The internal battled raged so hard that Aamil lost his place in his prayers. He sat up, his feet tucked below him. Across the room, in the small mirror on the wall, he caught a glimpse of his tear stained face.
"Someone tell me what to do," he whispered to himself, to Allah, to the roaches that visited his kitchen no matter what he tried to keep them at bay.
* * *
Billy rolled onto his back in bed. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and stretched with a groan. His head ached from the Champagne. Memories of last night's events rushed over him again. In the blink of an eye his whole life had changed. He felt stronger, more complete as a person somehow. His chest felt full and forward as he filled his lungs to capacity. He looked around the room. "How did I get here? How did this happen?"
He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. There was plenty of time before rehearsal. He got out of bed, stretched again, his arms reaching out wide into the open space. Billy scratched his pubes, his belly, his chest, wishing once again that he had a hairy chest. Now in his twenties, he'd accepted that he'd be mostly hairless there. He scratched his balls and enjoyed the sensation.
The boy pulled on sweat pants and a T-shirt. He pulled a clean jock strap from the duffle bag that still served as his dresser. He hadn't unpacked his belongings, even after all these weeks. Billy didn't want to grow too comfortable. He headed to the bathroom, completed the necessary tasks, and redressed, this time wearing the jock. Back in his room he pulled on white socks and sneakers and headed out for a run. It had been weeks since he'd felt the pounding of pavement under his feet. He’d missed that feeling and with the show now up and running, he decided to resume the routine.
The spring morning air was cool and crisp. Billy focused on his breath as he stretched, using the building as a brace. A young man, obviously a left over from some party the night before, offered a catcall in Billy’s direction. The soft, slurred, whistle caused a smile. The young man didn't stop to talk, but continued his staggered journey along the sidewalk. Billy headed in the opposite direction.
With a slow, easy pace, he traveled the neighborhood streets, keeping his tempo by running in place while waiting for red lights to turn green. He enjoyed the feeling of the cool morning air drying the sweat off his skin. He continued west to the river and then followed the path, which was unobstructed by lights or traffic, down to the old wooden pier. He ran out to the edge, took a brief rest to look at the dirty Hudson River, and turned to run home.
When Billy reached the path again a couple walking a big afghan hound blocked his passage. The woman, her hand covered with a plastic bag and poised, looked a little like a surgeon—washed up, hands in the air, waiting with rubber gloves. "You're him," she shrieked, causing the afghan and the man she was with to turn defensively toward the sweaty jogger.
"Excuse me," Billy said, hoping for either clarity of statement or free passage past.
"The actor from last night. The kid who went on for Arrows. You were wonderful. We were there, fifth row center. Maybe you saw us?"
"Well, I was kinda busy," Billy said. He was excited and embarrassed at the same time.
"Get a pen," she said with a poke to her partner. The dog had finished, leaving a massive pile of shit on the ground.
As the guy searched his knapsack for a pen, the woman bent and picked up the pile. "That's a good girl. Such a lovely morning present for mommy," she cooed to the dog who had moved on toward a pole that smelled intriguing. The retractable leash created a longer and wider barrier for Billy and anyone else who might choose to cross the sidewalk.
The man produced a pen and a folded copy of the 42nd Street Playbill. Billy quickly signed the cover. "Well," Billy said, "thanks for your support, but I've got to keep running." He smiled, stepped over the ever elongating leash, and took off at a rapid pace.
"Thanks!" the woman shouted into his wake.
At the end of his run, Billy stopped into the corner deli. He ordered two bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and two large cups of coffee. As the man behind the counter went to work he said, "Hey kid, heard you had a great show last night."
"Yeah," said Billy. His sweaty body felt chilled. He wanted a hot shower and some food.
"Yeah, he says," said the guy behind the counter to the woman behind the register. "He's a star now, this one, you know?"
"I know. I know. I heard. Make the poor boy his breakfast before he drops of starvation right here in the shop," she said with a playful look in her eyes. "How would that look in the headline news: 'Newest Broadway Star Dies of Hunger at Benny's.'"
The old couple continued their playful banter. Billy leaned on the counter, ignoring them, and waited. He enjoyed the sensations the run were causing in his body.
"Here. Here. Here's you're breakfast kid. No charge, okay. We gotta support our local talent."
"What? Really?" Billy asked.
"Go. We'll see you tomorrow. Bring us a headshot. Autograph it to us. We'll add you to our wall."
Billy followed the man's wrinkled finger and for the first time saw the three faded and stained photos on the wall over the register.
"We could use some fresh stars on that sad wall."
"Ah, I'll do that. Thanks," said Billy as he left the shop. Once home, dripping with sweat, his hunger would have to wait a few more minutes. He headed to his room, set the coffee and sandwiches, along with the newspaper from the stoop, on the nightstand, stripped naked, and, not caring who saw him, headed into the bathroom for a shower.
* * *
Jericho woke to the shower sounds. He remained in bed listening to the water and Billy's soft humming and chatter. He loved hearing the boy prattle to himself in the shower. Sometimes it was just random thoughts. Other mornings, it was dialog from the show, Billy doing all the parts in different voices. Some mornings, especially as the first preview approached, the boy would give himself pep talks. Jericho never mentioned the boy's shower chatter. He didn't want to make Billy feel self-conscious about it. The kid embarrassed so easily.
Jericho's cell phone rang. He picked it up to see "Sara" on the ID. "Hello, doll." Jericho listened. "But— Okay! Okay! Enough. I've got it. The bastard walked out on me. I don't fucking care what it takes, he's done. He's gone. There's a clause in his contract. We can buy him out." Jericho lit a cigarette and listened. "No, I don't want to pay the full buy out, the bastard walked out on me last night. But, we'll make this go away." Jericho listened again, thinking. "Wait, wait. I'm thinking we need to tie this up in court for a while. We'll take advantage of the press. We'll let the world know that Arrows walked out and then after Billy’s success he was jealous and wanted back in. We've got friends on all the papers. Everyone loves Billy." He tapped ash off his cigarette. "I'll be at the theater for rehearsal today. We'll do notes, I'll let everyone else do their things before me, and we can talk in my office." They rang off.
Jericho took a few deep breaths, coughed, put out his cigarette. The shower and chatter had stopped. There was a knock on his door.
"Jericho?" said Billy through the door.
"Come in, kid."
"Is everything okay?" Billy asked, offering Jericho a cup of coffee. "I got breakfast sandwiches, too.
"Wait. I'll meet you in the kitchen," he said, standing up from the edge of the bed. "I need to take a leak."
"Sure," said Billy as he stepped out of the doorway. He watched Jericho pass, amused that the old man had a pretty good-sized morning hard-on.
In robe and slippers, Jericho joined Billy at the kitchen table.
"The old couple at the deli gave me breakfast for free this morning. They asked for a headshot."
"Your life has changed, Billy Boy." Jericho took the lid off the coffee and added two spoons of sugar. As he pulled open the foil of the sandwich the smell of eggs and bacon made him smile in anticipation. "My favorite! You're the best."
The two men ate their food, drank their coffee, and read the Times in silence.
"Jericho?"
"Yeah?"
"Any advice?" Billy didn't raise his head or eyes. He picked absently at a piece of cheese melted to the foil wrapper.
"About?" Jericho looked up from the Times and watched Billy's face.
"Well, this is all so strange and wonderful. I already told you about the deli." Billy looked up. "During my run this morning—"
"You went jogging this morning?"
"Well, yeah. Now that we won't have long rehearsals, I'll start running again. Anyway, I was out there, on the street, and a couple with a huge dog had a copy of their Playbill from last night. They stopped me and asked for my autograph."
"How'd that make you feel?" Jericho asked.
"Well, excited. But, there was something else. It was a strange feeling. Like I was, I don't know, an impostor or…" he looked down and picked some more at the cheese.
"Listen, kid. This may sound, well, condescending, but you've hit it. This is the big time for New York. People love their Broadway here. It's why we all have jobs. They not only love the shows, but they feel like they're invested in the actors. It's like they have partial ownership. You'll have to learn to navigate that." Jericho wanted to hug Billy, or at least place a hand on his, anything to show support. But, he feared if he made any kind move or gesture he wouldn’t be able to control himself and the two would end up naked together. Now that he’d waited so long, Jericho didn’t want their first time together to just end up as a sweaty romp on the kitchen table. He dreamed now of their first time being like a real date, someplace romantic with wine and…
"I just don't want to reach a point where I can't leave the house. But, at the same time, I love the idea of being a Broadway star, you know?"
"I do. Most of the actors I know who've made it big on the stage, they continue to live relatively normal lives. The majority of folks don't take any notice of them on the streets. Or, if they do recognize them, they usually give them some space and respect. There are exceptions to all of this, of course."
Billy looked up at Jericho again. He waited for more. Jericho was silent, watching him. "So, what do I do?"
"Just be yourself, Bill. It's really that simple. You have to live the way you want. If you want to jog every day, then jog every day. You'll occasionally be asked for an autograph. It comes with the territory, with the business."
"Just that simple," Billy said quietly, more to himself than to Jericho. It was the first time anyone had ever called him Bill. He missed the "y." It was like his childhood left when that letter was removed from his name.
* * *
Thirteen
Amy Senteri smiled into the camera from the large stairs leading up to Lowe Library. "At the center of the Columbia University Campus today, more than 100 people, mostly students, staged a Flash Mob Freeze. Unlike the earlier, highly choreographed Flash Mob events by The Great Jericho Taylor at Grand Central Station and the Port Authority, this Mob simply froze in place for a little over one minute." As she spoke, her smiling face was replaced with grainy footage of dozens of statuesque people standing on the same concrete stairs she’d been broadcasting from.
"I have here John Green, a graduate student. John participated in this morning's Flash Mob Freeze. John, why did you take part in this event?"
John smiled into the camera, "A friend asked if I'd like to take part and I did."
"Was there a meaning to today's event? Or, was it just a copycat of the other Mobs we've seen in New York?"
"I don't know that you could call this a copycat event. Our Flash Mob wasn't choreographed like Mr. Taylor's events. No, we just all arrived at the indicated location, which we didn't know about until we got a text message fifteen minutes before 11am. Someone blew a whistle and we all froze, wherever we were. Simple. Fun."
"It seems Jericho Taylor's Flash Mob idea has gone to a new level, a new style. So, keep your eyes open. The next Flash Mob might be next to you. Back to you Sam."
Jericho turned off the little television in the kitchen. "Good for the kids," he said to no one. He thought it was interesting that he now was being credited for the first two Flash Mobs by name. Publicity is always good, he thought. I'll have to be incredibly secretive so that there aren't any leaks before the next one.
Jericho poured himself another cup of coffee, enjoying the quiet of his home. The boy was off at a cleanup dance rehearsal. Jericho liked having Billy there. He liked looking at a handsome man whenever he wanted. He also liked the boy's energy. But, it was nice to have a few quiet moments alone in his home. He lived alone and stayed out of long-term relationships because he liked his space. Yet, here he was, living with a man. It had been nearly two months since he invited the boy to move in. Billy certainly had the money to find his own place by now, especially with the increased salary that the star role brought. Yet, every time the kid brought up looking for a place or moving out, one of them came up with an excuse for Billy to stay. Worst of all, they weren't even having sex, they weren't sharing a bed. They were only playing a sexual-tension game that surely wasn't satisfying to either one of them. And, yet, Jericho stood by his statement that he wouldn't let a romantic relationship begin between them until after the show opened. That date was drawing nearer and nearer with each passing preview.
He glanced at the headlines of the day and shoved the paper aside. Politics and fashion didn't interest him this morning. Jericho stared out the rain streaked window, watching the drops run and pool on their way down the glass. The leaves weren’t budding on the old tree outside the window, its dark branches created a criss-cross behind the lines of streaming water. For some reason, that old tree didn't survive the previous winter. It wasn’t bloomed out now, instead it looked grey and dry. He took a picture of the window and background with his cell phone. He'd be able to use that some day in a stage set. He’d have to call the building super to have it removed before it fell into the building and through one of their windows.
Now what? he wondered. He had time. Sure, there would still be a bit of cleanup here and there, a few ongoing show notes. But, he was nearly, officially between projects. It was months before he'd need to seriously think about staffing and casting his next show, a new script his agent had discovered. Jericho had an idea for a new Flash Mob, but he wanted to give it a little more time before he did another one. He considered reviving the latest from the Port Authority and doing it somewhere else, maybe in New Jersey on the Atlantic City boardwalk, but it seemed a hassle getting forty dancers down there for the day. He sighed, actually allowed the air to audibly escape between his lips.
Thunder sounded; it rattled the window panes. The rainstorm felt like summer was being dragged in from the sea, kicking and screaming. Jericho sipped his coffee and watched his limited view of the storm through the dead tree's branches.
* * *
Billy, the Piano Player, and two other dancers braved the weather to have a cigarette during their break. If you stood in just the right place outside the stage door the rain barely touched you.
"I don't know why you're out here with us," said the male dancer.
"Yeah, you can smoke in your personal dressing room," added the female dancer.
"I like the company," Billy said with a smile. "Not enough to invite you into my room, mind you." He made the joke to cover the fact he really hated being alone in his dressing room.
The four laughed through their cloud of smoke.
"I love the way you took that last spin around the light post, very cool," said the Piano Player.
The company had stopped outwardly making statements about Billy versus Arrows, but the intention was there, even if the words weren't.
Billy blew a column of smoke into the air. "Thanks. It felt good today. I like the little changes we made. I've never done much of this slow motion, 40s style movement. I like it a lot." He did like it. He liked being the only person on stage for those few moments, all the eyes in the theater riveted to him, watching his every move. He could feel their energy; it was different from those high school stage sho
ws. These audiences didn't love him because they knew him; they loved him because of his talent and good looks. He felt a shudder run through him at the knowledge.
"You're good at it. You could do some of this in your one-man show. Simple, clean, elegant," said the Piano Player.
"You're planning a cabaret?" asked the male dancer.
"Very cool," said the female dancer.
"Well, it's nothing yet. I've been thinking about some of my favorite songs. Doing a few little dance routines. You know, simple," said Billy before he lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the previous. The idea of a one-man show both thrilled and terrified him. It had always been a dream. He could see himself, dressed in light colors, the only visible thing on the stage, dancing and singing his favorite songs. Having songwriters bring their newest material to him before anyone else had an opportunity to perform it.
"I've been encouraging him. After all that's happened, there's no reason he shouldn't take advantage of the press and name recognition he's building," said the Piano Player, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. Billy and the Piano Player had been taking about a one-man show, almost from the moment they met smoking on the street in front of the rehearsal hall.
"Oh, it really is a terrific idea," said the female dancer. "You always have the best ideas; I don't know why you're just the accompanist," she said toward the Piano Player. Everyone in the company knew she had a crush on him. She thought if he'd sleep with her, she'd be the one to change him from liking boys to liking girls. Everyone in the company had given up trying to convince her otherwise.
"Just paying my dues, sweetheart," said the Piano Player with a Bogie accent. "It won't be long now. And, if Billy allows me to musical direct his one-man show, I'll be well on my way." He tossed his cigarette butt into the sand-filled can.
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