By Neil Harper
I was walking off a small ceremony shoot on a beach in Wells, Maine, photographing a young bride and groom eager to begin their lives together.
And as soon as they were out of sight, I began to dart—
I hurtled myself toward that parking lot, throwing myself into my car.
Camera landing on the passenger seat.
Twisting the key—
The engine revs.
I was now on assignment with The Maine Wire.
It was a solo mission—assigned to cover the Maine Democratic Convention banquet.
The convention would start in 30 minutes. I was 45 out.
I am late to democracy.
Camera on the passenger seat—sliding, hitting the door on turns. Not secured. Should’ve secured it.
Too late now.
I start talking to myself.
Out loud.
“What if I miss Platner?”
“What if they don’t allow the camera?”
“What if I’m made?”
Then—
the real fear:
“What if I miss dinner?”
I parked several streets away from the Holiday Inn By the Bay
and rushed inside, a camera slung over my shoulder.
Lobby lighting too warm.
White tile floors—bright, clinical.
There was no one checking IDs.
No one at the door.
No security in sight.
I could’ve been a crazed gunman walking in from the street.
Why did I even pay the $150 admission? I wondered.
Clearly this was a Democratic-run event.
I walked up to a woman standing in line for drinks.
“Excuse me—did I miss Tim Walz speak?”
“No, he hasn’t spoken yet.”
Relief hits fast.
Then I see him: Troy Jackson.
Also standing in line—a governor hopeful, always orbiting in the vicinity of Platner.
He was paying for his beer at the bar. I step into line, pretending to belong.
Troy gets his beer and turns. Walks toward me. Locks eyes with mine.
I try not to exist more than necessary.
He seems suspicious. As he should. Only five minutes on site and I’m already raising eyebrows.
I was already in line. What the hell.
The cocktail board specialty:
Republican Tears.
Of course it is.
“Whiskey ginger,”
Bartender nods. Tattooed arms. Fast hands.
Drink hits the bar.
I grab it.
Standing there empty-handed felt suspicious. A drink in hand feels casual. Something off-duty. Maybe I was just another Democrat with a camera.
And I stood there, positioned in the back of the room.
Five—maybe six hundred well-connected Democrats.
Hard to tell. They blur together after a point.
Slight microphone feedback.
“Washington is a shit show,” Maine Congresswoman Pingree yells into the microphone.
The room laughs and cheers. Forks hitting plates in uneven rhythm. Conversations continuing under speeches, never fully stopping—people returning to side conversations mid-clap.
“Please don’t make me work with that man,” Pingree says, referring to Paul LePage.
And the room laughs again.
Then an intermission is called, and mingling commences.
Crowd density immediately increases near exits and the bar area. Movement begins without direction—clustering.
Platner gets surrounded almost immediately.
Walz too.
“Photo?”
“Just one—”
People are lined up. Phones everywhere.
Tim begins to pose. I can’t get close, can’t get through the mob.
I snap what I can. The dim lighting, mixed with harsh blue stage lights, doesn’t make for easy shots.
I make careful circles around the room.
Focusing on other figures—
Troy Jackson, Shenna Bellows, Dhlac, the mayor of Lewiston.
Then intermission is over.
Janet Mills begins her speech.
Slight feedback delay on the microphone as she starts.
Mills speaks on Trump. On opposition. On the endurance of the Democratic Party.
Minutes drag and feel like hours.
Tim Walz is invited to the stage.
Janet and Tim embrace—two governors facing serious fraud issues in their states.
Then Janet hands Walz a T-shirt that says:
SEE YOU IN COURT
A sad attempt at relevance.
A failed campaign slogan with no substance.
This was the reason Platner was leading Mills in the polls.
Why, just a few days prior, Mills suspended her campaign.
It was the lack of self-awareness from the Mills campaign that would ultimately lead to her demise.
And so the event went on.
Tim Walz spoke—more charming than I would have cared to admit.
He is funny.
He says “FOR CHRIST SAKE” at least a dozen times during the speech, which feels fitting for the godless party.
At some point my brain writes in the margin:
TAMPON TIM.
Janet Mills is thanked for her service,
and the crowd begins to disperse into the Portland streets.
If Platner spoke, I missed him—and it appeared he kept his distance from Tim Walz, likely aware of his unfavorable national reputation.
It’s a dreary spring day. Clouds hugging the harbor.
I couldn’t tell if I had just documented democracy—
or the end of it.
