Avery Knapp is a 28-year-old lanky blonde radiologist originally from Rancho Palos Verdes, California in the last year of his residency at Lenox Hill. He is not the guy always talking politics in high school, nor the guy long drawn to iconoclastic ideology—always a conservative, he thinks he voted for Bob Dole in 1996 and knows he picked George W. Bush in 2000 and 2004. He is a committed Republican. But he never thought to vote in a primary or care much about who did.

Knapp found Ron Paul this spring while sitting in his girlfriend’s apartment in Chicago, on a week of vacation. He was surfing the web during a study break, researching monetary policy for his father. Articles about inflation and the federal reserve led him to Give Me a Break, John Stossel’s libertarian polemic, and  Freedom to Fascism, a documentary by Aaron Russo in which Paul says there is “a possibility” that the private bankers of Fort Knox could have taken control of America’s wealth.

Paul, the small town Texas obstetrician turned 1988 Libertarian presidential candidate turned Republican congressman turned 2008 GOP presidential primary phenomenon, has found an encouraging and unexpectedly large groundswell of supporters around the country, many of them like Knapp. A staunch Constitutionalist, he has appealed to both the anti-tax right and the anti-war left who might otherwise be left on the fringe of the Republican and Democratic parties.

Knapp liked Paul’s economic message. The rising cost of health care had bothered him for years, and Paul’s anti-government, free market insistence seemed like the right solution. And the more he thought about things, the more he felt himself drawn to Paul’s non-interventionist foreign policy approach. To his girlfriend’s satisfaction, he changed his mind about the Iraq War, which he had once strongly supported.

On May 12, he founded the New York City Ron Paul MeetUp group with his sister and a friend, becoming the unofficial but acknowledged leader of a local Ron Paul movement growing larger by the day. Both Rudolph Giuliani and Hillary Clinton call New York home, and most New Yorkers not backing either of them for president are still holding out hope that Michael Bloomberg will get into the race. But for Knapp and the hodgepodge group of professionals, performance artists and political neophytes pledging their time, energy and passion to the effort, Paul is the only candidate who matters.

Paul’s supporters can mouth many of his positions like memorized lyrics to old favorite songs—at least in part. Not only would their candidate lower taxes, but he would also abolish the Internal Revenue Services along with much of the rest of the federal government.  Not only would he bring troops home from Iraq, but he would also bring them home from anyplace they are stationed outside the borders of the count.  The MeetUp group has already had more than 50 events, watching their candidate on television, handing out fliers at the Staten Island ferry, in front of television studios and whatever else they can find to do to spread Paul’s message. Against the black roof of an East Village building, they have painted the words “Google Ron Paul” in thick white letters, hoping to grab the attention of airplane passengers high overhead.  They have donated what they can, pouring in money in donations large and small, reconditioning computers to use in the makeshift office they have set up in what was the box office of their Chelsea headquarters, when it was a club.

The rest of the voters, Knapp believes, will soon come around as well.

“Either they’re going to be apathetic or they’re going to get on the Ron Paul train,” Knapp says.

Paul has generated more interest and support than he ever seemed to imagine possible, but, as even he and his most ardent supporters will let slip in less guarded moment, he is not a top tier candidate in terms of his position in the polls.  Knapp believes this will change, but not just by Paul campaigning around the country. The change will come from people across the country like him and the others who come to the rallies and events, gathering together and spreading the word themselves.

“Word of mouth is key,” Knapp says. “Every Ron Paul supporter tells more people about it—it’s not like they keep it a secret.”

Across the country and even the world, 1,083 Ron Paul MeetUp groups have formed, more than for any other presidential candidate, of either party. The largest is in Austin, Texas, not far from the coastal district Paul calls home. With 775 members at last count, New York City’s ranks second.

Paul himself said he and his campaign workers have been taken aback not only by how many voters are responding to his message, but also who those people are and how they are coming to hear it and how quickly they have mobilized. His e-campaign coordinator, Justine Lam, was one of the first staffers hired, but nonetheless, Paul says never would have predicted how people have attached themselves to his candidacy after reading web posts or YouTube videos was something. 

“Something’s going on, actually almost out of our control,” Paul said. “It’s growing spontaneously. Of course, we feed into it, and yet I would say 80 percent of the campaign has been a spontaneous, grassroots effort and it’s almost difficult to understand, even from our viewpoint.”

In typical libertarian fashion Paul is a major proponent of the Internet. But the 72-year-old country doctor was not one to frequent the social networking sites that have made his campaign such a surprise mobilization success, as well as generating the millions in campaign donations that have put him ahead of several of his Republican competitors, including Arizona Sen. John McCain, the once-frontrunner. “I don’t look at all those,” Paul says. “I’ve always used the internet, but not with MeetUps and Facebooks and all these things that I wasn’t that much aware of.”

Those drawn into Paul’s New York campaign include some with ties and collar stays, others with tattoo wrapped arms and lip studs. There are policy wonks and whiners, lost soul weirdos and straight-laced professionals. A roomful of Ron Paul supporters, gathered at a bar to watch a Republican debate or at the warped-floorboard loft in Chelsea they now call their campaign headquarters, looks barely distinct from any group of New Yorkers out for the night.

About 40 of them gathered Sept. 27 at Café 81, a posh East Village hotspot to watch the six Republican candidates who had agreed to attend the debate that night at Baltimore’s Morgan State University.

There was William Slippey, a web designer, who at 30, has never voted before. There was Justin Glynn, who had served eight years in the army in Iraq and Israel, “an aspiring green energy consultant” who voted for Ralph Nader in 2004 who believes Paul’s stance on the Middle East is the only one with the proper sense of history and understanding. There was Autumn Wark, a mixed media artist who sells her work on the street of SoHo—and also described herself as an aspiring screenwriter, a dancer/choreographer and a personal trainer. She raised three children as Democrats in a one bedroom apartment without medical insurance, she said. But no candidate had ever inspired her before—“giving me wet dog crap and dry dog crap is not a choice,” she said. She switched her registration to Republican to vote for Paul in the primary.

“International conspiracy theorists and blue blood lawyers—people who never would have rubbed shoulders before,” said Sam Russo, a criminal defense lawyer from Brooklyn, of the crowd gathered that night.

They jeered at Kansas Sen. Sam Brownback, then still in the race, as he told tales of spending nights in jail to commune with the incarcerated experience. When a waft of marijuana smoke floated in from the back, they giggled like adolescents, one asking several around him whether they smelled what he smelled. They drank beers, laughed, talked about work, getting so loud over the course of the night that at points, the debate itself got lost in the noise.

But each time Paul was asked a question, they went into hushed silence.   

At Morgan State, many of Paul’s comments cued applause. In the bar, all did. His opposition to a national identity card got the biggest response; his insistence that the country legalize drugs also did well. Cheers also followed some of the smaller philosophical points, as when Paul declared that the District of Columbia only get a voting member of Congress through a Constitutional amendment.  That pronouncement prompted a broad-shouldered man in his 20s to lead the crowd, snapping his fingers and pointing at the screen, screaming:  “Yeah!”

At the end of the evening, Knapp mute the televisions and stood at the edge of the bar as he exhorted supporters to donate more money to the campaign.  “I think you’ll get a good return on your investment,” he said, “particularly if we eliminate the 16th Amendment, the income tax amendment.”

The crowd cheered. Knapp smiled.

“To freedom!” Knapp shouted.

The people in the bar were not the only ones Knapp has helped convince. His whole family supports Paul now, as does his girlfriend. They both watched the Oct. 9 Republican debate—he at Proof on East 20th with an even larger group than the last one that had come despite the pouring rain, she while visiting her family in Los Angeles. When, 28 minutes in, Paul had been thus far been given only one chance to speak, Knapp proudly displayed a text message on his cell phone from her: “Why aren’t they asking Ron Paul more questions????”

The last six months have been a political awakening period for Knapp. The man who once did not know much about libertarianism or politics now speaks to campaign headquarters regularly, and calmly corrects those who call him and Paul libertarians, rather than Constitutionalists.

Several in his MeetUp group suggest that no matter what happens in the primaries, they think Knapp will soon be running for office himself.

Knapp smiles at the thought.

“I may have a career as a radiologist, and that’s fine. I may do something political, that’s fine, too,” he said, then paused, reconsidering. “It wouldn’t surprise me if I got involved.”

After watching the Oct. 9 debate, the group gathered for another strategy session. As Bill Buran, the MeetUp group’s volunteer media coordinator, encourages them to continue spreading the word and donating online, Knapp slips behind a curtain with his cell phone. When he re-emerges, he has exciting news. That was the national campaign office, he tells them. All is confirmed: Paul will be in town that weekend, and he will join them for a party at the new campaign headquarters just after 10 p.m.

So they gather again on Oct. 12, deep past the heart of Chelsea. West of Penn Station, west of Studio Dante, west of the massive mail sorting facility that sprawls from 28th to 30th streets along 10th Avenue, the line builds on the sidewalk outside the campaign headquarters. They fill out their paperwork. They collect their drink tickets. College students pay $25 to enter. The rest pay $100.

Paul himself arrives through a side door. He blinks in the spotlight, placing fingers from both hands on the microphone stand.

“It seems like the revolution is spreading,” he begins. “If we can do it in New York City, we can do it anywhere!”

He speaks about the success the campaign has been enjoying around the country, and they get increasingly excited. He riffs on the theme of freedom, and looks out at those who have come to support him.

“The great thing about the freedom movement is the crowds tend to be very diverse,” Paul says, each of sentences followed by a roaring cheer. “We do have some Republicans here. We have a few independents out there. We have people who have been turned on who dropped out of the system. We have a few people who were never in the system before. And we might even have a Democrat here. There may even be a few anarchists, here, and that’s all right. This is the great thing about freedom. It brings people together.”

“Ron Paul!  Ron Paul!  Ron Paul!” they chant as the candidate slips back out the side door. The music picks up again, a few guitar chords which quickly get a fast drumbeat and a supporting organ. A mix of rock and folk, the catchy tune is standard enough to blend in with the rest of the hit songs, even as the singer’s happy, Beatles-esque voice begins: “There is a doctor a healing man / Only Hope for America / He’s been teaching a better way, I thought I heard him say.

Each line of the chorus is sung twice: “Walk on the other side / Walk on the other side with liberty.”

Then comes the second verse: “Millions are working day and night / Come together now as one they fight. / To take the White House and let freedom ring / Oh listen to the song they sing.”

Another chorus, then the bridge, “Calling all Americans, look now and see / The leader that our country needs right now to stay free.”

Early the next morning, supporters line up along 42nd Street, across from Grand Central. Paul sits in the glass-enclosed restaurant of the Grand Hyatt, meeting with reporters and conferring with staff. The fans stand below, perhaps hundreds of them, waving at him and trying to zoom in on their cell phone cameras.

When all the interviews are done, he takes the escalator down to street level, ready to greet the crowd. He waits with his staff as they try to assess the situation.

“Avery!” one calls out, searching for Knapp.

He steps forward. As the New York leader, they will rely on him to lead Paul across the street and through the crowd.  Those in the crowd greet the congressmman like a rock star—touching him, taking pictures of him, waving until they get his attention. Some scramble to get close. Some are content to work the edges of the crowd, leading chants.

“We love you, Dr. Paul!”

“Freedom! Liberty! Peace!”

“Thank you for speaking the truth!”

“No matter what, Dr. Paul, you’re our president!” one loner screams. “We love you, Mrs. Paul! Keep him strong. Feed him... soup!”

Knapp holds traffic on 42nd Street, trying to get Paul through Grand Central, on the way to his speak at the free-market Mises Institute luncheon, which Knapp will attend as well.  The crowd follows. They bunch at the door as they wait for the stragglers. They pause for a moment, then they pour in, chanting his name.

“Ron Paul! Ron Paul! Ron Paul!” Paul himself does not seem to notice. Veering to the right, he bounds up the first set of beige marble stairs, on his way up to Métrazur. Behind him, they have poured in, hundreds of them waving their blue and red campaign signs. They fill most of the space in the main concourse between the stairs and the clock.  Paul turns to face the crowd. He motions for his wife to come stand by his side.

“Ron Paul! Ron Paul! Ron Paul!” they scream.

The whole station has turned toward the noise. Paul grabs the thick edge of the balcony with his right hand, steadying himself, and hurls his left into the air, finger pointed.

“It is now time to end this war and bring our troops home!” Paul shouts.

The crowd roars. Paul thrusts himself forward again.  “It is time to restore liberty to this country and obey the Constitution!” They cheer, stomp their feet, whistle and catcall. “It is time to make sure that we retain the right of habeas corpus and personal liberties.” Each time, the applause gets louder.

“Thank you very much for coming,” he says, slightly emphasizing the “very,” seemingly shocked, as he often seems to be, that so many people are paying attention to him and simultaneously just as shocked that many more are not.  

“There is really something going on, there is truly a revolution going on in this country!” Paul shouts, hitting the first syllable of “revolution” with the flourish of a preacher.

“Ron Paul! Ron Paul! Ron Paul!” the crowds chants.

Then, from among them, comes a solitary voice.

“Times Square!”

They all stop, and for a moment, there is almost a hush in Grand Central.  Then the crowd erupts again.

“Times Square! Times Square! Times Square!”  And off they go, waving their signs and pumping their fists. As their candidate leaves for lunch, his supporters march off to spread their message on the other side of town.

Photos by Andrew Schwartz.