I’m standing outside the Target Center, home to Minnesota’s professional basketball teams, the Timberwolves and the Lynx, in downtown Minneapolis. It is 6pm on Thursday, October 10. In one hour the Trump rally will begin. An unruly mob is busy provoking an unseen opponent. They are solidly anti-Trump.
If you haven’t been to Minneapolis for a while, it looks like Tokyo. There are giant screens and racing neon marquees and a million restaurants and an ultra-modern, ground-level bullet-shaped train charging and waiting and charging again through crowds. People are well-fed. They are attractive and wear stylish pre-fatigued clothing and are a little bored. They look alike.
Protesters carry signs from the headlines. IMPEACH, SCANDAL, CORRUPT, SUBPOENA, CHARGE, PROSECUTE, ILLEGAL, PUTIN, UKRAINE, RUSSIA. Some hold helium-filled, miniature versions of the Trump Baby Blimp, an extraordinary insult to a sitting president.
Well, someone’s making money.
A source (some call them a mole. I’ll call him the Assistant Marketing Director) at a major downtown employer told me the company asked employees to stay home. The parking and crowds would be a problem. One assumes this did not apply to the clerical staff, building security, the dock workers and package handlers, the cleaning crews. No one ever gives them a day off.
Police on horses and bicycles, looking quaint and friendly, chat with protesters. The police pause and have their pictures taken. A young man in dreadlocks says something snotty. The cop points at him. Watch it, buddy.
On the pavement hooves go cloppity clop. Just like the Westerns. As the streets fill with mist and a light rain begins, this is an old time, nostalgic sound.
Chants go up. Trump is called a Nazi. A Criminal. A Rapist. People are having fun. In the end there is little or no trouble. A few attempt to provoke the police. It’s hard to provoke a man on horseback. There is the feeling of provoking the horse.
Crowds of protesters part as a train comes through. It’s headed for the working class districts of North Minneapolis and Brooklyn Center.
Looking out with tired eyes are brown and beige people in Dickies jackets and service uniforms. They are going home.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com