A Day at the Races

In Manchester, New Hampshire, you can still find a Post Office Fruit Luncheonette with three men nursing coffees and egg salad sandwiches and a sign that says "Do Not Touch Magazines Unless Going to Buy" and the rack of aspirin bottles that have been sitting there collecting dust since the Reagan administration. On this Saturday, the tabloid in the window runs the cover story "Bill Clinton's Four-in-a-Bed Orgies with Black Hookers" and "'He's The Father of My Child,' Claims Ghetto Gal He Had Sex With Thirteen Times." It is primary season in New Hampshire with three days to go.

The sky is a white void, no clouds, just an even whiteness. The radio announcer advises that "a storm warning is in effect for northern New England. We'll be seeing some snow this afternoon, turning to sleet and freezing rain later in the evening, so stay off the roads if you can help it."

A cop holds up mid-afternoon traffic on Elm Street for fifteen minutes, and a woman leans out the window of her Chevy to ask what is going on. The Bush motorcade appears in the distance, approaches, passes by at twenty miles an hour. Eleven police cars with flashing lights, then the six press vans, the Secret Service, the Buicks full of aides, the ambulance, finally the President's limo and then more police.

A four block-long ACT-UP rally marches down Chestnut Street, and both demonstrators and cops are uniformed in black leather jackets. A sign above a parking garage has a 1-800 number for NRA Whitetail Tours. Harry's Auto Parts boasts "Everyone Has Their Priorities and You're Ours."

Campaign workers with signs compete for street corners. A Honda with a pencil-shaped "Write In Ralph Nader" sign strapped to the roof is parked in front of a meter that reads "Time Expired." On the sidewalk, a local television reporter interviews a silver-haired man, who says into the camera, "Harkin isn't stiff; he seems like a relaxed, regular guy. He betrays a certain barnyard roughness around the edges, I suppose, but he can communicate with the everyday American."

Two blocks away, in the Manchester headquarters for the Harkin campaign, Andrew Morin is looking for some volunteers. "Is anybody up for a straight lit drop?" he cries. Three college students just back from canvassing raise their hands: yes, they'll do a lit drop, but they need a ride. Volunteers keep returning from assignments and Morin's job is to get them back to work. Every five minutes he comes around: how'd you like to phone bank? how'd you like to canvass? you guys want to do some visibility?

There can't be any standing around with three days to go.

The headquarters is one long room, a former storefront with the green floor tiles peeling up and coming loose. There are eight battered wooden desks with telephones, stacks of brochures, a table piled with sodas and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a fax machine, a Canon copier and a coffee maker at work.

There is a six-foot-high map of Manchester on the wall with polling places circled in red. Next to the map is taped the battle plan for the final week of this campaign. Wednesday: all day canvass with phone banks. Thursday: yard sign blitz, last day to fax list of identified supporters to Concord office. Friday: field continues to throw decks and fold in new supporters, focus on plant gates. Saturday: GOTV (get out the vote) efforts continue. Election day: ward coordinators meet at targeted polling place, dispatchers come on duty and forward rider requests to drivers, maintain visibility at key locations.

Chad Kister comes back from a morning of canvassing. He wears a plastic Uncle Sam hat with a Harkin bumper sticker, a secondhand herring-bone overcoat, high-top sneakers. The question he receives most often when knocking on doors is "Why did you come all the way out here?" Kister took a week off from classes at Ohio State and had to reschedule a midterm to work for the Harkin campaign. In Cleveland, he hitched a ride on a bus of Harkin supporters from Iowa.

In his pocket, Kister has a stack of computer-generated cards bearing the names and addresses of all the Democrats and Independents in his assigned sector. On these cards he records a resident's likeliness to vote, preferred candidate and most strongly felt campaign issue. He visits one hundred houses a day; someone is home at maybe thirty. Of these, half are undecided and of those he might bring four or five into the Harkin camp. One day's work.

When he finishes with these cards, he will turn them in for more. The cards will be tallied by the two senior citizens working inthe back room. Supporters are phoned on electionday and offered a ride, undecideds will be visitedagain tomorrow. In this primary, no candidaterelies on television spots to do the job. It takesold-fashioned shoe-leather politics. Every votethat Harkin gets represents one or two visits by acampaign worker, several phone calls and brochuresstuffed in the mailbox.

The information gathered in Manchester is fedto the main headquarters in Concord, twentyminutes north of Manchester on I-93. In Concord,there are more battered desks, newspaper clippingsand maps on the wall. Plus a television.

At the Concord headquarters, Kimberly Dias issurrounded by telephone books. A junior at St.Paul's, she has been coming in every Saturdaynight for three months. "I belong to the WinentSociety. W-i-n-e-n-t, I think that's how it'sspelled. We have lots of societies, and we'reencouraged to volunteer in a campaign. You learn alot," she says. Not well-versed enough in theissues to phone bank, she sorts cards, highlightsmaps, distributes brochures and does visibility,which means standing with a Harkin sign in apublic place.

Susan Goodwin gives a quick tour. Here is thedirector's office, this is the press room,downstairs we have scheduling and constituencies."This is Lois, who does Central America and Peaceand I don't know what-all. This is Carol, who doeswomen's issues, and Barbara, who handles unions."Two aides sit studying an architectural drawing;one is saying "And he doesn't want co-ax drapedall through the fucking house either. This guy isa giver, and the boss says the job has to betight."

The headquarters is relatively empty becausemost of the workers have been bused to theSomerset Clarion Hotel in Nashua, where Harkinwill speak to the United Auto Workers' dinner atseven. It is snowing. The New Hampshire road crewshaven't salted or plowed yet, and the traffic onI-93 goes fifteen miles an hour under the minimumspeed limit of forty-five. The New HampshireLiquor Store/Rest Stops aren't doing much businesstonight.

At the Clarion, the reporters wait in the lobbyfor Harkin to arrive. Lars, a reporter for CBS,types notes into his laptop. He has followedHarkin around all day for three weeks, first inIowa and now here, and "has heard the stump seventhousand times." He travels with Ju-Ju, hiscounterpart at ABC, who is writing a postcard to afriend that just got engaged. Before she canfinish, she looks up, "Oh shit, he's herealready."

The Betacams and Nikons cluster around Harkinas he enters, and the usual questions get theusual replies. "Senator, what do you say aboutpolls that you are running in a race for thirdwith Kerrey?"

"I don't pay attention to polls," he shootsback.

"Senator, what do you think about Kerrey'sads?"

"They're nothing compared to what Bush willthrow at us."

"Senator, would you be insulted if yourcolleagues drafted a nominee?"

"The nominee is in the race and you are lookingat him."

Harkin enters the ballroom to the cheers ofunion members and the flashes of pocket cameras,shakes hands, waves, sits down to dinner. Theunion leader goes to the podium and starts theintroduction just as the Chicken Kiev is beingserved. This is bad timing, because Harkin willstart speaking to the clinking of silverware,people will stop eating out of politeness, and thechicken and potatoes will grow cold and be leftuneaten.

Harkin rises, goes to the microphone. He firstthanks the union leader and several other bigwigs."He's been with me since the very beginning...Shehas done tremendous work for the union...He is mylong-time friend and supporter." He is reading thenames off note cards an aide slipped him as hestepped to the podium.

Bush is staying in this hotel tonight, andHarkin quips, "This is the closest the Presidentwill get to organized labor." The crowd loves it.Harkin sweeps into his stump. He is preaching tothe converted.

"How many of you saw the State of the Unionaddress?" Boos. "Well you didn't miss a damnthing!" Cheers.

"Let's talk trickle down economics." Boos."It's like trying to feed the birds by giving moreoats to the horse!" Cheers.

The crowd punctuates the speech withinterjections, like worshippers urging on theminister.

"My father was a coal miner, my mother was animmigrant."

"You're our kind of guy!"

"If you are a junk bond dealer, it's the bestof times."

"Yes, that's right!"

"But if you are an out of work family, it's theworst of times."

"You tell `em!"

"It's time to build a new America."

"We'll help ya!"

"I do not intend to put Bush's feet by thefire, I intend to put them in the fire."

"Give `em hell, Tom!"

"I will and they deserve if."

Harkin pulls out a newspaper clipping and putson his glasses. "At a grocers' convention,President Bush was amazed by the bar-code readersat the checkout counters. These readers have beenin use for over eleven years." Laughter. "Whatelse has Bush missed during his years inWashington? The Detroit Free Press said he lookedlike a `preppie Rip Van Winkle."'

After the speech, the journalists joke with thepress secretary Lorraine Voles. Adam, USA Today'schief reporter covering the Democrats, didn't likeHarkin's potshots at Clinton and Kerrey: that "youwon't find my face on a tabloid, and you won'tfind me dating any Hollywood girlfriends." Adamsays, "Lorraine, why doesn't he add `Hey, I've gottwo legs and I've never had cancer!"' Voleslaughs, but at Harkin's next speech the lines willbe dropped.

Adam is a veteran of the campaign. "Yeah, Ijust came to see Harkin before he is finished.He's the only one that isn't bullshittingcompletely. Tsongas? He's as much fun as going tochurch." The reporters mostly know each other, butthey introduce themselves to newcomers. "Who youwith? How long you been up here? You doing awraparound or just a focus?" Lars, Ju-Ju and someothers will catch Harkin's next stump across town;the rest are heading to the party for the press atSt. Anne's.

An hour later, Harkin stumps at the NashuaSpartan Hall, a bingo hall. A Harkin banner coversthe electronic Bingo scoreboard in front, thetables have been moved to the rear. The generalpublic was invited to this speech, and Harkindoesn't have the unconditional cheering he had atthe hotel, but he gets them going with the preppieRip Van Winkle bit.

After the speech, a group of five collegestudents vamp on Harkin's themes: when you buy acar, what are you paying for, labor or CEOs?...this country has almost no tariffs right now,basically none... we're not producing anything inthis country... national moratorium onforeclosures... economic conversion...compassionate government... manufacturing base...universal health care... high-speed rail...

In a few days, busloads of Iowans will headback home. But today it is still primary season inNew Hampshire. Three days to go.PhotoWilliam H. BachmanHarkin and sometime spokesperson Jenny leavethe world of basketball to field questions aboutthe campaign.