Page 68 of Never Forget

The city greets us all at once as we step out onto the sidewalk. Horns blare, music plays, people call out and try to draw attention to various events, sales, and rants. Thousands of conversations blend into a constant hum that bounces off every glass building around us. As much time as I’ve spent in New York and large cities around the world, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite this aware of how many people can occupy the same block at the same time.

I keep one hand laced with Naz’s as we move with the crowd, my eyes constantly shifting from face to face, tracing over every window, corner, and kiosk on the street. Every person lingering too long catches my attention. Every parked vehicle looks suspicious. Every camera or phone is another possibility that someone could be filming us.

Noticing a crowd gathered around a group of street performers, I figure that’s as good a place as any to blend in while waiting for the next instruction. After all, Times Square is one of the few places in the world where two people can disappear simply by standing still.

“What are we doing?” Naz asks quietly beside me.

“Waiting.”

He studies me, but doesn’t push. I continue scanning the crowd, trying not to be too obvious. If someone is watching us, the last thing I want is for them to realize I’ve noticed.

Meanwhile, I pretend to watch the street performers. Music from half a dozen plastic buckets, battered metal trash cans, and an array of pots and pans lined up in the middle of the sidewalk provide the soundtrack to this chaos. The performers move with effortless rhythm, doing flips and stunts, spinning drumsticks between their fingers before bringing them crashing down. The beat is infectious, drawing cheers and applause from the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder around them. It’s the kind of performance that demands attention whether you want to give it or not.

“Um, excuse me,” a woman says next to me, looking up at me with curious eyes. “Are you… Oh my God, you’re him, aren’t you?”

She nudges the guy next to her. “Chad, look! It’s⁠—”

“Holy shit, he looks like that bodyguard.”

Several people are now turning towards me rather than watching the entertaining show right in front of them. The woman squints, then her eyes shift next to me. To Naz. Her eyes widen comically, and she brings a hand to her mouth.

She gasps. “Oh my God! And they’re together,” she adds, like it’s something to fawn about.

“Ma’am, please. We’re just here to watch the show. Just like everyone else…”

But it’s too late. Phones come out, fingers are pointed, murmurs get louder as the circle starts to form around us instead of the actual performance.

“That’s fucking Naz Lester!”

“No way!”

“Seriously, the Naz Lester?”

“We love you Naz!”

“LIM is my favorite band! You guys rock!”

The music falters for all of half a beat as one of the performers looks over, eyes widening in recognition.

“Yo! Tell me that’s actually Naz!” he calls out to the people between us. A path opens for the performer to get a good enough view.

“Oh shit!”

Naz smiles, the brim of my ball cap still low over his eyes, and lifts his hand in a short, casual acknowledgement.

The performer twirls a pair of drumsticks between his fingers before pointing them at Naz. “You wanna play?”

The crowd erupts.

I expect Naz to wave him off, but then I see the twitch in his fingers, the way he bites his lip like he’s giving it serious consideration.

“Come on, man!”

All the performers are noticing what the excitement is about, shouting and clapping to get the crowd chanting Naz! Naz! Naz!

A drumstick flies through the air straight at Naz, followed by a second. He catches them cleanly. The moment the wood settles into his hands, something in him visibly changes. It’s like he comes alive.

Giving me a one-shouldered shrug, he takes off the hat to thunderous applause, winks at me, then runs into the circle, fingers twirling the drumsticks so fast they’re hard to see.