This is the End, My Beautiful Friend
In the week or so before election day, Nicky and I talked about hosting an election night party. We each reached out to friends and to the few people who’d helped with the campaign. We found no takers. Most people in the know said the biggest gathering of Democrats would be at the Beachside Bar and Grill in Encinitas.
I’d never gone to a bar to watch election returns. But I was restless and didn’t feel like watching them alone at home. Around 8 PM, I decided to drive down to the Beachside, figuring I’d find someone I knew and stay an hour or two. I hoped the presidential race would be called for Hillary—or at least leaning that way—by then.
Just before I left, I received a text from Alice:
… the next few hours will be a whirlwind so I wanted to make sure I contacted you. Thank you so much for being such a decent, smart, insightful candidate for city council. I enjoyed meeting you and, better yet, hearing your vision for the future of Carlsbad. You've made our community a better place.
The charm surprised me. I appreciated it. I mentally composed a reply on my way to the bar, texting it from my car after finding a parking spot several blocks away:
Thank you, Alice. I've discovered that one of the pleasures of being a candidate is meeting fellow candidates (even rivals) and discovering how nice they are. We’re both trying to make Carlsbad a better place. It’s been a pleasure.
By 8:00 PM, Florida had been called for Trump. The Beachside was as quiet as a large, crowded bar could be. It seemed unusually dark—not just normal bar lighting, but like someone had dimmed the place on purpose. The presidential results were coming in fast and in the wrong direction. The mood was grim, far earlier than anyone had expected.
I walked the bar loop—past tables, past the crowd—looking first for a friend, then an acquaintance, then just a seat near a TV. I found a tiny square table near the entrance and sat down.
This was not the kind of environment I wanted to spend the night in. But I stayed. After all, I’d already fought for parking. Local results wouldn’t even begin trickling in until 9:30, and I figured I’d wait at least that long.
I sat alone. I didn’t speak to anyone except the server. Most everyone else was silent too, heads down, eyes on screens. As Trump marched toward victory, I kept refreshing my phone, waiting for Carlsbad results.
They came just before 10:00. It was clear that I wouldn’t be one of the top two vote-getters out of the six candidates. I was far behind, even in the earliest returns.
It was time to leave. I paid my tab. Just as I was about to go, an elderly couple navigated their way through the maze of chairs and drinkers and stopped at my table. The woman leaned on the empty chair and smiled.
“We voted for you,” she said. “We really hope you’ll run for mayor next. We’ll vote for you again.”
I was speechless, but I managed to thank them. At least I think I did.
Over the years, I’ve told that story as a kind of punchline—a way to show how out of touch older people can be sometimes.
But that’s not what I felt in the moment.
I sat at the table for a while, trying to gather myself. Lot's of emotion. Not crying emotion. Just emotion.
I don’t know what did it. Maybe the text from Alice. Maybe the clear, unambiguous loss. Maybe the confidence and hope that elderly couple saw in me.
Maybe all of those things.
But most of all, it was the end of the campaign.