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As I blinked, I realized I
was standing in front of a
building with a white
patterned concrete screen
featuring geometric
designs that covered the
original brickwork. Above
the double doors, a
cartoon cat wearing a top
hat adorned a checkerboard
mosaic, while the
club's name appeared
in bold letters beside the
entrance, inviting
visitors to step inside
and leave Seattle's
rainy streets behind. It
was Saturday, October 2,
1965, almost 10 p.m., and
I was standing in front of
The Penthouse, about to
experience the most
beautiful night of my life.
But before that, I need to
explain how it all began.
It was a Friday afternoon
in New York in October
2025 when I left the
Strand Book Store in the
East Village after buying
a few books on jazz and
religion. I headed to the
14 St–Union Square
station to catch the L
train to Brooklyn, on my
way home to Williamsburg,
where I lived in a
converted industrial loft
near the Bedford Avenue
station.
On the train, I looked
around at the other
straphangers. Beside me, a
guy was listening to music
on his AirPods. Two young
women were chatting about
when they would see the
special screening of John
Cassavetes's film at
Metrograph. Across from
me, a man was reading The
New York Times on his
tablet. Beside him,
another man was talking on
his cellphone about how
much he had enjoyed dining
at Balthazar after reading
Keith McNally's
incredible and courageous
memoir, I Regret Almost Everything.
Nearby, three young men
wearing Knicks jerseys
were talking about the
great game they would
attend at MSG and showing
their excitement for the
start of the season.
Suddenly, the train came
to a stop, and the
loudspeaker announced that
the trip was over. I felt
frustrated because my
station was still several
stops away, and I was
forced to follow the crowd
out of the subway. Instead
of waiting for another
train, I decided to stay
in Manhattan. When I
reached the street, it was
raining, and everything
seemed strange. It
didn't feel like New
York anymore. Then I
walked along the sidewalk,
blinked in disbelief, and
realized I was standing in
front of a building with a
white patterned concrete
screen featuring geometric
designs that covered the
original brickwork.
Somehow, I found myself in
Seattle without
understanding how I had
gotten there.
Then, I stepped into The
Penthouse just as a jazz
session was about to
begin. I stood near the
stage and soon recognized
the legendary quartet led
by John Coltrane, now
joined by additional horn
players and a second
bassist, preparing their
instruments. A few minutes
later, they began
performing the most
magnificent suite ever
composed, A Love
Supreme,
Trane's prayer of gratitude to God for inspiring him to create such extraordinary music and for His boundless love for all humankind.
It seemed like a
hallucination, but it
wasn't. By some magic,
it was Saturday night,
October 2, 1965, and I was
living the most beautiful
night of my life just
moments after I had died.
END
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