In Florida, convicted felons are not allowed to vote. But convicted felon Donald Trump was able to do so thanks to Florida’s deferral to the rules of the state where the verdict was handed down—in his case, New York, which allows felons to vote as long as they are not imprisoned. Things have such a way of going right for Trump that he’s even the beneficiary of the progressive policy enacted by a state he and his followers constantly demonize.

This was not lost on a neighbor of mine, whom I ran into the morning after the election while walking my dog. Trump had been declared the winner just ninety minutes earlier, at about 5:30 a.m. “Good morning—or not?” John asked me. He tends to be upbeat, a demeanor necessary to that traditional New York type: the mayor of the block. He had an over-sized inflatable toy hammer in his hand. “You tell me you voted for Trump, I’m going to hit you over the head.” He waved the hammer and laughed, but then he turned serious. 

“The guy is so lucky. I don’t know, it’s like—how’s he do it?” He shook his head. John is not just a local personality, but a community activist currently leading a tenants’ revolt against the wealthy developer trying to evict him and scores of his neighbors from the large apartment building adjoining mine. Most of the units are rent-stabilized or otherwise listed as “affordable.” Residents represent a cross-section that was once typical of many New York City neighborhoods: a retired police department chaplain, a nurse, an Olympic gold-medal-winning sprinter, a social worker. John himself is a single father with a teenage son diagnosed with autism. Many of the building’s tenants have lived there for twenty years or more. John has organized multiple rallies in recent months, drawing media coverage and notable city politicians in support of his cause, including some currently vying to replace current mayor Eric Adams in 2025.

On the day after the election, though, his focus was elsewhere—although “focus” might not be the right word, given the range of complaints and predictions he went on to offer. John is a large man who always has a cigar in his fist, and he is also very voluble. 

“The Supreme Court?” he said. “Done. For generations. They’re gonna get at least two more picks. We’re not going to have Obamacare. Or vaccines. Kamala? She ran a good race. But nobody knew her. She had four months and did somersaults but it was only four months. And Biden—the infrastructure act! Why didn’t they talk about that? Jobs! That was good stuff. But then they go and try to pick off Republican women in suburbs. Talk to the people who want you to talk to them! Tell them what you’re going to do for them! That’s what Trump does.”

Someone else joined us. “Trump also got shot in the ear. That’s what happened to him. But I think it was a setup.” 

John listened patiently as the man unspooled a hard-to-follow theory. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “That seems like a pretty complicated thing to pull off.” 

It was unseasonably and already uncomfortably warm at seven a.m., which contributed to the otherworldly feeling ushered in by the news. Other people shuffled by like zombies. I watched as two people hugged each other tightly, silently. A woman who lives in John’s building approached. “Tell you what I’m doing, I’m moving to West Africa. I got people there and they make a lot more sense than people here.” 

“You can’t move!” John protested. “We have work to do.”

He got thoughtful. “What I don’t get is this immigration stuff. I know a lot of people, whose parents came here from Puerto Rico or wherever. I’m one of them so I can say this: when they move out of New York to places like Florida or Carolina they turn stupid. I talk to them on the phone and I say: ‘What happened to you?’” He shook his head again, seeming genuinely puzzled, even a little sad. “I don’t know. It’s going to be bad, man.”   

Over the summer, John organized a party for a man who had temporarily gone missing from a shelter around the block. It was advertised as a “welcome home” party. There was jerk chicken, hamburgers, beer, soda, a DJ, and a large cake with the man’s name on it. The music was loud but no one on the street seemed to mind. “He’s our neighbor,” John had explained, though maybe he didn’t need to. 

Now, he tapped the inflatable hammer against his thigh. He seemed at a loss for words. “It’s weird,” he said quietly. “‘Mass deportation.’ What are we talking about? I don’t understand. Like, aren’t we supposed to be a community? Aren’t we supposed to be people?”