Dance Battle Heist
A super short story
[A big thanks to Andrea Hoffmann for playing along and providing the 3 magical suggestion that fueled this story: Time Square, Bubble Tea, and Parachute Pants]
Nobody goes to Times Square for no reason.
They go for spectacle. Screens the size of barns trying to sell watches that cost more than a decent pickup truck. Cartoon mascots sweating inside foam heads. Street preachers shouting about salvation over the honk of taxis and the steady churn of humanity moving nowhere in particular.
It’s the sort of place where a man can stand in the middle of the crowd and no one will notice him at all.
Which was useful for Calvin Rook.
At the moment he was focused on a cup of bubble tea the size of a flower vase with straw thick enough to siphon gasoline. Calvin waited a beat then took a cautious sip.
An army of tapioca pearls rocketed up the tube.
He coughed hard enough that a nearby Spider-Man paused mid-photo to check over at him.
Calvin raised a hand. “I’m good.”
Spider-Man nodded slowly as not fully believing him.
Calvin drifted over to a hot dog cart and leaned against the rail. Above him, a billboard flashed bright enough to tan livestock.
Next to the cart stood a woman scrolling her phone. Dark jacket. Calm posture. Beautiful features. The sort of person who blends into crowds the way a coin disappears into a couch cushion.
“You Calvin?” she said without looking up.
“Depends,” he said. “You selling gym memberships?”
She glanced at him and smiled slightly.
“No memberships.”
“Good,” Calvin said. “I’m not a gym guy.”
The vendor turned a hot dog on the grill. Steam curled into the air.
“You bring it?” the woman asked quietly.
Calvin slipped a hand into his pocket.
The fabric answered first.
A faint swish, like a cheap windbreaker catching a breeze.
Her eyes dropped.
“Parachute pants?”
Calvin looked down at the silver fabric.
“Vintage shop,” he said. “12 bucks.”
“And you’re carrying sensitive financial records in those?”
He pulled out a small flash drive.
Calvin shrugged.
“My thinking is this,” he said. “Nobody searches the guy who looks like he’s late for a 1988 dance battle.”
She stared at him for a moment.
Then she smiled. The kind of smile that could be confused with flirty. Maybe. Calvin was handsome enough. Maybe.
Just then a street preacher walked past dragging a portable speaker and shouting, “Repent now! The end is near!”
Calvin watched him go.
“See?” he said. “This place has bigger problems than my pants.”
Finally she took the drive.
The hot dog vendor wrapped a fresh dog in foil and handed it to her.
Without ceremony, she passed it to Calvin.
“Payment,” she said.
Calvin accepted it with a hungry grab.
He reached into another pocket.
More swish.
Out came a mustard packet.
The woman watched this unfold.
“Who are you?” she said.
Calvin tore the packet with his teeth and squeezed mustard across the dog.
He winked back at her with a full mouth smile.
The woman shook her head and smiled, rolling her eyes.
Times Square kept doing what Times Square does best. Flashing lights. Burning electricity. Selling dreams and cheap souvenirs to jet-lagged tourists while the smell of grilled onions drifted through the cold night air.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, a billion dollar heist wrapped up beside a hot dog cart.
Poof! Just like that— a cool scene that leaves me wanting more.