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- 0 1 0 1 0 - THE AFTERMATH Portland in the waning hours of Election Night Posted 11/04/04 - 3:15 PM This was the night it was all supposed to change. Surely 2000 had been a fluke. He stole the election, he barely scraped by on a wave of technicalities and the electoral vote. Things would be different this Election Day. Apathetic non-voters, disgusted with the current administration, would rise up and flood the polls. Those in the 18-24 demographic would hit the streets and imitate the huddled, animated masses in that Eminem video. Well, that didn't happen. George W. Bush will be the president of the United States of America until sometime in January of 2009. For many, the night was a disaster. Exit poll numbers that afternoon suggested that Kerry might pull ahead. As the eight o'clock hour approached, Florida was all but in the incumbent's pocket and Ohio, the Democrats' last shining hope, was beginning to adopt a red hue. That night, the bubble burst, as did hundreds of balloons in the Portland Convention Center. Here's what Portland, Oregon and its various political hotspots, looked like on the night of November 2nd, 2004. I got off from work at eight, right as it was becoming obvious that the evening belonged to Bush. Near my workplace lay the Beaverton branch of the John Kerry campaign. Cars were leaving and volunteers were saying their goodbyes. Despite Ohio still being up in the air, morale was clearly low. This thing was over. But what was the mood like on the other side of the spectrum? With the winner still undecided, were area W fans waiting with bated breath? I headed downtown to the Marriott on Front Avenue, where the Oregon Republican Party was holding its Election Night shindig. Instead of a few stragglers, there was a long line in the lobby. A sign out front pushed away late arrivals. The ballroom downstairs was filled to capacity. I thought about waiting but I wasn't welcome here. Two organizers wielding walkie-talkies eyed me and my lack of party buttons warily. Journalists and entire families clad in business suits made up the line - the kids madly banging Bush approved noise balloons, the sort of things handed out at sporting events. Out in the breeze way, various news vans mingled, waiting for the final newscast of the night. A line of men in cowboy hats speaking Spanish rounded the corner as I began searching for my car. They looked like Boise clubhoppers. A block later at a crosswalk: THAT GUY: "Hey." ME: "Oh, hey." It was a face I hadn't seen since my junior year of college, a staunch member of the GOP. Growing up in Eugene had left him with little tolerance for anyone with ideologies that swing any which way but right. Thankfully, he was still convinced I'm a registered Republican. ME: "I didn't get past the lobby. I'm not dressed right for that crowd." THAT GUY: "That's as far as you got? You should have known better. Have you been to the Convention Center?" ME: "That's where I'm headed from here." THAT GUY: "If you do, you're a dead man." ME: "Why? Because I'm wearing khakis?" THAT GUY: "Yeah, you're OVERDRESSED if you want to sneak around that scene. Don't bother going over there. All the life has been sucked out of them. Big waste of time." A block later, he muttered a quick "catch ya' later" before turning a corner. Just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. I imagine this is what talking with a ghost is like. I crossed the river and into another world entirely. Outside the Portland Convention Center, four teens were arguing with a guy sporting huge sideburns. They were waving Bush paraphernalia, eager to celebrate their candidate's impending victory in hostile territory. Families clad in Gore-Tex and sweatshirts were heading for a MAX stop down MLK Boulevard. Later that night, I would find the teen's signs shredded alongside empty beer bottles. Inside sat a stronghold for the state's liberals. On the bottom floor, parties for local politicians and ballot measures. These signs were everywhere, offering directions to a John Kerry victory party hosted by the Oregon Democrats. Take note of where that arrow is pointing. Downstairs, members of the local electorate were in high spirits. Sam Adams had scored another term on the city council. David Wu had overcome decades-old allegations to keep his seat in Congress. His room was clogged with smiles. Middle-aged men in t-shirts drifted in a sea of blue ties and campaign t-shirts. Despite the electricity in the air, one woman in the halllway was wearing a grave expression, her head rested on a fist. I tried to get a picture but she noticed my camera and I flinched. Somewhere in the crowd was a guy in a pink dress complimented by a flowery purse, his head buried in an Arnold Schwarzenegger mask. I ran after him but couldn't quite pull off a clear shot as he and his colleagues skipped down a corridor, wine glasses held high. Had they just come from the Marriott? Upstairs in the main ballroom, spirits were heading in the opposite direction. The full service bars flanking the entrance were enjoying heavy business. Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the wall, a woman selling t-shirts was looking exhausted and bored. Small children were everywhere, darting under tables and running in circles, treating this Serious Political Event like a playground. Most of the room's eyes were on a bearded man giving a speech. "We will not rest until every vote is counted." His comments would be echoed by vice presidential candidate John Edwards 45 minutes later. An elevated bank of journalists typing on laptops killed time until eleven o'clock. Not being a local news junkie, the only face I recognized was Mike Donahue. Later, I would hear an anecdote about his low tolerance level for hard liquor. The dwindling crowd milled, nursing their drinks and looking at the floor until the top of the hour hit. Then they cast aside their frowns, rose to their feet and tried to break out a batch of optimism for the local press core. A six figure lead in Ohio? Bah! Kerry could still win this thing. A line of blue balloons overhead fell as the crowd reluctantly cheered. Then it started. POP! POP! POP! It began somewhere in the front of the crowd. Someone was unleashing a night's worth of pent-up frustration. The virus spread quickly. To hell with the cameras and putting on a brave face for whoever might be watching. Old ladies rammed their heels into the floor, grinding their teeth. Children flopped on top of this sea of blue like moshers. Grimacing men in business attire jumped around as if attached to pogo sticks. 20-somethings in ponchos, their unwashed hair held back in ponytails, strangled the air out of them. A man in an ancient, peach suit slaughtered the balloons methodically with the metal tip of an old umbrella, imitating a British supervillian in a forgotten comic book. A woman in a barbershop quartet hat killed dozens like a grandmother systematically hugging her grandchildren to death. Journalists, businessmen, fathers, soccer moms, sons, grandparents, activists, undergrads, high school students, everyone was on a party-sponsored killing spree. Four years of anger and longing was unleashed in ten minutes on blue rubber, each pop sounding like a gunshot, one for every fact and figure the electorate had ignored. And they kept going. And going. And going. In this ballroom as the local press tried to squeeze a positive spin out of this bleak frenzy. I guess this is what happens when you get a group of normal, mostly middle-aged people together, fill them full of hope, alcohol and four years of contempt and then pull the rug out from under them. Depressed yet? Click here for page 2! -->