With an estimated 50,000 people queuing up days in advance for a chance to see Donald Trump at his Uniondale rally, finding the end of the line was no easy task.
The river of humanity leading up to the Nassau Coliseum’s main entrance snaked around like a gigantic conga line. It was enhanced by feeder lines coming in from all directions, and at one point, a line connected with itself to form a big circle of people just going around and around. The actual end of the line was nowhere to be seen.
Considering the unfairness of the situation and hoping that the altogether peaceful crowd wouldn’t revolt once they realized what was going on, l attempted to bring the mismanagement of the lines to the attention of the authorities. The first two members of law enforcement l encountered were accompanied by rather stern-looking canines, so l figured it wouldn’t be a good idea to approach them. Next up were two New York State Troopers who politely informed me they had nothing to do with crowd control. The sun was beating down and it was a long, hot walk around the coliseum to find the next official who could potentially address the incongruent line issue.
Closer to the main entrance stood a bevy of what looked like special forces agents sporting rifles and other armaments. I was doubtful but gave it a shot, only to be quickly told that wrangling the horde of humankind was outside their bailiwick. Nearby, l thought l had a chance with a group of Nassau County Police with an officer donned in a uniform different than the others who l assumed to be part of the department brass. As l approached, l heard him chirp on his radio to the effect that someone had fainted and EMS was on its way.
I passed on this opportunity and soon found another Nassau officer whom l dutifully apprised of the problem with the lines. He also cordially bowed out, referring me to the event staff wearing green shirts. Looking up, l spotted a green shirt out of the corner of my eye, but when l walked over to him, he vanished like the elusive Sasquatch. From there to the main entrance, there were no green shirts to be had, so l headed to the gate, the heralded terminus of the zillions of people waiting for Nirvana. Security was tight, and a fast-moving staff rifled through bags and passed people through metal detectors. Long-snouted dogs eyed them suspiciously.
To my chagrin, there were no green shirts to be found.
On the verge of giving up, l finally struck green. An event organizer was shuffling through the stragglers outside of the main gate, and l interrupted him with my concern. “Not our problem,” he said. “Talk to Secret Service.” My interest re-piqued, l set out to look for one of the men in black. My search took me back around the coliseum to the far side finding nary a Secret Service officer nor the actual end of the line. I figured I’d make a complete circle around the back of the venue, maybe go back to my car to get something to drink.
On the outskirts of the pandemonium, there stood a rather tall gentleman in an officious uniform that actually had the words “Secret Service” on it. I brought the line conundrum to his attention, and he tersely told me the issue fell under the preview of the event staff, the folks wearing the green shirts. “They told me you were in charge of the lines,” l countered incredulously. "Nope, nothing to do with it, he asserted." “Can you let them know about the problem?” I asked.
“I can’t; l have no contact with them.”
“You have no contact with the event staff? What if there’s a problem? How are you going to let them know?”
“That’s not really my problem.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
With that, my concern for the well-being of the thousands of people waiting in line had faded, and l made my way back to the main entrance. But there, in the distance, l saw more people coming from the expanse of the parking lot and coalescing into what could be the end of the line. I went to talk to the last one, only to see more coming. There was a break in the action, and l remarked to the last man standing, “I think you might be the last one in line.” We both looked up only to see even more rallygoers coming over the horizon. “I don’t think so,” he said.
The moral of the story is that there is never an end to the line at a Trump rally. People will keep coming until the thing is actually over. For the 20,000 or so who get there early enough, they will get inside. The rest, probably double that amount, will watch the event unfold on large screens the Trump folks were kind enough to set up.