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."