MAGA-palooza:
A blow-by-blow account of how Trump crashed his way back into the White House
I arrive at the West Palm Beach Convention Center at 3:30 p.m., half an hour after the venue was supposed to open, but it’s clear that reality hasn’t quite caught up to the schedule. The sweltering Florida heat mixes with the exhaust of idling cars as I join a security line that snakes through the parking garage like a slow-moving python. We are all packed shoulder to shoulder as we wait, sweating and occasionally exchanging shy nods and flashing optimistic smiles. The attendees have no idea what to make of the unfolding election, and I have no idea what to make of them.
After what feels like forever in this shared misery, I finally reach the scanners. It is 4:00 p.m. by the time I get through. I am greeted by the cavernous interior of the site; it is massive, utilitarian and distinctly unglamorous despite the efforts to doll it up. This feels less like a grand ballroom and more like a souped-up warehouse. The place can easily accommodate the estimated 4,000 attendees, a far cry from the intimate Manhattan Hilton of 2016 or the subdued, pandemic-stricken White House gathering of 2020. Here, the stage is a patriotic fever dream, with an endless sea of American flags flanking the podium and towering screens. On either side of the stage, huge monitors at least 20 feet tall stream feeds from Fox News, CNN and MSNBC. Spoiler alert: The MSNBC feed will mysteriously cut out just as the night gets interesting. Rows of food and beverage stations are tucked away in the back.
7:01 p.m.:
Kentucky and Indiana Go Red
I squeeze my way into the last open space at the very front. “You picked a good spot,” someone jokes beside me, his MAGA hat slightly askew. “Now you’ll get to see everything—when it happens.” The “when,” of course, is crucial. The shadow of 2020’s prolonged vote count looms large in everyone’s mind.
7:02 p.m.:
Vermont Goes Blue
Someone near me chuckles, “Well, that’s a shocker.” A second later a man introduces himself to me as A.B. He regales me with stories about volunteering for Trump’s motorcade. “There’s nothing like driving in it,” he says, his voice tinged with pride. “Not tonight, though, because then I’d be stuck outside right now with the vehicles.”
7:31 p.m.:
West Virginia Goes Red
I calculate that Trump probably won’t make an appearance before 9:30, given the lockdown protocol. At 7:58, a border patrol officer from Arizona confidently declares, “Trump’s taking all the border states, no doubt.” I don’t argue; confidence is currency in this place.
8:01 p.m.:
Florida Turns Red
The energy spikes. Florida is a key state, and when it becomes official, the room erupts in cheers. A close Trump confidant in the crowd puts through a call to the former president while within earshot of those around him. The conversation is brief—only 40 seconds—but electric. The caller ends with a buoyant “You’ve got this.” The room buzzes as word of the call spreads. People exchange knowing nods, as if victory has already been clinched.
8:14 p.m.:
A Pricey Hat and Pricier Loyalty
I strike up a conversation with T.L. from Kentucky, who is proudly wearing a hat signed by Trump himself. When I ask him about it, he admits somewhat sheepishly that it cost him six figures at a fundraiser. “Six figures?” I ask, incredulous. “You could have paid $25,000 for a photo op and gotten him to autograph the hat there.” He laughs a little self-consciously. “Yeah, I figured that out later. I got another one for $25K. This one’s an investment, though.” I nod politely, wondering how much he paid for his ticket to tonight’s event. Some investments are more sentimental than financial.
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