Many years ago, when I was a shift supervisor at a manufacturing company, a group of us headed to the local watering hole for an after-the-work-week drink. We were assigned to evening shift, so we got to the bar around twelve-thirty in the morning, which feels just like five-thirty in the afternoon to anyone on nights. And, like the song says, “It’s five o’clock somewhere” so why not partake?
The bar was packed with the typical Friday night crowd and the din of a hundred different but simultaneous conversations flooded the place. It was so loud, my colleagues and I strained to hear our own conversation. The juke box was playing something, but who could hear over all that noise?
Until Frank Sinatra’s version of “New York, New York” hit the airwaves. This all occurred in Connecticut, which is close to New York, and a small enough state to be considered a New York suburb. Whatever the alliance, a few people started to sing along. Then a few more, and then, more still. All conversations ceased and soon the whole bar was singing along to every verse of “New York, New York” including my friends, and even me. We were all especially vigorous on the chorus. Or maybe it just seemed that way because, even if you don’t know the rest of words, anybody can belt out the name of the song.
No matter what our backgrounds, no matter what our cares, our worries, our own individual triumphs or failures, for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds we were simply one very loud voice in that bar that night. Singing along with Old Blue Eyes just as if we were the best of friends.
Once the song ended, the cacophony started in again as if nothing had happened. Now I know that what went on in the bar that night was no different than what occurs in countless other places all across the world on any given night. We start out as individuals, find some common thread to unite us, then promptly forget all about it.