Flash Mob
by Gregory A. Kompes
Copyright 2012 by Gregory A. Kompes
All rights reserved worldwide.
Digital Edition
The material in Flash Mob represents the artistic vision of the author published herein and is their sole property. No part of this text may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the author. The author may be contacted through Fabulist Flash Publishing.
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Flash Mob
One
Mariachi music blared from the overhead speakers; morning train and subway commuters looked confused. A lone man, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt starts to dance. No one in Grand Central Station takes notice of him. Within seconds, a slender, tall, redheaded woman in a business suit joins the first dancer. The two are in sync, each moving in the same way at the same time to the loud guitar sounds. Ten seconds pass; the two dancers are joined by others. Twenty seconds more, others join. Dozens of dancers emerge from the crowd, one by one they join the growing, synchronized line-style dance taking place on the dirty marble. The music shifts, subtly, to a slow motion waltz. The dance routine evolves into couples, bodies pressed together, everyone doing the same moves in perfect synchronicity.
The train travelers, most of them business people commuting to work, stopped to watch the dancers. Their early confusion shifted to wonder and amazement. Most smiled at the seemingly impromptu, certainly unexpected show. The usual frenzy of the grand hall came to a halt. More and more commuters were being dumped by their daily routine from all doors and tracks to the edges of the dance spectacle. All of them could hear the blaring music, but only those with an early vantage point could actually see the dancers.
"What's going on?" A young woman asked a man near her toward the front of the circle of viewers. Neither looked at the other, both were mesmerized by the dance scene evolving and shifting in front of them. Twenty couples now danced in perfect harmony to the music blaring over the speakers while the morning sun streaming in through the multi-story windows acted like spot lights, highlighting the dancers.
The man answered, not lowering his cell phone, "Flash Mob."
"Why?" she asked.
"Why not?" the man responded.
The music increased to a frenzied rhythm as the dancers’ movements became almost frantic. Yet, each couple remained in perfect synchronization with the other dozens of couples in the center of New York City’s Grand Central Station. As more and more people crushed into the hall, those watching the event from the inner rings held their ground, creating a shell around the dancers.
Just as it all suddenly began, the music ended. An announcer came over the loud speakers and informed travelers that the next train for Long Island Sound was departing from track 33. As the announcement finished, the dancers had all reemerged into the busy crowd in the station. The moment was over. New arriving passengers, armed with their Starbucks cups and the Daily News, had no idea what they had just missed.
"That was terrific, Jericho," a young, tall handsome man said as he hugged Jericho from the side with one arm. In his excitement, the boy pressed his lips lightly to the older man's cheek. "You pulled it off," he whispered into his friend’s ear. “The world’s first Flash Mob!”
Jericho smiled at his lover of the moment, his conspirator. "Couldn't have done it without you, Frankie, baby." Jericho knew that wasn't true; Frankie, if he'd allowed himself to admit it, knew it, too. But, he was right, the Great Jericho Taylor had created something new in the world, a Flash Mob.
The two men stood and watched the train station commuters. The large, open space, with its four-faced clock, starred ceiling, and dirty staircase returned to the normal morning commuter scene. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened there just moments ago. Those entering now from the street or the platforms would never suspect what had just occurred. That was the beauty of a Flash Mob: art in the moment. There and done. A moment to rejoice in while it was happening and to look for at every turn.
"How fortuitous that that New York 1 reporter was here. Did you see her?" Frank asked.
"No," said Jericho. "Where?"
Jericho followed Frank's long finger. "There. She's still there. What's next?" the young man asked, releasing his grip on Jericho's arm.
"Just you wait and see, Frankie. Just wait, Frankie, baby." He turned toward the exit. "Come on, I want to get this video up on YouTube." Jericho led them out onto 42nd Street. They maneuvered through the heavy morning crowd, out from under the station’s overhang, and into the bright sunlight. Around them New Yorkers hustled on their way to and from work. A few tourists snapped photos of the surrounding buildings.
Jericho's mind swirled with the success of the morning's Flash Mob. He'd been rehearsing the dancers for several weeks. All of them were volunteers. He felt good that he had a name that drew top performers to him, willing to do anything for the Great Jericho Taylor. Jericho never openly admitted it to anyone, but he loved the title that the Broadway theater community applied to him. He'd been directing and developing choreography for hit musicals for more nearly three decades, so the title wasn't without warrant. But, it gave him a secret thrill every time someone said it within his hearing or a newspaper referred to him using that title: The Great Jericho Taylor.
Jericho and Frank headed a few blocks west, south a few blocks, west a few blocks, south again. Their pace was quick, not running, just a normal, fast New York City pace. Jericho stopped short, turned, crossed Eighth Avenue with the traffic light, and arrived at his favorite neighborhood bagel cart.
"The usual?" the cart owner asked in a European accent through the steam escaping from the coffee machine inside. The smells of coffee and fresh baked bread wafted onto the street and mingled with the exhaust of an endless parade of fast moving taxi cabs.
"Yeah," said Jericho. "Frankie, you want coffee?"
Frank nodded his acceptance, "and a plain bagel with a schmear."
Money and cups exchanged hands. A brown bag emerged through the window with their breakfast. They headed south a few more blocks before turning onto 18th Street. They walked halfway down the block and arrived at a nondescript, Chelsea brownstone.
Frank pulled the empty trash cans from the street back up against the building. The metal scraped the pavement as he moved them. Jericho had the front door unlocked as Frank finished the chore and the two men entered the building.
* * *
Aamil flipped on New York 1 News to see the day's weather. Spring was early, with a perfect 65 degree day bringing March in line a lamb. Aamil didn’t understand the reference, but he’d enjoy the nice weather all the same. He pulled the blinds open to let the sunshine stream into his otherwise nondescript, dank, studio apartment. Aamil was momentarily blinded as the sun reflected off the metal components on the workbench. He moved to the left. His eyes focused on the little television.
"I don't know what happened," said an older woman, wearing a long, outdated coat, to the pretty blonde reporter. "All of a sudden music blared over the loud speakers and people started dancing."
"We've confirmed with Port Authority officials at Grand Central Station that their system wasn’t hacked,” continued the young female reporter directly into the camera. “By arrangement with a local artist, at 8:03 this morning, the recorded music began and lasted exactly two minutes and eighteen seconds. The time had been negotiated so no train announcements or service would be disrupted. Officials won't name the coordinator of what's being called a Flash Mob. This is Amy Senteri and we'll follow this story as it evolves. Back to you,
Sam."
The news anchor, Sam Sanchez, continued: "Thank you, Amy. In other news this morning, another bomb attack occurred in Maryland today." The image on the screen shifted from Sam Sanchez to footage of a partially destroyed and shredded metal warehouse. "The targeted building is a temporary warehouse for US Military equipment, mostly uniforms, being sent to our men and women in Iraq and Afghanistan. Thousands of crates that were awaiting shipment overseas have been damaged or destroyed. Most of the damage was caused by the sprinkler system and the Maryland fire department's effort to put out the flames."
Aamil hit the remote control's power button. "We'll give them a Flash Mob,” he muttered as he went to work at the cluttered bench.
* * *
Sitting in Jericho’s office, Frank and Jericho ate while the computer booted up. Through a mouthful of bagel, the young man said: "I'm so proud of you, Jericho. It was amazing this morning." He washed down the mouth of bagel with a sip of strong, black coffee.
Jericho didn't respond; his eyes wandered out the window to the street, little traffic, few pedestrians. He hated Frank's condescending tone. The guy thought he was at the center of everything in Jericho's life. He believed their relationship would last forever. Jericho knew he'd have to end this one soon, before Frankie Boy fell any deeper in love with him.
The director turned his thoughts back to the amazing morning. Weeks and weeks of planning and rehearsals for less than three minutes of action. Now it was over, like it had never happened. Jericho clicked on the internet icon on his desktop and navigated to his YouTube account where he uploaded the morning's video with the headline: "Flash Mob in Grand Central Station, NYC." With the click of one button, the event was now ready for the world to view. Jericho logged into his email account to find dozens of self-congratulatory emails from his Mob. Most of them included the phrase: "when can we do this again?" His feelings of elation mixed with depression. So much work to get to this moment, now it's over. Just like that. Yet, his goal was to bring joy and happiness to folks going about their daily lives. It was his personal effort to counteract the terror and fear many were feeling with all the recent bombings along the East Coast. Someone had to help people feel safe and secure again. And, while Jericho accepted that a short dance routine wouldn’t really change the world, it might, just for a few moments, change the daily life of those who were involved or happened to be present. Instead of commuters looking for odd, unattended packages, now they could instead look for the next Flash Mob.
Jericho scanned the City in his mind, thinking of the next location he'd like to mount an event as he replied quickly by copying to each email a line of "thanks," the link to the online video, and a request that they forward it to their friends and family.
"What now?" Frank asked as he crumpled the wax paper from his bagel and tossed it in the small brown bag the food had come in.
The young man reminded Jericho of a little terrier. Frankie always wanted attention. He always wanted something from Jericho. Sure, the sex was good. Young men are very good at sex, even when they don't have any experience. Those young dicks get hard and stay hard no matter what's going on. But, Jericho knew that his experience with Frankie was about done. It was time to set Frank free again, time to find a new trick. Like the Flash Mob experience, Jericho quickly became disappointed with the young men he invited into his life. They'd shoot their wad quickly, fun for the moment, but there wasn't anything to back it up. Rarely could they hold decent conversation or add anything to his life experience. Knowing they were approaching an end, Jericho began unbuttoning his shirt. "Let's fuck," he said softly. Frankie was naked and his dick was rock hard before Jericho had finished with his own shirt buttons. The young man moved to Jericho, kissed him hard on the mouth. With a deft motion, Jericho gently pushed Frank down to his knees. The boy knew what to do and took Jericho’s cock in his mouth. Ever the director, Jericho placed his hands on Frank’s head, guiding his motions up and down his stiffening dick.
Jericho went through the motions of sex, maneuvered Frank down on all fours and pushed his dick into the young man from behind in a single, fluid motion. They’d been in this position many times. Jericho knew that when this was his preferred position with a trick that the relationship was over. From here, with no serious eye contact, Jericho could think of other people, other things, while still getting off. As he pumped his hips, his mind wandered. Jericho began choreographing the next Flash Mob.
Frank’s groan of “I’m coming,” drew Jericho back to the moment. He pushed his hips harder and harder into the young man until he, too, finished. He felt no emotional connection with this guy. The two rolled from their knees onto the floor panting. Frank wrapped his arms around Jericho and placed his head on the older man’s damp, matted salt and pepper chest hair. Jericho stroked the Frank’s head. He wanted to feel love again. He wanted to feel that anticipation of a first kiss with someone he’d desired for a long time. Jericho wanted to feel virginal again. He smiled at the thought. All these decades of tricks and fucking in backrooms, sex clubs, theater dressing rooms…there was little hope of feeling like a virgin again.
* * *
Between the New York 1 news story and Jericho's YouTube video, the Grand Central Flash Mob went viral before Jericho and Frankie finished their post-sex shower. Everyone who saw the news coverage and online video clip were curious. New York 1 was getting calls from people who said they'd been there, whether they were or not. The comment section below the YouTube video was filling with hundreds of comments. Everyone clamored for the artist or choreographer who had created this sudden sensation, this first-of-its-kind event, this Flash Mob.
Jericho remained silent even though Frank urged him to tell the truth. Jericho hoped that his mob—a group of 36 hand-picked dancers—would remain silent about his identity while talking to everyone they knew about the event. They all promised to keep his name out of it, but when news breaks in New York everyone has a connection to it; New Yorkers love to tell stories, especially over drinks, about how they were involved or affected by the local events of the day. He was counting on that to help spread the word about his Flash Mob. He trusted his dancers, but knew that under pressure it would be easy for one of them to crack.
When the phone rang, "New York One" came up on the caller ID display. Jericho debated letting the call go to voicemail, but instead picked up. "Hello," he said with weary resolve into the phone.
"Jericho Taylor?" a young, female voice asked.
"Yes," Jericho said.
"Were you the coordinator of today's Flash Mob?" Amy did her best to keep her voice steady. She loved reporting, but still got incredibly nervous when talking to people she didn't know, especially famous people, and this was the famed Broadway director and choreographer, The Great Jericho Taylor. Her mother would be very impressed that she'd scooped the story.
After all the work attempting to keep the dancers quiet, less than two hours after his Mob, New York 1 had already broken the story. Jericho decided quickly to reverse his decision about silence. He chose to be honest. "Yes," said Jericho.
Amy launched into a list of "why" and "how" questions after asking if she could record their call. Jericho had two conversations going on at the same time: the one with the reporter and another in his head. He did it because he thought it would be fun, cool. He wanted to do something positive because so many people around the world were being blown up in public places. He wanted to make public places fun, even if just for a few minutes. No, he didn't plan to do it again, not right away. People would be looking for it now. Where's the surprise in that?
No doubt about it, his idea was a hit. He knew it would quickly be copied by others. Jericho was okay with that. Being copied was a good thing. More people bringing fun and joy to public spaces was really what this was all about.
Jericho, with love in his heart, dumped Frank that afternoon. He gave the boy no real reason except that it was time to move on. And, now that the Flash Mob story had been broken, there was n
o reason to keep the guy around, to keep him in his confidence so he wouldn't talk. He knew Frankie would spread the word far and wide about his involvement in the morning's sensation. Jericho set the boy free.
* * *
Two
The Rawhide was almost empty, just a bartender and three patrons; one of them, a regular, was passed out in his usual corner, his head propped between the dirty wall and the sticky wooden bar. The bartender, a tall, heavy man with hairy arms and chest in leather vest and Levi’s, took advantage of the quiet morning to master his skill of sleeping while standing.
Two upright patrons sat several seats apart; both nursed warm, draft beers. The drinker closest to the restrooms said to the other nearer the front door: "did you hear about that dance thing at the train station?"
"Hear about it? I was one of the dancers," said Front Door.
The bartender opened one eye, viewed the bar without moving his head, and closed his lid again.
Restroom slipped down the bar closer to Front Door and whispered: "Really?"
"Yeah," said Front Door in a matching, conspiratorial whisper. "It was really cool. We stepped out of the crowd, danced our routine, and then slipped back into the crowd. They never knew what hit 'em. There were hundreds of people surrounding us, watching us. The music blared. The small audience applauded when we finished. Have you seen the clip on YouTube?"
"No, just heard about it on the news," said Restroom.
"Want to come to my place and watch it? I live just around the corner," said Front Door.
The two patrons eyed each other up and down, knowing that watching a three minute clip on the popular video Web site wasn't all this was about. They passed each other's sight test and left the Chelsea bar together. The sleeping bartender and drooling regular continued their routines.
Flash Mob Page 1