Let's Do Breakfast
Sunny Side Up, the Candidates Are Leaving No Bagel Unturned
By Hanna Rosin
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, January 25, 2004; Page D01
Another in a series of reports from the New Hampshire primary campaign
CONCORD, N.H., Jan. 23
An early riser in New Hampshire risks encountering icy roads and Sen. Joseph Lieberman, out for yet another "Cup of Joe" with Joe, his ritual breakfast greeting of the local voter. Sometimes he'll stop by old institutions like the Merrimack in downtown Manchester, a dimly lit, vinyl-stool kind of place where breakfast meats are a must. This morning the chosen spot is Bagel Works in downtown Concord, an up-and-coming chain that's a vision of the Nouvelle Hampshire, with exposed brick walls and Green Mountain coffee and a freezer full of organic Odwalla juices.
But even here the habits remain the same for average New Hampshire citizens, half-numb to the spectacle around them. As the distinguished senator from Connecticut walks into the room, many patrons do not stop what they're doing. When Lieberman sits at Cathy Gatto's table to chat, she continues chewing her bagel and is slow to pull away from her morning paper ("Good luck," she says politely). When Lieberman sneaks behind the serving counter to greet the young man and lady preparing the sandwiches, he fails to distract them from the task at hand:
"Dijon or regular?"
"Any cheese with that?"
In the corners of the restaurant his presence hovers like the music of a lounge act, drifting in and out of the thoughts of diners, affecting their conversation in indirect ways. Lieberman is answering a question about Medicaid when Joe Regan, half listening, reminds his wife, Martha, she has to go to the doctor. "I can't believe how high insurance premiums are," he says, after a long pause. And then, "Have you called your grandmother?"
In Lieberman, the intersection of the New Hampshire voter and the presidential aspirant is at its most poignant. As a campaigner Lieberman has given his all to this state. He skipped the Iowa caucuses. He moved his family here, lodging them in a corporate apartment furnished with hotel lobby couches and tinny cooking equipment. He even invited TV and print reporters into his kitchen at 6:30 a.m. to broadcast the evidence of his singular dedication. (That's how we know he prefers for his own breakfast protein-rich Alaska sockeye salmon, straight from the can.) Yet up to this point he's remained stuck, polling only in the single digits.
This week, however, Lieberman is not alone. In the days leading up to Tuesday's primary every Democratic candidate except Al Sharpton is making himself hoarse courting the state's 92,000 or so Democratic voters, fewer than half the number in D.C. If this is the capital of retail politics, this week is the quadrennial trade show with the state's southern tier as the convention hall, and candidates hawking themselves in every corner. You're lucky, as Wesley Clark will say at a health care convention, "if you can find a square inch of the state where there isn't a presidential candidate."
In a state this size it's possible, if one is determined, to see all six of them in a day. It takes time (16 hours or so), a lot of driving (200 miles) and maybe an over-the-counter alertness drug. It means making some tough choices: Clark and Sen. John Edwards do their best events at the same time: Edwards has buzz, but Clark is an unfolding mystery, forced to regroup now that Howard Dean is not his only major opponent. Catching a cup of Joe means deferring Dean until the evening, when he will be about a two-hour drive away.
But the endeavor is worth it. Campaign veteran Bruce Reed, now president of the Democratic Leadership Council describes this final week as a "magical time," the suspended moment before the first vote has been cast when any man could be the next John F. Kennedy, the next Bill Clinton. This is the last week a candidate can remain fully convinced of his own success story, without qualifications. Particularly since Sen. John Kerry, considered a footnote here, suddenly won Iowa, it's possible to believe in miracles.
"This is still undecided," says Lieberman that morning. "I felt great after last night's debate. There was a great uprising in Iowa where the polls switched dramatically. Voters can switch. People know how important their vote is. They know what's on the line."
And then the wild card always played at the end: "People in New Hampshire are independent-minded." (In fact, later that night, new polls will show Lieberman at 10 percent for the first time, within striking distance of Clark and Edwards.)
These are the final days with all the feverish symptoms in evidence. There are cameo appearances: Ted Danson for Clark, Rob Reiner for Dean. Lieberman brings along former congressman Jim Maloney (D-Conn.) and Rep. Dennis Cardoza (D-Calif.) along with Katrina Lantos-Swett, wife of former congressman Dick Swett and an ever-loyal booster of egos ("You got the only electable Democrat here," she tells the cameras at the bagel place).
There are fringe elements drawn to the spectacle: Lyndon LaRouche groupies caroling for attention, Jehovah's Witnesses handing out booklets on Satan. There are the campaign equivalent of candy stripers, volunteers giving out Dean playing cards, Dennis Kucinich CDs (Track 19: "Imagine the Dream Team (Whoolilicious and Deeelicious"; Track 20 "Electable -- Yes!"). There are busloads and busloads of press, the many-headed Beast corralled behind nylon ropes.
We drove halfway to Clark's event in Nashua, about 40 miles south of Concord, but then realized we'd never make it back to see Edwards, who was leaving for South Carolina. As it happened, Edwards was a half-hour late. By this point, the press, jammed into a corner, was getting surly.
Page Belting makes leather belts for machinery; on the campaign trail it's known as the site of "The Moment." As lore has it, last February Edwards brought some women here to tears with his pitch to forgotten Americans. Actually there were no tears; still, Edwards established himself as the next Clinton. In a campaign where the currency is the ability to "connect," Edwards is the richest; with his parents (father a mill worker, mother a postal worker), his southern accent and his experience persuading juries, Edwards can easily charm a small crowd.
Thirty or so workers wearing jeans and sweatshirts sit in folding chairs in a circle; at least three times as many reporters and cameramen are gathered around them. Edwards can sense immediately that with every little nod broadcast to the world, self-consciousness will set in and a "moment" will be harder to come by this time.
"Well, guys, this is a little different than last time I was here," he begins. "There weren't all these people here listening to me talk to you," he says, and then gives his stump speech, perfected a month ago, about two Americas, one for the rich and one for everyone else, two tax codes, two school systems, two medical establishments. Once he lapses into the generic "the American people" and then quickly corrects himself: "You."
"Right? You know what I'm talking about?" he says. "You folks work hard to pay your taxes, right?"
He delves into vivid specifics, not just about his own health care plans but about the grit of an average family struggle. Sometimes, for example, he talks about the flu. Today it's about predatory lenders. "People, you know what to do when you see 'zero percent interest,' don't you?" And a woman from the audience yells out, "Read the fine print." Edwards then proposes a plan to make credit card companies list their terms in big print, simple as that.
"Last time we all talked without these folks around," he ends it. "Now this time around, don't be shy. Tell me what's on your mind. Because that's why I'm here." And they do, first about the general issues of companies shipping jobs overseas, and budget deficits, and then eventually they zoom in to their pensions, their overtime, until by the end he has a Vietnamese woman in halting English talking about her Blue Cross plan.
"Before I leave I want to say I have such a clear memory of, a little less than a year ago, our conversation here. . . . And I want to say you are why I'm running for president," Edwards says.
The event leaves you moved, but mindful of how the New Hampshire primary distorts the presidential race. On the one hand it makes the candidates accountable to voters, humbles them into meeting the people they serve face to face. On the other it places excessive importance on charm, turns the president into Oprah, skilled at extracting confessions, projecting empathy. Americans now demand the same thing of their president as they do from all authorities -- doctors, deities -- that they behave like a best friend, with infinite patience to address their needs. At one point, Edwards was bogged down in the minutiae of the woman's co-payment plan, details better sorted out by an insurance adjuster than the potential next president of the United States.
At noon Kerry is speaking at the Jewish Federation of Greater Manchester a half-hour away. Kerry's buzz is now measured in units of unreal, as in "It's unreal, I got here an hour ago and it was totally packed," says Judy Reardon, his state director. "Since then at least 200 more people have showed up. It's unreal."
The event is held in a small theater. In a reversal of performer and audience, about 50 cameramen stand on the stage straining to catch his every tic and gesture. As the front-runner in this frenzied late stage in the race, Kerry has a near deity status. Endorsers are not really here to endorse but to be endorsed, to soak up some of the glory.
Former senator Max Cleland quotes from Shakespeare's "Henry V." Sen. Fritz Hollings riffs, mostly about his own war experience, his own time running in the New Hampshire primary. About Kerry he is brief and perfunctory. He makes a joke about the liberal from Massachusetts, then says, by way of compliment, "This man knows the government."
More than even the day before, Kerry has gotten more accustomed to his new position. He sits, slouching on the stage. He indulges himself in a 25-minute talk. He talks very little about his positions, instead telling long and haunting stories about vets encountering death and the various ways they cope with it.
Many who come to see him are more groupies than supporters, attracted to him for his newfound fame. Mary Durant was wavering between Clark and Kerry when she came to this event. When asked which issues she's interested in, she names all of them. After today, she's leaning toward Kerry.
"I don't know. There's just something about Mr. Kerry. He seems so honest." By the third or fourth press interview, her position has hardened. "After tonight, I'm definitely going for Kerry," she tells the local news.
Already Kerry is facing the unreasonable burdens that go with power. Durant's sister, Sarah Jacques, came here, too, with a load of troubles on her mind. She has diabetes and can't afford an insulin pump, her son is handicapped and she can't afford his medicine, she can barely afford the monthly bus pass she wears around her neck. As she runs through her woes, she is tearing up. "I don't know. I was hoping maybe Mr. Kerry can do something about it."
Later that afternoon Lieberman, Clark and Dennis Kucinich speak at a forum on health care. Here the candidates are onstage and the voters invisible in the distant dark of theater seats; a moderator will ask each of the candidates a single question submitted on paper. In polls New Hampshirites say health care is their most pressing concern; for each of the candidates, it's become a centerpiece of their populist message.
Except for Kucinich they all have similar plans, promising full coverage for kids, defined as under 18 or 22 or 25; they all oppose the recently passed Medicare reform. Kucinich is a passionate advocate of a single-payer plan; he is is helped by the sober forum. He indulges in one gimmick moment: "I'm going to turn around. Watch carefully. I won't go too fast," he says, turning in a circle with his arms up. "See, no strings attached," he says, meaning no lobbyist contributions. But otherwise Kucinich is buttoned down; David Corn of the Nation pronounces it his best performance to date.
Clark will have a roller coaster of a day. In the morning at a forum at Rivier College in Nashua he was greeted by a less-than-full house; in the evening he is feted by raucous crowds at a rally in Derry. Now that Howard Dean is no longer the front-runner, Clark's place is more murky; last week he was the clear alternative, but now he has to fight to distinguish himself from Kerry.
One title Clark holds for sure, though: Most Improved Candidate. His staff used to dread sending Clark to forums like these, where he would read dryly from a prepared text, drift into professorial digressions. Today he begins with biography, talking about all the times he's been a patient, from getting his tonsils out at age 3 to his many war wounds. The audience is a beat behind his applause lines but eventually catches up.
"Republicans talk about free trade, but I've never heard them complain when it cuts into the price of prescription drugs," he says, confusing his audience, but eventually they clap. By this point in the day you notice how campaigns are like jazz riffs, candidates picking up on one another's themes and weaving them into their speeches.
"It's high time we give families and elected officials the same coverage," says Clark. This line originated with Kerry (or maybe Edwards?), who talked about how he could afford the best treatment because he's covered by a federal government health plan.
In the past two weeks lobbyists have popped up a lot: "These Washington lobbyists are taking your democracy away from you," says Edwards. "Every meeting with a lobbyist should be a matter of public record," echoes Kerry. Kerry started with his Real Deal, his chili feeds. Edwards perfected the theme with his "two Americas" speech. Now Kerry has picked that up: "We have separate school systems, separate tax systems," he said at Friday's event. By now everyone has co-opted Dean's message of giving power back to the voters. "I don't think I can change this country by myself. I think you and I can change it together," Edwards says.
If Edwards has his sunny optimism, Dean is a candidate who is at his best at night. Getting to his town hall meeting at Keene Middle School requires a long drive on a one-lane road, just as the sun is vanishing, the deep chill setting in. The horror over his Iowa scream has died down a bit, but this is still a crucial moment for him. Polls this day show him switching places with Kerry; now he is 20 points behind, and Clark is fast catching up. To his supporters Dean is less a candidate than a belief system, someone who channels deep rage about Bush, about the political system, the environment. This is shaping up as a moment when some people fall away and others harden in their beliefs.
Bob Drumm is a town leader for Dean in the small town of Acworth. He'd planned to make calls these next two days to supporters to make sure Dean still had their votes but decided to wait. "After that disastrous scream, we decided to let things cool off a bit." Drumm says he is deeply disappointed but understands. "He is a very human person, he has the same foibles we all have. He was cold, exhausted. This was the first time he'd lost a race."
Does he still think Dean can win New Hampshire?
"I don't know," Drumm says after a long pause. "I don't know."
These are mostly die-hards who came out on this frigid night, people festooned in Dean buttons, playing "Vote Dean," their own version of "Go Fish," with Howard Dean cards. Among them are a host of excuses why Dean lost Iowa and then tipped over the edge in that concession speech.
"No offense, but the media has blown this so far out of proportion," says student Tamra Bogart, giving the most common explanation.
"I never really understood the caucus," says Elaine Barrett. "Everyone can change their mind at the last minute. How can you ever know who really won?"
"I thought it was wonderful," says Dave Beck about the speech. "He was passionate, enthusiastic. He says what he believes."
Kathleen O'Donnell, also a Dean volunteer, mentions a video circulating among Deanies where the scream is put in context because you can hear how raucous the crowd is. Out in the audience as everyone waits, a new chant is born: "We all scream for Howard Dean."
Dean is energized by the crowd; the hoarseness of last week is gone. He doesn't seem chastened: "We're going to have some fun at the president's expense," he says, his usual opening line, then adds, "but also say what we're going to do instead," his only nod to sobriety. He jokes about the concession speech, performing a mock-stuffy version, buttoning his coat as he talks.
By the end he is getting applause for lines clearly not meant as applause lines: "We want to globalize the rights of working people." He ends on his usual message of empowerment: "People say, 'We believe in you, Howard Dean,' but I don't want you to believe in me; I want you to believe in yourselves."
After the speech O'Donnell is elated. "The tide is turning for Dean," she says. "I think he's back on top."
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