I always get a rush riding the escalator up from the parking garage and into Midtown Plaza. There's this rising inside my stomach that mimics what I imagine it must feel like for a ballplayer exiting the tunnel and spilling out onto that field of lush green.

That rush is there even today. On Midtown's last day(see slideshow).

"I'm sorry I can't be more garrulous," says the old fella running the antique store. "I'm open, but I ain't selling anything."

He's trying to pack but is interrupted by a steady stream of interlopers ducking under the half-closed gate.

The fountain's empty, there are long lines at Bill Gray's and the pizza place, and a there's a jerk who's decided to show off for the TV cameras.

"Midtown's closing! Let's get naked!" he whoops, pushing a baby stroller past the food court.

Mourners tote cameras for a last picture with the monorail. The mall's dark interior is lit so frequently by flashes, it's like lightening strikes. Visitors become tour guides for their friends - "This is the entrance we always used. And we ate here before we saw Santa...."

The mall directories, with their long lists of marquee tenants, seem like museum pieces. There's garland still wrapped around the center columns, and Brad's Cookie Nook is selling off its equipment: crates for $3 and pans for $7.

And there's a young man. His mom did housekeeping at Midtown in the 1970's. She won't come back for the last day, he says. She can't take it.

"She cried when she found out it was closing," he says.