The man who would be president takes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches -- on whole wheat, strawberry jelly preferred to grape -- twice a day on the campaign trail. He wears US$15 reading glasses, off the rack at CVS. Before bedtime, he starts but rarely finishes movies like Seabiscuit and Blues Brothers in his hotel suite. Come morning, he leaves US$20 for the maid.
Voters do not learn these tidbits about Senator John Kerry of Massachusetts, the all-but-crowned Democratic nominee, from his campaign Web site, his public speeches or his television advertisements. These and other details are the portfolio of the man literally behind the man, ready with a uncapped bottle of water whenever Kerry's throat runs dry.
Meet Marvin Nicholson Jr., Chief of Stuff.
"I can't help with policy, I don't do press," explained Nicholson, 32, a former bartender and golf caddy who never voted before meeting Kerry in 1998. "When he wants that peanutbutter and jelly sandwich, I'm ready."
So Nicholson crisscrosses the country with a loaf of bread in his bag. He makes most of the sandwiches himself, sometimes supplementing with room service. An exploration of the bursting black satchel always affixed to his shoulder turns up one of those sandwiches, wrapped in foil, protected by a plastic sandwich bag (as well as an empty, jelly-pocked plastic bag, vintage unknown. "Gross," Nicholson acknowledged)
To spend a day in Nicholson's shadow is to see the minutiae underpinning the multimedia production that is a modern-day presidential campaign. It also provides a rare window into the increasingly scripted and sheltered candidate. He is comfortable being catered to. He has his moods, and his myriad personal needs. And he can be a social loner happy to hang out with an aide half his age.
Having awoken 45 minutes earlier, Nicholson rouses Kerry each morning with a phone call, then, after a few minutes, heads down the hall to ferry the newspapers from outside his door into his hands. He orders, delivers and usually lays out all of Kerry's meals.
He keeps little black books filled with the names and numbers of people Kerry encounters, dials many of his telephone calls, helps select his neckties (and opening one-liners), collects gifts from well-wishers, transports his leather briefcase, three hunter-green duffels and two navy suit bags; and, at night, often stays by his side until he is ready to go to sleep. Last Tuesday in Youngstown, Ohio, as rain threatened an outdoor rally, Nicholson had a large green-and-black umbrella at the ready.
If he sounds like a glorified valet, Nicholson is also Kerry's ambassador, spreading smiles and remembering names for a candidate known to fumble them, reading his reactions for other aides. And, in an entourage of politicos and policy wonks, Nicholson is Kerry's buddy, going long to catch the football whenever he feels like tossing it on the tarmac.
"There are not many staff members who go snowboarding with the principal," observed David Morehouse, a senior adviser, referring to Kerry's recent Idaho ski vacation, where Nicholson accompanied him on the slopes. "John Kerry wanted Marvin to go snowboarding with him."
Every modern presidential candidate has a factotum, known as the "body man." They are typically ambitious young Washington wannabes, overqualified to schlep bags but eager to shake the high-powered hands in between.
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