Batman! Kerry's 'chief of stuff'

NY TIMES NEWS SERVICE, YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO
Thursday, Apr 29, 2004, Page 16

Marvin Nicholson Jr, aide to Senator John Kerry, lends his back during a campaign stop in Charleston, West Virginia. 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. PHOTO: N Y TIMES

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."

"I can't help with policy, I don't do press ... When he wants that peanutbutter and jelly sandwich, I'm ready."

Marvin Nicholson Jr., Senator John Kerry's right-hand man

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.

In the family

Greg Schneiders, chairman of an international consulting company, cites his experience as former president Jimmy Carter's administrative assistant in the 1976 campaign in the first paragraph of his bio, even though he went on to run the day-to-day operations of the White House communications office, be a Senate press secretary and teach at Georgetown University. Two of former president Bill Clinton's former aides became executives at USA Networks and Starbucks; one of Gore's aides is now engaged to marry his daughter.

Nicholson, a geography major at the University of Western Ontario who once aspired to be on the Weather Channel, seems a different breed.

Raised on Canada's Victoria Island by an American mother (his father died when he was nine), he befriended Kerry, a customer, while working at a windsurfing shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts, then caddied for him two summers on Nantucket, including a round with Clinton.

Asked which politician had the better swing, Nicholson said, "I think Clinton only because he plays more. Say they took a year and they golfed every day, Kerry'd be a better golfer."

He postponed Kerry's offer of a Senate internship to caddy at Augusta National, home of the Master's, then landed in Washington the week before the 2000 election. By New Year's, he became Kerry's driver (and, a few months ago, inherited the senator's 1984 Dodge 600 ES convertible when it was replaced by a 2002 Chrysler).

They hit the trail together last winter.

Nicholson's role has evolved with the campaign. He is no longer the guy who gets the toothpaste. He is the guy who asks the guy to get the toothpaste. There are plenty of people around, now, to help lug Kerry's Spanish guitar to his room each night and tote his fancy Serotta racing bicycle on and off the plane.

But it is the 2m-tall Nicholson who anticipates Kerry's needs as they make eye contact across the crowds. It is Nicholson ready with a fresh shirt after a rally in 100 degree heat. When Kerry stays overnight at supporters' homes, it is Nicholson who accompanies him; in Iowa once, they shared a bathroom.

"I've seen him in his underwear," Nicholson said, declining to discuss the topic further.

And it is Nicholson who decides what and when Kerry eats, no longer needing to even query his cravings.

"Can I have that prepared dry with peanut butter on the side?" he asked the other morning in Tampa, Florida, leaning back on the hotel bed as he ordered two eggs over easy, bacon, whole-wheat toast and apple juice from room service.

"Do you have any sort of bran cereal, like Total?"

"Could I get a whole banana?"

"Do you guys have any yogurt? Raspberry yogurt? Is it in, like, little

containers? Could I get two containers?"

That was for Kerry. Nicholson swallowed a mini Crackle chocolate bar, smoked a couple of cigarettes, then washed down two nut-covered brownies with a Coke.

For lunch and dinner, while the staff eats sandwiches and chips, Nicholson finds hot food for Kerry -- a local specialty is nice, but a standby is soup and half chicken with three sides (corn, green beans, mashed) from Boston Market. The other day in Tampa it was a Cobb salad (ranch on the side), sauteed shrimp with wild rice and veggies, a slab of chocolate cake and a strawberry milkshake.

"Marvin takes care of everything," Milton Ferrell, Kerry's Florida fundraiser, said as he introduced him to a donor at a reception that afternoon. "He's the reason Senator Kerry is here and alive."

Shoulder to lean on

He -- and his ubiquitous shoulder satchel, which Nicholson said weighs a bit more than a full golf bag.

Among the contents: Immodium: "Traveler's best friend," Nicholson said.

Post-it notes: "We don't," he said when asked how he uses them. "I just carry them because once he asked me for them."

A sewing kit: Kerry lost a button on his blazer back in New Hampshire.

On a recent night at the Atlanta airport, Nicholson was headed for the plane just before 10pm. His left hand stretched over two copies of a new hardcover on the middle class, a paper bag of cookies and an orange hat someone had given Kerry that day, his right reached for Kerry's briefcase and one of those green duffels.

Suddenly, Kerry turned from the line of veterans who had shown up to shake his hand. "Marv," he whispered urgently, "Do you have a ... ?"

Before the candidate could complete the question, Nicholson slipped a marker from his suit pocket and uncapped it with his teeth. Another hat signed, Nicholson followed his boss, Sherpa-like, onto the plane bound for Tampa.

Three hours later, having bid the candidate goodnight, he sipped a beer and sucked a cigarette poolside, explaining his front-row seat on history to a local police officer, who marveled at the constant travel and lack of time off.

"It's not like I'm carrying around 50-pound bags of rocks every day," Nicholson said. "Well," he added after a pause, "not all the time."