I’d started shooting even as I stood in line to vote at 6am. Later in the day, my editor at Bloomberg News called and assigned me to shoot a Young Republicans party at 7pm, a Young Democrats party at 8:30, and file my pictures by 11. The Young Republicans party was predictably dour and square and the Young Democrats event was not surprisingly raucous and hip. After shooting both, I dashed to a Starbucks at 49th and Broadway and filed my images.

I walked out of the coffee shop and onto the streets just north of Times Square as the clock struck midnight. Times Square was packed beyond the point of entry. So I turned east on 47th St, hoping to walk across to a less crowded avenue and catch a southbound cab back to Gramercy. It had been a long day.

As I walked down the street, I saw small crowds gathering around cars standing still in traffic. The car owners had their windows and sun roofs open and were blasting Obama’s acceptance speech. Barack’s voice, projected from so many car stereos, echoed off the office buildings. I stopped alongside a silver BMW owned by a black couple who were smiling as they listened.

A homeless black man approached the front of the car, lay an American flag down in the middle of the street, knelt and began kissing it, tears streaming down his face. The man was visibly drunk, and as irritated horns from cars waiting behind the BMW grew to a crescendo, a young Latino man emerged from the crowd and shouted, “Respect this man! He has waited a long time for this!” The couple in the BMW waited patiently.

Most photographers would criticize me for this, but I didn’t shoot a single frame of that scene. I made a conscious decision to be fully present and soak in the moment for myself.

After continuing east, I hailed a cab on Sixth Avenue. I implored the cabbie to turn up the radio as soon as I got in. Obama’s speech was ending. The cabbie and I traded “Amen!” and “That’s Right!” from the back seat to the front as President (elect) Barack addressed the nation.

When the speech ended, I asked the cabbie his name. “Mamadou”. Mamadou was born in Guinea. I pointed out at some point during the ride that Mamadou had forgotten to start the meter. He informed me that I would not be paying the fare. “I even just took a man to New Jersey and didn’t let him pay either. This is the greatest country on earth that you could elect a black man president! You know, a president never make me cry before in my life. It is my honor to drive you Americans tonight.”

The windows down, Mamadou and I rode on in quiet with satisfied grins as the radio reported a major celebration underway in Harlem.

Copyright Last Exit 2008