It's election night outside the Brendan Behan Pub, Jamaica Plain, Boston. The writer after whom the bar is named once said that an author’s first duty is to let down his country. But tonight it seems Americans haven't left anybody down. We've just elected Barack Obama President – so you'll forgive us if we're feeling pretty good about ourselves.

We're certainly in the mood to party. People are driving up and down, leaning out of jalopies, tricked-out SUVs and station wagons. Everyone is bellowing like a bunch of fratboys. We're positively giddy with joy.
This is the end of the long night of the soul that, depending on who you listen to, either started with 9/11, or with the straw that broke democracy’s back in November 2000: the election stolen by George W.
“What happened today was unprecedented,” says Jeila, a transplant from Florida, “I was always too cynical to imagine something like this actually coming to pass, and it did.”
Someone shouts, “Barackstar!” A group of dreadlocked trustafarians take mayonnaise tubs into the little roundabout in the middle of Centre Street and set up a drum circle: thump-dadada-thump, woo hoo! I decide that because of what we did on this day, in this election, I won’t pour hate on the hippies.
“I think he’s the John Kennedy of this generation,” says Bernie, originally from Roscommon and a US citizen since 2006. This is the first election she’s been able to vote in. “I’m so honoured and so happy. I worked here four years ago when John Kerry lost, and it was the most depressing place on earth. It’s amazing to be back here tonight for this.”
Two guys with dogs on ropes sit on the stoop between the Behan and Fat Ram’s tattoo shop, and plot how they might smuggle their dogs in, or some beers out. Barack Obama has just told his daughters they’re getting a puppy, so passers-by stop to greet the dogs – “Barack Obama dogs!” – then do high fives or fist bumps.
A lady comes out of her house, stern-faced. “Do you mind!? I have to go to work in the morning!”
“But lady!” One of the dog guys pauses to throw his hands up, “Barack Obama!” 
“I don’t care!”
“You should!” from another corner. She hates our joy.
Then there is Chico, tricked out in ‘Nam Vet Chic, who brought his own chair and who tells me a long story about being busted by the cops for paddling an air mattress on the Charles River on the Fourth of July. He seems more excited about his costume than about the election. 
“I put the Tae Kwon Do armour on because, if things go badly and someone punches me, I’ll be okay. Or if things go well and someone gets so excited that they punch me, I’ll still be okay.”
I miss a bit of the story, and he disappears briefly, before returning with a jackhammer. As sits down again the cops arrive to disband the drum circle. Guess our brief moment of national harmony kinda fucks with the system.
But things are good for Chico. “I’ve had to ask people to punch me.”
It was that kind of night.