May 15, 1998
The side door hidden from view, disguised as just another part of a New York City façade, crashed open with the weight of our progress as we spilled onto the sidewalk without breaking pace. Startled by our sudden appearance, a group of tourists jumped out of the way and we fell over each other apologizing all the while not losing a step in our rush. We had to make higher ground fast, and there wasn’t a second to spare. We were already late.
Beneath the Brooklyn Bridge we weaved through hoards of tourists, all seemingly headed somewhere while looking lost at the same time. Some were moving with us, and others moved toward us. Most were standing motionless looking up and around them. Waiting. Wondering, like we were, what exactly was about to happen.
“What’s the plan?” Scott asked as we pushed on at a dizzying clip.
I pointed ahead to a cross bridge hanging above us. “That’s the plan,” I said, already short of breath. “We need to get higher and that’s our best shot. There’s a stairway just ahead at the end of the bridge.”
We took the stairs two at a time until we reached the main platform. Heading to our right we found ample space for both of us to stand against the footpath’s railing. We peered breathless into the lights of the night and didn’t say a word until they started to disappear. I looked at my watch. Thank God they were a few minutes late or we wouldn’t have had such a perfect view.
It started with the cars. They stopped where they stood and turned their lights off. Then slowly, the main event began. Signs, street lamps, billboards, and in many cases entire buildings as far as the eye could see started to disengage one by one like closing time in the desert, until we were left in shadows and poised in silence thirty feet above the street.
“How long will it last?” Scott asked quietly.
“One minute,” I whispered back.
At that time, it had only been done once prior – the assassination of John F. Kennedy.
The stillness was remarkable. Not since it lay dormant in a blistering bowl of dust had Las Vegas witnessed such a calming display. And then a faint intrusion came, seeping through the air from every direction. Sweet songs, barely audible, danced along like fairy dust in the desert winds. The collection bellowed from hotel speakers, car radios, and the guttural explosions of fans normally too shy for the attempt. What started as a whisper became a chorus, each selection a favorite.
We stood there silent, Scott and I, suspended between NYNY and MGM casinos, high above Las Vegas Boulevard on the night the desert said goodbye to Frank Sinatra. The weight of the moment swept over me, and I was hooked.