The Graham Finale

I should be more professional.

But I have to admit something:

I’m going to miss the rallies. I’m going to miss standing there with my camera while Graham looked over and recognized me.

Those little moments where his eyes said:

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. That photographer from Maine Wire is here again.”

The guy with the camera showing up to document Graham’s angry eyebrows instead of
cheerleading from the front row.

And damn it, I kept showing up.

I drove up and down Maine highways chasing the rabid political beast, like an animal control officer sent on one… last… wild… hunt.

A grassroots campaign filled with suspicion, controversy, and, on my end, a questionable amount of caffeine.

Fuck…

I almost miss being attacked by Platner volunteers.

Like that one time a man dressed like a giant stuffed animal helped Graham escape after a rally, pushing me and Jon out of the way and creating one of the most ridiculous images of the entire campaign.

A moment so perfectly Graham that it almost felt scripted in some weird cosmic novel.
Earlier today, somehow, the Platner campaign acquired my phone number.

They asked me to send a message to Graham.

My message:
“STAY IN THE CAMPAIGN.”

Damn it. Give me TWO.

Two more town halls before the inevitable Troy takeover.

One more chance to hear the elevator speech. One more chance to stand in the back of a rally and wonder if I was documenting a new wave of socialism.

Then tonight, I looked at my phone.

The Graham Finale. The final video. The somber goodbye.

Before the bludgeoning final blow of campaign-killing accusations, Graham had something every candidate running against Collins wanted:

An actual shot.

That the “oyster farmer” from a tiny town called Sullivan, Maine, might somehow tip the
political scales in a direction nobody could have truly anticipated.

A campaign cooked up by tech bros in a lab, somehow producing an oyster farmer that wandered into a Senate race and convinced half the state they were watching the beginning of a revolution.

And now it’s all gone.

Over.

Finished.

The circus has packed its tents. The teddy bear onesies are tucked back in the drawer.

And the oysters… tonight… go unharvested.

By Neil Harper