The Blonde didn't miss a beat. Without embarrassment she said, "I had to. Remember that shoot for Elle? Those pants were so tight they showed everything. First, they had me take off my underwear. Then, I had this noticeable mound." She made a circular motion around her crotch with her hand. "I was sent to the ladies’ room with a Bic. It was horrible. I feel bad for that little makeup queen. He ended up in there shaving my all together. If he wasn't gay before, he certainly is now."

  The Redhead started to laugh. "But, you've kept it. That shoot was six weeks ago."

  "At first I didn't like the stubble. It itched and I couldn't be wandering around town scratching my crotch."

  "True," said the Redhead, taking paper off the role. "People would think you had crabs or something."

  "Exactly! Then, I slept with a photographer from a shoot. José. Remember?"

  "Yeah," said the Redhead. "He was funny, charming actually."

  "He had a huge dick. Anyway, he loved my shaved privates. We slept together again about a week later. I'd finally decided to suffer the itching and let them grow back, you know. He hated the stubble and the next thing I know he's got me spread out on a towel in my bed and he's shaving me smooth again. He was good, too." The Blonde handed the Redhead a paper towel to dry her freshly washed hands." Now, about once a week, we get together, he shaves me, and we fuck. It really turns him on. He's got this whole ritual with laying me out, spreading my legs, the shaving cream he uses—"

  "Stop! TMI," said the Redhead. The two girls laughed together.

  * * *

  Twenty-Three

  It was the perfect New York City morning. The caged trees along the streets had all sprouted out new leave that gently fluttered with each breeze. The air was warm and comfortable. Morning commuters were no longer burdened by long overcoats or sweaters, instead dressed in the latest shade of spring black from the store windows of Barney's, Macy's, and Bloomingdales. People on the street were excited, their energy palpable as they crammed into busses and subways. If anyone had asked them point blank, New Yorkers would tell them they were collectively glad to be alive.

  Jericho and Barry arrived at the top of the escalator from the subway platform just as the music blared over the speaker system in Penn Station. They took a spot under the Departure board, knowing they wouldn't have the best view of the Flash Mob that had just started. It was the best they could do in the crowded space. Jericho wasn't concerned. He'd worked out a deal with the Port Authority and had a special camera mounted that would record his event. It was good to know people in all the right places and to have the famous name.

  Billy and Hank started their moves, within seconds they were joined by other dancers. Still more poured into the big central space. They went into their routine as delighted commuters from outside the city arrived in the hall from the tubes and tunnels that spidered out in all directions.

  In the corner, Amy Senteri shifted her interview and directed the cameraman to focus from the station manager to the Flash Mob. Some had accused her of being in with Jericho on his events. Like it was some sort of collusion. Amy wouldn't explain to anyone why she always happened to be in the right spot at the right time. She told others that she couldn't explain it, that it was just chance. But, because she'd had all the exclusive moments on tape, she'd been promoted. She no longer was sent out into the streets in bad weather. She didn't have to record interviews from the top of the news van when the East Side highway flooded. She got more inside interviews and events, more celebrities, and Broadway show openings. She'd moved up the ladder a few notches and couldn't be happier. And, here she was once again, capturing a live, spontaneous Flash Mob event. She couldn’t wait to that her mother, again.

  The audience surrounded the dancers in a large square. They clapped along with the music. Cell phones were out and up as people photographed and recorded the event.

  The Flash Mob, not centered correctly, was too close to the escalators, blocking their passage. A fast thinking transit cop ran down the moving stairs and blocked entrance to people on their way up to keep unaware commuters from disrupting the dancers. The transit cop, like most New Yorkers, had learned all about the mobs on New York One. He knew it wouldn't last long, although he did call for backup.

  As the routine neared its end, Jericho noticed one of the boys. He was sweating horribly. It was one of the new comers, the friend of the Middle Eastern boy whose name he could never remember. The director worried he would pass out and hurt himself on the hard floors or fall down the escalator that was close by, or worse, vomit on the nearby assembled audience members. But, from his vantage point, there was nothing he could do except watch the events unfold. The kid grabbed his side. Jericho's instinct was to run to him, but he held back. There was no way he'd get there easily and the routine was almost over.

  "No!" shouted Aamil as he looked at his friend. His smile, not part of the routine, but from the joy of dancing with the group, faded. No one around took much notice.

  "It's time," said Nasser. This is our event." He felt around his pocket. "You might want to say a quick prayer," he whispered to Aamil. Nasser held up the small device so Aamil could see it. "It's time," he said again, but he didn't push the button. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at Aamil. He hadn't meant to fall in love with Aamil. Nasser didn't even think of himself as gay. He'd only gone through with the sex, a bit disgusted by it at first, because his boss said to. If that was the only way to infiltrate one of these Flash Mobs it had to be done, he'd been told.

  What Nasser hadn't expected was that he'd actually enjoyed it. Not just the sex, which of course was fun, but Aamil. He liked him. They'd grown close. Not all of the conversations were a lie. Nasser, like Aamil, did feel trapped in the organization. He did feel lost and alone in New York. His brief relationship with Aamil had helped with that, had relieved some of the loneliness for a time. He was sad that his friend would die. Sadder still that Aamil wouldn't be able to leave the city as the two had planned. Nasser, could feel the large locker key in his pocket. They'd never retrieve their belongings now. They'd never purchase train tickets to Cleveland or Santa Fe or West Hollywood, wherever those places were.

  Using Aamil to gain an end didn't bother Nasser. That's how this all went. They all had jobs to do and in the end Nasser knew that everyone would die. What he found sad, what caused him to pause in hitting the little button on the remote that would detonate the explosives strapped to his body, was that his own death and the death of those around him, would kill Aamil. The guy really thought he was escaping today from the organization. Nasser's face took on a brief smile at the irony that Aamil would indeed escape today, but not to Peoria or Spokane or St. Paul, but to meet his maker. Nasser's smile grew bigger as he thought about the bevy of virgins that awaited him and the pile of cash his family back home would receive as part of his martyrdom.

  "Good-bye, Aamil," said Nasser to his friend.

  "No!" said Aamil, this time quieter. He moved quickly. They scuffled. Aamil had his hand on Nasser's right wrist. He pushed with his whole body and tightened his grip on Nasser. Nasser dropped the little remote. Aamil was able to slide it with his foot toward the escalator.

  The audience didn't question the boys stepping out of the routine, instead thinking this was part of the Flash Mob experience.

  In the scuffle, Aamil pushed Nasser toward the down escalator, too. He shoved harder and the two tumbled down the moving metal stairs. Neither knew at that moment what had happened to the bomb's remote control.

  The two boys turned and tumbled. The teeth of the escalator gashed
Aamil's head. He went unconscious and the blood flowed heavily as his body was pulled down by the moving stairs.

  Nasser and Aamil toppled off the escalator at the feet of the transit cop blocking the up access. There were a dozen or so commuters waiting to pass. When the boys fell, the guard moved and the commuters shoved through.

  "Hey now," said the guard. He pulled Nasser off the motionless Aamil.

  Others, curious about the scuffle, started streaming down the escalator toward the train tunnels. The Flash Mob music stopped, creating a brief moment of eerie silence that ended abruptly as a train pulled noisily into the station with gasps of air from the brakes and the metal against metal sound of the opening doors.

  Nasser got shoved out of the way as the transit cop, seeing the people streaming now both down the escalator to the platform and from the arriving train, pulled Aamil off to the side, out of the way of the foot traffic.

  Nasser dropped to his knees and searched the floor for the remote. Commuters pushed and shoved against him as he tried to get back to the bottom of the down escalator where the remote tumbled against the edge of the metal teeth along with a chewing gum wrapper. The force of the mob was too great. He couldn't penetrate them.

  The transit cop was on his knees now. He'd called again for backup and medical assistance. He held a handkerchief over the gash on Aamil's head. The boy opened his eyes. "Did the bomb go off?"

  "You're gonna be okay, kid," said the transit cop.

  "No, the other guy with me. He's got a bomb strapped to him. There's a remote control," Aamil blurted out as his eyes rolled back into his head and he again lost consciousness.

  Jericho and Barry arrived at the bottom of the stairs. Jericho saw Nasser first, a short distance away down the platform. "Where is your friend?" Jericho called to him. Nasser had panic in his eyes; he didn't answer, but went back to searching the floor.