It was supposed to be the first in ten thousand years.

I heard whispers about it in the streets. I passed by little groups of schoolgirls, murmuring as if intrigued, but low enough so that their parents wouldn’t hear. I passed some older men nodding to one another worriedly. I passed teenagers who kissed each other in back alleyways, and whispered it into each other’s lips.

Everyone knew it was coming. You had to be living under a rock to not know it was coming. It was the first in ten thousand years, you know. But of course, some people still called it malarkey, even after the scientists told us. You know how people are.

The day of the event, I had my camera in my hands like always. I had my felt derby hat on my head, tilted slightly to the left, just how I liked it, and my freshly pressed tweed suit. I sauntered happily through the streets with a pep in my step.

This was gonna be my lucky break.

Unsurprisingly, I got a lot of scandalized looks. Women in long gowns with their parasols turned away from me, shielding their children, and men with long mustaches furrowed their brows. How dare I look happy today?

“It’s all a bunch a’ hooey,” I heard one man say as I stepped into the restaurant, Louis’s, on 45th. He was seated at the bar, and holding a newspaper with the words THE FIRST IN TEN-THOUSAND YEARS printed in bold across the front. “It’s just all the scientists tryin’ to give us something to talk about. No biggie. The news’s been so damn dull; they probably just want somethin’ folks are gonna get jazzed about.”

I slid into the seat next to him and ordered a drink.

The barman nodded and took out a glass.

“You, boy,” the man said to me. “Do you believe in all this hooey?” He pointed at the headline.

“‘Course I do,” I said. I tapped my camera. “I’m planning to photograph it.”

The man scoffed and slapped his paper on the counter. “All hooey, I say. Bet any money this whole sham was made up by some bozo so canned one night he couldn’t tell right from left!”

At this point the barman finished preparing my drink. I nodded to him as a thanks, then took a sip.

“But you plan to photograph it?” the man asked after a minute. “Even though it’s all hooey?”

“Yessir. From the top of St. Barnabas’s,” I said. St. Barnabas’s was an old rinky-dink church perched high on the outskirts of the city. While no folks really used it anymore, it gave a sweeping view of the landscape, the sky, and the horizon beyond, perfect for taking a photograph.

The man scoffed again. “Like I said, it’s just somethin’ for the public to get jazzed about.”

“So you’re not gonna hide?”

“No, boy. I’m gonna go take my daughter out to a nice nickelodeon. She’s been wantin’ to go for ages, ya see.”

“I see,” I said. I sipped my drink. It tasted sharp, and I winced as the firey liquid burned its way down my throat.

“I’ll look for ya’ at the top of St. Barnabus’s though. The nickelodeon’s right near it,” the man said, not noticing my distasteful expression. “What’s your name anyway, boy?”

“Weston,” I told him. “James Weston.”

“Hmm, Weston… don’t recognize it.”

“I’m an amateur photographer, sir. I’m just starting out. That’s why it’s so critical I capture this.” I tapped on his newspaper headline. “I haven’t gotten my lucky break yet. But maybe this’ll give it to me.”

The man snorted. “This hooey’s gonna be your lucky break? I don’t think so, boy. What I do think is you could use is a connection to a big-shot photographer.”

I took a gander at him. “What’re you saying?”

“I’m sayin I might know a guy.”

I paused. “You’re kidding me.”

“‘Course I’m not. I’d never kid a soul. Come on, Weston— we can see him now. He’s in his office on 52nd street working the midday shift. He won’t mind if we stop by.” He flipped a coin skillfully between his thumb and forefinger before passing it to the barman, then ambled to his feet and began to leave.

Halfway to the door, he glanced back. “You comin’ or not, boy?”

Against my better judgment, I was.