The rest of the pack ranges in background from a crusading young council women--whose latest project was a vigorous campaign to have a large rock on which high school students have inscribed their class dates since 1883 declared a historic monument--to a suburban mayor--who has been involved in a series of racial crises and near-scandals since he took over in 1967--to a lawyer with thirteen kids who incorporated the Ohio Right to Life Society and has in the past run for governor, Ohio attorney general (three times), and U.S. Congress (twice--once successfully as an arch-conservative).

The field is large, but in the Celebrezze headquarters staffers swear "we're the only ones with any kind of organization."

"If Russo would withdraw, we'd walk away with it," Forman said.

Nixon and Riper are officially "field coordinators," which entails setting up offices in different sections of the District, organizing volunteer work, targetting wards, gauging the candidate's strength in each area through statistical analysis of past election turnouts, and canvassing later in the spring. However, as Nixon said, "it all blends together," and everyone on the staff finds himself doing "everything" at onetime or another. The Celebrezze campaign is in the initial stages of setting up a solid groundwork and evaluating just where their candidate stands: in other words, guessing how much work they have ahead of them before June 8.

The current staff consists of three paid members ("put 'paid' in quotation marks," Forman advised) and three students who are working in return for room, travel costs, and $50/month living expenses. Forman, Nixon, Riper and Bill Thompson, the third "area coordinator," share two temporarily donated apartments near the headquarters.

It's like six people all going in different directions...and occasionally our paths cross," one staffer said, commenting on the hit-or-miss style of this campaign and the problem of adjusting to it. "I think the schedule has worn on Kevin and Can somewhat. The rest of us knew each other before the campaign, and it was hard for the new guys at first to take the heat. They were on the defensive all the time."

Nixon and Riper agree it has been hard to adjust to their new life. "This is intense in a different way from academics," Nixon says. "When you're in an academic environment you can play all sorts of games--you can dodge things if they take too much time. Here, its an all-or-nothing deal--we win or lose, and if we lose we've all wasted months..."

It has given both of them a new conception of politics. Riper says he took a Gov course last fall that stimulated his interest in voting patterns and grass-roots politics. "They told us how a voter identifies with a candidate and lines up on issues. Well, when I got here I realized that was all bullshit. It doesn't work that way at all--people don't want to know where Tony stands on the issues. We tell them he's a good man, he'll do the job. If they ask, we give them the issue staff--but they rarely do."

The two imported area coordinators also agree on what is drawing them towards Cambridge and repelling them from it: the people they miss, the work they don't. "I miss the people more than anything else," sighs Nixon. "Here, everything is related to the campaign; a lot of things are halfway related, things I wouldn't do if I weren't working on he campaign, like attending city council meetings to hear the opposition. Personal life and campaign work tend to blend together."

The campaign often seems to command all waking hours. Forman swears--with a wink--that he has to squeeze all possible work out of his "slaves," and he himself hardly takes any time off. Cooking takes too much time, according to Riper. "There's a Red Barn next door; we ate there for three weeks until we got sick of it." Campaign work becomes a monomania, and time spent on expendables such as entertainment, relaxation, eating and sleep takes on overtones of guilt; there is always something more to be done, and every missed opportunity could conceivably lead to defeat. Downing a beer in a Cleveland bar and listening to bluegrass one night, Forman flailed his arms and wailed, "I'm not upset about anything! That's wrong--What can I get upset about?" Later, he said sardonically, "At least you see what a paranoid, uptight thing a campaign can be."