GRATING SPACE

We sat on a bench along the bike path that overlooks Lake Michigan finishing a pint of bourbon before we rode the final stretch down to Grant Park. I was in the middle, between my friends Tom and Beth, my arms sprawled across the top of the back rest in both directions. The last we knew, Obama was up in the polls substantially but McCain had just won Texas’ 34 electoral votes.

I had sent a text message that morning to all my friends in swing states that said, “I have tickets to see Obama in Grant Park tonight. Please help make sure I don’t attend a mass suicide.”

We immersed ourselves into the throng along Congress Parkway in downtown Chicago. We stopped to dance next to people beating on buckets, but otherwise walked with the flow of tens of thousands across the bridge that spans the train tracks toward the entrance gates. We entered the park and realized we were headed into the non-ticket area, so we turned to walk back to the street.

I have video of this stretch of our night. It’s what you’d imagine — a view from the eye of a camera held in a shaky hand that shows men and women in suits and hoodies and gala dresses and afros and finger waves and wing tips and combat boots and Barack Obama paraphernalia of every variety, almost all smiles and songs in the unseasonably warm November night.

As we approached the corner around which we would find the entrance for those of us fortunate enough to have obtained tickets, we could hear John McCain’s voice on the loudspeakers positioned at the south end of the park. We could not make out what he was saying. Near a barricade several people wearing yellow security jackets were huddled together along with a handful of random others. One security agent was holding a tiny portable television, like the one Bart used to appease a murderous Homer at the end of The Simpsons Halloween parody of The Shining. We asked what was happening.

“McCain’s giving his concession speech.”

A feeling of surreal elation welled up in me that has yet to completely subside four days later. The three of us scrambled through the crowd, stating to many whom we passed, in a manner that seemed like we were trying out the phrase in our mouths to see how it felt, that McCain had conceded. Obama had won.

True to the form of people like ourselves who have attended event after ticketed event as a regular part of our young lives, we cut in the enormous line to enter Grant Park about 200 people from the back. It was moving quickly anyway — word had spread that a victory speech was imminent — and the virtue of polite patience does not often cross the minds of those who have just had a spotlight eradicate the dark vision of the future of American politics they had held for their entire adult lives.

I had a ticket that admitted me and one guest. I had heard there would be metal detectors, had been instructed not to bring bags or bottles, but when the three of us reached the point at which police were taking tickets we walked in easily, noting the squad of mounted CPD officers whose eyes, through plexiglas riot helmet visors, all said, “We’ll let you in without hassle, but you know what will happen if you get out of hand.”

We danced some more inside. It bummed some people out. Obama gave his speech. You know all about that. My cell phone exploded with calls from friends and family across the country.

“Are you there? What’s it like?”

“I can’t talk now. It’s beautiful.”

Today on an NPR segment the host had gathered sound bytes from people who were asked what song the election’s outcome made them think of. It will be made into a mix and sold on the Weekend America website. If I was asked to add a track, it would be “This Magic Moment” — the Lou Reed version that plays on Lost Highway when Balthazar Getty first sees Patricia Arquette in the mechanic garage. It was that cinematic. Looking back, I can picture all of us bunched together around that tiny television with McCain’s face in staticky black and white, then the camera pans outward and around in a spiral, up into the sky as if lifted by a fast-moving crane, so we can see the mass of celebrators, the jumbotrons, the cordoned-off downtown avenues, the Chicago skyline, the Secret Service helicopters, and finally the empty black of the lake reflecting the blinking lights on the top of the Sears Tower, and a smattering of stars shining through the smog and whatever clouds remained in the mostly clear night, hanging there like cotton.