Apparently there were some announcements, but I was outside smoking and I met a guy named Tyler up from Florida. West Palm, he said. “I’m a senator now!” he said, and asked for a cigarette. “I guess I have to quit my job.” He was wearing an Adidas track shirt. Where did he work? “Adidas.”
“I’m a freakin’ Senator!” he said. He said the Clinton people campaigned for him, had flown him up, put him up at the W, and he had to be on a flight back to Florida at 7:30 a.m. “Man I’m hammered,” he said. He said he’d won as an Independent by 18 votes. He was a just slightly-overweight, kinda buff white guy, definitely over 30, probably not 40, and maybe 5′ 11″. He had a little hipster beanie-hat on.
So, okay, he was a Senator. So then what was he going to do now? “Bend over a page, I guess,” he said.
He looked around at all the suits outside the Sheraton. “These guys don’t even know I’m one of them,” he said. “I’m not going to be like them, am I?”