Flash Mob Read online

  * * *

  Utensils clinked on plain white china in the Upper East Side eatery as two very tall, very thin women played with their salads and drank water with lemon wedges from stemmed goblets.

  "Can you keep a secret?" The tall Redhead asked the tall Blonde.

  "You know I can't," said the Blonde.

  The two played with their food for another moment, pushing olives and tomatoes to the side, focusing on the lettuce, but not actually eating anything.

  "I have to tell someone," said the Redhead. She looked her companion square in the eye. "Did you hear about those dancers at Grand Central this morning?"

  "Sure. Who hasn't?" asked the Blonde. "The video is everywhere. Elliot, the hairdresser on the Sony shoot, you know, that skinny little queen with the cool glasses? He had it running in a loop on his laptop."

  The Redhead beamed. She felt ready to burst. Gently, she placed her fork on the side of her plate, straightened to her full, sitting height: "I was the second one in. I was the woman in the suit who joined that first guy." She dropped her head a little. "We're not supposed to talk about it, but I just can't help myself."

  The Blonde, who never showed any interest in anything, leaned in toward her meal companion, "That was you?" Her eyes grew wide. "That's so cool."

  The two model-slash-dancer-slash-actresses giggled together, their heads nearly touching over their deconstructed, uneaten salads.

  A waiter with attitude approached. He felt superior to all the out-of-work actors he worked with. He knew he'd have an agent any day now. "Is everything okay, ladies?"

  "Fine. Fine." They said in rushed unison and a flip of their supple wrists and long-fingered hands.

  The waiter wanted to slap the bitches, but knew he couldn't. Order a house salad they wouldn't even eat, talk for two hours, and leave him a crappy tip. That's how all these beauties operated.

  "How did it work?" The Blonde asked after the rude waiter left them alone to again push wilting food around on their plates.

  "We all met through friends of friends. You know how this city works. It was Sara who got me in."

  "Elliot’s fat assistant girl?"

  "Don't be so hard on her. I got to know her during rehearsals for this thing and she's really a nice girl. Not someone I'd want to go clubbing with, but certainly someone you could ask to pick up your dry cleaning during a shoot or feed your cat while you're out of town. You know? And, Elliot always makes me look so good for those Temptress print ads, I'd hat to piss her off and lose my spot on his list."

  "We both looked fabulous in the last one," said the Blonde. "Tell me more." She kept to herself her hurt over not being asked. After all, she’s the one who got the Redhead onto Elliot’s list of regular models in the first place.

  "We all met about three weeks ago in this rehearsal space on the lower eastside. The director guy was weird. His name was Jericho and he had this tall boy trailing after him everywhere. Neither one were handsome in my opinion," said the Redhead.

  "Jericho? Do you mean The Great Jericho Taylor? You worked with him? I've been trying for two years to get a call back for one of his shows. I'm always cut in the first round. You worked with him?"

  The Redhead looked around the tables, hoping the director wasn't sitting nearby. This restaurant, Tellers, was the trendiest place on the East Side at the moment. She was always at the trendiest places and she hated burning any bridges with her big mouth. She didn't see him and felt relief.

  "I still don't know how he got all those people to do what he wanted," said the Blonde, her eyes still wide and inquisitive.

  "I told you," said the Redhead, flustered, "it was all this friend of a friend thing. I don't know how it worked, but I do know that Sara brought in four people. I was one of them. I didn't know the others, but at least one of them worked that Central Park shoot where we stood in the reflecting pool all day. Anyway, we learned the line dance part first. That was easy for most of us, although one guy just couldn't get it." She looked around again. "I really want to smoke. Can we get out of here?" she asked.

  "Tell the rest of the story. I'll listen and get the asshole waiter's attention."

  "Okay, so then at the second rehearsal, we coupled up. The director guy, Jericho, lined us up, matched us by height, and then taught us the waltz part. I did have a little trouble with that because the cute guy I was dancing with kept hitting on me. I fucked him in the men's room during a break. Then he was fine and we learned the dance."

  "You fucked him?" the Blonde whispered as the waiter placed the check on the table. To break the awkward moment, both women pulled out credit cards.

  "Can you split the check?" the Blonde asked. He grumbled under his breath as he took the cards and check away. Again she whispered, "You fucked him? What was his name?"

  "Tom? Aaron? Tony? Shit, I can't remember. It doesn't really matter. Nothing memorable, if you know what I mean?" The Redhead's eyes sparkled as she feigned ignorance. She'd be seeing Tony later that night for hopefully a not-so-quick roll in the hay.

  "Such a glamorous life you lead," said the Blonde.

  "Take it where you can get it, that's my motto," said the Redhead. "Anyway, the last two rehearsals were long and ran the routine over and over for several hours. That director guy worked the shit out of all of us. I've never looked so bad in my entire life. I sweat so much all my makeup was gone. Oh, and the smell of the rehearsal studio…" The Redhead shuddered.

  Check paid, out on the street, the Redhead lit a cigarette and blew the smoke into the air. Her lips left a perfect circle of red on the butt end.

  "Listen, if another one of these things come up you've got to get me in. I really want Taylor to see me dance, okay?" The Blonde didn’t like to beg for anything, especially from another woman. But, she wanted to be on stage. That’s why she’d come to New York from Kansas three years ago. Now, instead, she was a day shoot whore. Sure, the money was great, but it’s not what she wanted.

  "If I can, I will," said the Redhead. Her mind had already wandered off to her date with Tony.

  The two models exchanged fake kisses and headed in opposite directions on Lexington Ave.

  * * *

  Tamara burst into the Queens apartment like she always did, dumping her backpack and coat in a heap on the side table. The young girl bound into the small kitchen, breathing in the deep aroma of cooking cabbage. Her mother stirred the contents of a large pot; the escaped steam circled her head. Tamara insisted that was why her old mother had the complexion of a twenty-year old—forty years of cabbage steam.

  "How did it go, dear?" Tamara's soft-faced mother asked.

  "Oh, mom, it was incredible. Here, come here and see it," she said, taking her mother’s hand, pulling her away from the cooking dinner. "It's already up on line. All the kids at school were talking about it, showing it to each other. It killed me not be able to say anything to them. But, I promised."

  "You told me," her mother said, a look of fear in her eyes. "You weren't supposed to tell anyone?"

  "How could I not tell you, Mommy?" Tamara said with a smile. She hit the start button on the computer in the living room and then hugged her mother close. With a few quick clicks Tamara pulled up the video. "Here, Mommy, sit."

  Tamara's mother tugged her apron high and sat. The video started. The old woman wiped small tears away from the corner of her eyes. "Tammy, that's remarkable. What all those people must have thought. Here they are, waiting for a train and boom, there you all are dancing away." The video ended and Tamara's mother clapped her hands together silently. "Play it again, can you?" Together, the two generations watched the Flash Mob emerge from the Grand Central Station crowd, perform, and then just as quickly disappear. "Wonderful!" she exclaimed.

  * * *

  Jericho took a sip of the draft beer in front of him at the small table. He liked Thom's new club, Star Bar. His best friend had done well, moving up from bar tender to bar owner in a few short years. Jericho always insisted on paying full price for
his drinks. He wanted to do all he could to support his friend's endeavor.

  Thom came over to Jericho's table and sat down. "You're a sensation, my friend," he said wiping up a wet spot on the table with a bevnap.

  "Quite amazing," said Jericho. He looked around at the small bar filled with patrons. "You're doing well for a Tuesday night."

  "Theater crowd," said Thom, nonplussed. "The place will be empty in ten minutes and fill up again after the shows let out." Thom's eyes were constantly moving, watching patrons come and go, watching the waiter make his rounds to the tables, watching the bartender pour and ring up drinks. "Back in a minute," he said, not looking at Jericho, who took another sip of beer.

  In the din of the bar, Jericho thought about all that had happened that day. He'd been successful at pulling off something new in New York City. Not an easy task. He already had an idea for another Flash Mob and as he drank he worked out a few details in his ever present leather journal. Jericho loved technology, but resisted the trend to get a Blackberry or smart phone to take notes in. He liked the feeling of pen on paper. He liked being able to sketch and doodle as ideas came to him. The young people could have their thumb pounding ways; Jericho Taylor liked his old-fashioned way of doing things. Lost in thought, he felt a hand slap his back in a friendly, gentle motion.

  "We did good," a soft female voice said in his ear.

  Jericho turned to find a short, stout, yet handsome woman standing next to him. "Sara," he said. His translucent blue eyes lit up and sparkled as he stood and hugged the woman. "You did good. I couldn't have pulled this off if it hadn't been for you." He sat back. "Sit with me."

  Sara hoisted her small frame onto the high chair; Jericho steadied it as she lifted and shifted into a comfortable place. Her ass spilled off the seat; her feet dangled. "I hate these high chairs. I wish you knew someone who could do something about them," she said with a wink.

  Jericho motioned to the waiter. "What'll you have?" he asked Sara.

  "Draft is fine by me," she said, still adjusting on the chair.

  "Two drafts. And, some popcorn," said Jericho as the waiter nodded and disappeared.

  "New York 1," Sara said with a smile. "They're playing the story over and over. I was shocked to hear your voice on one of the reports. And, they're running the video you posted online."

  "Amy called and I decided to be honest. I've got too much riding in this town to piss off the major local news channel. I have to admit I was disappointed we didn't get one of the big reporters. We got that new girl," Jericho said with a huff in his voice.

  "Jericho, it doesn't matter which reporter you got. They're giving you major air time. Every fifteen or twenty minutes there's some update. They've been searching out the dancers and none of them are talking. Just like you asked. You're the only voice on this event."

  The waiter brought their drinks and a small bowl of popcorn. They sipped and snacked.

  "Sara, I have a proposition for you," Jericho said with a smile.

  "What you got, stud?" she said. "Before you speak, keep in mind that I don't have sex with gay men, as much as you all want this hourglass, out-of-control figure of mine." Sara beamed as she spoke, running her hands down her curved sides and back up to accentuate her chest, making a pouty model face. Sara, with her short stature, big body, and square haircut was frequently mistaken for a young boy. She was carded almost everywhere she ordered a drink. She compensated by copping an attitude and having a mouth like a longshoreman.

  Jericho laughed. "I want to hire you to be my assistant. I'll give you twenty-five percent more than that picture taker you're working for now." He watched her eyes grow wide.

  "Really, Jericho? You mean it? This isn't just another pipe dream and I'll be out on my ass in a month?"

  "I mean it. I want to put together another Flash Mob. Huge. Plus, I'm about to begin directing 42nd Street. We go into rehearsals in a few days. I can't keep my life in order without help."

  Sara fumbled through her oversized purse, fished out a cell phone with a bedazzled cover. "You mean it, right?" Sara asked as she flipped open the phone and dialed. Jericho nodded his head up and down. "Hi, this is Sara." She paused and listened. Jericho could hear shouting coming out of the phone. "Love ya. Mean it. I quit," she shouted into the device over the assault coming at her." Sara hit a few buttons and dropped the phone back into her bag. "No turning back now, stud. I've just quit my job."

  Jericho raised his beer mug. Sara followed his lead. They clinked glasses and smiled at each other over their now combined future.

  "When's payday?" Sara asked before taking a sip of her drink.

  * * *

  Aamil sat on the edge of his bed and ate a falafel from the shop around the corner. He tuned in to New York 1 News; along with the vast majority of New Yorkers, he watched the latest Flash Mob update.

  "This is Amy Senteri with a Flash Mob exclusive." The viral video played on the screen. "The artist responsible for today's phenomenon," she continued over the video, "is New York City's celebrated theater director and choreographer, The Great Jericho Taylor. I spoke with Mr. Taylor by phone this afternoon. The artist said he wanted to give a gift to the city. He wanted people to feel there were fun and safe experiences in large public places."

  Aamil clicked off the television and looked over at his workbench. He held out a hand in front of himself, palm down toward the floor. No shake. That's how he judged all his actions. If his hands didn't shake he knew he was doing the right thing, the correct thing.

  The small clock struck the hour. Aamil rolled out his mat toward Mecca, dropped to his knees, and, speaking softly under his breath, began the last prayers of the evening.

  Three

  The rehearsal space was quiet and empty. Jericho moved to the left, raised his right arm, lowered that arm, lifted his left, and dropped it to his side. He shook his head in the mirror before moving back to the center of the room. He wanted to smoke. In the "old days" he smoked during these private choreography sessions. Those days were over. No one was allowed to smoke anywhere in New York City accept on the cold street or in their homes. It didn't really matter anyway; he'd given up the habit years ago. But, in these moments, when the flow of movement wasn't coming, he missed the action of pulling a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket, lighting it with the flick of a wrist, clicking closed the Zippo, and smoking. Those few moments gave him permission to step away and think without looking lost.

  Jericho popped his head up, his serious reflection altered into a smile. He lowered his head into a Fosse pose, not needing to see what that looked like. That's a move he wouldn't be using in the revival of 42nd Street. Yet, it gave him comfort. He thought back to his days as a chorus boy working for Fosse. What a terror. Yet, the results were fantastic. Bob had such a strong style. Everyone knew Fosse’s look.

  The same couldn’t be said for Jericho. Now, he was a great choreographer. Jericho knew he'd become The Great, only because Bob had died of AIDS in the prime of his career. His own style wasn’t all that recognizable. Yet, he could assemble a full company on stage in a way that brought chills to audiences. He’d never tried to figure out the how or why of it. All Jericho knew was that he staged shows very well.

  Jericho looked up again, his thoughts shifting to the negative. He feared he couldn't do it. He believed for a moment that he was a fake. Here, alone in the rehearsal space, a room with wooden floors, large mirrors, and the hanging stench of human bodies at work, all his fears came to the surface. He knew in that moment that he was nothing more than a hack, a wannabe. He’d simply been lucky, being in the right place at the right time. He had producers who liked him and used him over and over to turn shows they’d chosen into hits. Jericho never fought them. He never put his own casting desires over those of the producers. And, they’d all made a lot of money together over the years.

  He peered deeper into the mirror and could see himself again during those rehearsals when he was a member of the company, just a chorus b
oy. Thin, trim, sweat drenched. Cute boys and beautiful girls surrounded him. All of them, every last one of them, looking their worst from hours of dancing, their hair plastered to sweat drenched heads, as they waited for the director, or choreographer, or stage manager, or company manager, or any one else to offer some direction, some hope. There they stood; waited, getting nothing in return for their time and sweat but the discouraged looks of those in charge. No clue how they'd get from that moment of fear and despair to opening night in a few weeks time. And, yet, every time, without fail, every show, without fail, came together in the end—the lost, hurtful, broken-hearted rehearsal room moments forgotten. The desire for approval coming not from the director, but from thousands and thousands of audience members who would laugh and applaud after purchasing tickets eight shows a week.

  Jericho walked to the boom box, turned the CD on, and returned to the middle of the room. As the "Shadow Waltz" played, he moved left and right, raised his arms, turned his head. He envisioned the girls one-by-one moving into position behind the skrim and casting larger-than-life shadows. The moves would create a core, a foundation, a place to start while he actually figured out what he'd do with the chorus girls. Jericho made a few notes on the battered yellow pad, added a few more arrows to the character chart. His cell phone rang.

  "What," he answered, hitting the off button on the CD player. He didn't feel friendly. "Sorry, I'm at the rehearsal space…no, just be here at six tomorrow morning. Bring bagels and coffee." He listened to Sara, not hearing her. They rang off.

  Jericho hit the forward button on the CD player and then play for the Russian Tea Room tap intro. He hit repeat. The music played over and over as Jericho walked the room. It wasn't really pacing. Instead he took in the feeling of the space, the energy and the history of the room. He did a few tap moves. He could see the line of five women dancers doing the traditional routine called for in the script. Jericho wanted something different, something fresher.