I first met Lori Watzman at the bar in the Marriott Hotel, Philadelphia.
It was just past 8pm on the third day of the Democratic National Convention.
The bar was full of political tragics, lobbyists and reporters – none of whom were lucky enough to have official credentials to the night’s proceedings.
I’d given away my highly prized pass to the proceedings earlier that day and was settling in to watch president Obama’s speech on MSNBC behind the bar. Yesterday’s credentials still hung round my neck.
“Excuse me, sorry, is that a pass for tonight, may I ask?” Lori energetically asks me. She's wearing a “Bill Clinton for First Gentleman” shirt and was breathlessly full of energy.
The passes are a currency for politicians, delegates and lobbyists who dole them out to supporters, donors and friends. The desperation with which the passes are swapped, traded and begged for would embarrass the most shameless of pokemon players.
Source: Ben Winsor
The passes aren’t for tonight, I tell her. But it doesn't matter, the stadium was at capacity and they were turning people away. (The Democratic National Committee, which runs the convention, routinely hands out more credentials than seats in the stadium.)
But despite the bad news, Lori isn't giving up. A similar thing happened at the last convention, she says, but then they started letting people in again shortly after.
She’d been going to conventions for years and she had a sneaky way of getting in that hadn’t failed her yet.
She’ll tell me the secret if I promised to help her with a bag. Lori is an entrepreneur, she tells me, and she needs to carry a bucket, which makes it difficult to carry a bag as well.
Sufficiently intrigued, I agree to Lori’s terms.
She gives me her bag – a small silver suitcase on wheels – and swings a silver tray around her neck. It's filled with gimmicky political merchandise.
There are political playing cards, Hillary Clinton finger-puppets, and packs of national embarrass-mints, with Donald Trump’s face on them.
Source: Ben Winsor
As we walk to the metro she tells me Hillary’s merchandise isn’t selling as well as Obama’s stuff had in 2008 and 2012.
Obama was the best political brand. She made thousands at the 2008 convention.
“I sold 2,000 decks of playing cards that convention,” she says. Lori made about $5 profit on each pack and couldn’t sell them fast enough.
"You could have had shit with Obama's face on it and it would sell,” she says.
She stops briefly to try to sell a pack of playing cards to some boys on the street. They don't have cash, they say, only card.
Lori says she's met with some friends who’d just come back from the Republican National Convention in Ohio – they see each other every presidential election cycle – and they reported that Trump merchandise was selling very well.
"I heard Trump stuff is crazy,” she says, “the worse stuff people say about him the better it sells.”
Source: Ben Winsor
"In the past I've done the other side, but this this time I hate him so much," Lori says. The dyed-in-the-wool Democrat says Trump is a bridge too far. Probably.
"It would feel kind of repulsive to have his stuff," she tells me. But the stories she’s heard from her friends at the RNC may change her mind.
“All money’s green,” she says.
A reporter passes with a credential round her neck. Lori stops her and asks if she can have it.
The reporter gives her a firm no. It’s a full-convention credential anyway, she adds, not just a day pass.
She must be important. Those passes are hard to come by.
"I started doing this around the time John Kerry was nominated," Lori tells me as we descend into the subway, "I despised Bush so much I became involved."
The Ohio native now lives in Washington D.C. She has an MBA in marketing. She has money in the stock market.
“This is just fun,” Lori assures me, “it’s a way of having my own little political engagement.”
Source: Ben Winsor
She stops two Bernie Sanders delegates who are walking the other way and asks if she can use their passes. They tell her the Secret Service said there could be no credential trading tonight. The president was speaking and security was tight.
She tries to sell them a pack of playing cards, but the Sanders fans are unenthused by the Hillary branded trinkets.
Lori is undeterred. We buy tokens and get on the subway. She asks the other Democrats in the subway car if they have any spare credentials.
There’s an almost manic warmth and energy to Lori. People aren't quite sure how to respond to her. I ask if I can take a photo and she gleefully pops on a Hillary Clinton finger-puppet.
Despite initially being driven by her hatred of George Bush, she did sell merchandise at Republican events during his campaign. She’s also sold McCain and Palin merchandise.
She vividly remembers a particularly weird McCain-Palin rally. It was Halloween and their campaign bus arrived to a barn full of supporters to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
“It was really scary,” she says.
Lori doesn’t feel too conflicted by selling things to both sides. “Money’s money,” she tells me, "I'm not doing anything illegal, I'm not selling drugs or anything.”
She keeps pretty quiet at Republican events though. "I never told anybody that I despised the man,” she says of Bush, "but as much as I hated him, I hate Trump even more."
She says so far, the Hillary Clinton playing cards have sold the best. She sells them for $10 and makes about $4.50 on each sale. "As soon as I say Donald Trump is the joker, it works.”
It’s a well worn line.
“Mitt Romney is the joker" and “Palin’s the joker” have worked just as well in the past, she tells me.
Lori pulls out four lanyards with various credentials and passes attached and hangs them round her neck. She suddenly looks quite official.
I spot that one of the lanyards is from Obama’s historic nomination at the 2008 DNC in Denver, Colorado. Another is from the 2004 DNC in Boston, the election which prompted Lori to get into political merchandise and where Obama gave very first convention speech.
She proudly shows me a 2008 Obama pin she says she traded for a boring Obama pin she was selling.
Source: Ben Winsor
It’s not just the conventions themselves Lori gatecrashes. She’s been to CNN and Politico events this year, and those extra credentials hang round her neck too.
I suddenly feel very inferior with just yesterday’s convention pass on a solitary white lanyard.
We pull up at the final station and the train empties out. It fills quickly with convention-goers who look tired and annoyed – many were probably turned away at the doors.
The train departs and we’re stuck in the station. We can’t leave at this stop without flashing credentials to the police, security and Secret Service agents guarding the station’s exit.
Lori tells me to go and sit with her bag on a bench. She’ll do the talking, she says.
It’s now that the brilliance of her plan becomes clear. She swings from person to person trying to convince them to let her have their unused credentials.
She’s often only metres from police and security guards, but it looks like she’s trying to sell them packs of cards and finger puppets.
After about five false-starts, she approaches a group of young women and gets a nibble. It’s a bit of a negotiation but after a few minutes I see some national embarrass-mints change hands.
She comes back to me with an excited smile on her face, and points to two credentials now wedged in her metal bucket.
Lori gives me a turquoise pass as I carry the silver suitcase out of the station. She keeps a floor pass for herself – she’ll be able to make it to the convention floor with the delegates if they’re still letting people in.
Two photographers with media credentials stop Lori and ask for a photo. She happily obliges, jokingly asking for $2 for each photo.
Source: Ben Winsor
They scan our credentials and we get past the first security checpoint. She reminds me that the mints were $5 a packet so technically I owe her. I don’t have to, but if I wanted to I could think about paying her back, she says.
I pull out five singles and hand them to her just before we head into the Secret Service screening tent.
I empty my pockets and walk through the metal detector. An attractive Secret Service agent asks me if the silver suitcase is mine.
My heart stops for a moment – I’ve just taken a large bag to a presidential address for a complete stranger who I met in a bar less than an hour earlier.
I look over to Lori who’s still heading through the metal detector. The smile she’s had since she got the credentials still hasn’t worn off.
“Actually, it’s hers,” I tell him.
“That’s fine,” he says, “everything’s good.”
My heart starts beating again.
I walk with Lori another 300 metres to the Wells Fargo Centre where the convention is being held. We bid farewell at the entrance. We exchange numbers and email addresses.
She asks a passing delegate if they’d like to buy a pack of cards.
“Donald Trump is the joker.”
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