How to Make a Senator Sweat

Before he became a pain in Kerry's ass, Ed O'Reilly was a firefighter, a prison guard, a lobsterman, a Gloucester city councilor, a substance abuser who'd lost everything, an American Red Cross award recipient (for saving "some people" from drowning in the Atlantic), and a 25-year criminal-defense attorney specializing in DUI cases. He chose that practice because, he will tell you unabashedly even though you're clearly writing it down, many drunk drivers come from higher up the socioeconomic ladder, meaning "they can pay," unlike burglars and drug dealers.

O'Reilly is stocky, with longish curly salt-and-pepper hair, a splotchy complexion, and teeth that protrude slightly, giving him a Kennedy-cousin-esque profile. A longtime Kerry supporter and donor, he became so upset with the senator's position on the war that he sold off his law firm last year to run for the seat, plowing upward of $200,000 of his own money, he says, into the effort. His lust for this business is all-consuming. He's hyper, garrulous, and funny, a hustler. His girlfriend of 14 years calls him "Captain Chaos." Working an Elks hall in Gloucester before a speech to a group of Rotarians, O'Reilly estimated he's done 400 campaign events so far, even crashing some of Kerry's. He's been on CNN with Wolf Blitzer and on Fox News with Brit Hume. "Day in and day out, I do this," he said. "This is all I do." He said he'd stayed up until 4 a.m. the night before, "typing." "Sometimes I get keyed up and just start typing."

O'Reilly's critiques of Kerry are well worn. "John Kerry lives in another world; he just visits our world," he says. His speech to the Gloucester Rotary was a rambling affair that, while it had the hometown audience in stitches, lacked what you might call ballast. He hadn't really prepared for it. But then, O'Reilly hadn't really prepared for his big convention speech, either. He just winged it, and let Kerry bury himself. "I learned as a lawyer, if someone keeps talking, let 'im go! These people are sitting there bored stiff. Let 'im go!"

In other words, O'Reilly is the perfect instrument for Massachusetts Dems looking to exact a mild dose of revenge against Kerry: too rough around the edges to actually win, but possessed of the kind of relentless hustle that has made it impossible for Kerry not to respond.

The senator was running late again as he arrived in Lawrence, Massachusetts, for the second leg of his "Kerry on Your Corner" tour. The venue this time was the Cedar Crest Restaurant, a storied establishment owned and operated by a former mayor of the city. It's the sort of place that boasts the unique combination of dark wood walls and yellow-tinted glass light fixtures that is like catnip to extremely old people; indeed, several groups of extremely old people noiselessly ate lunch in the corners during the event.

The back room was stocked with more old people, as well as some local political activists, pols, state workers, and seriously resentful-looking children. A couple of IBEW union guys were hanging around outside. When Kerry showed up, there was again that buzz, but it was killed mere minutes into a brutally lifeless Q & A session that sent a few attendees inching for the door. Throughout, Kerry dutifully fielded questions, though he also constantly shifted in his seat, furiously playing with his wedding ring. One line in my notes reads simply: "Immense, almost unbearable lassitude."

An older guy stood up to ask a question. "Senator," he said, "people all over are just losing their faith in the fairness of the federal government. Now, you understand all the big problems, but can you please do something about earmarks?"

After a few moments of silence, Kerry replied, "Well." Pause. "What do you mean by that, ‘do something about earmarks'?"

"The people in the House and the Senate who just slip their private bills in without ever seeing a vote, statues for their hometown park or whatever."

"Well," said Kerry, "we have a law now, we're not allowed to do—we still have earmarks. I'm going to be very up-front with you. I do not want to get rid of earmarks completely."

The guy responded to this information with an expression of utter disdain, as if to say, What are you, a moron? Earmarks! Said Kerry, "No, sir, I do not." He went on to explain how funding works for local projects, stressing the need for transparency and the appropriate agency approvals. But the man very clearly wasn't having it. In all likelihood he would go back home and inform his friends how Senator Kerry has no problem with congressmen from Alaska shoveling their hard-earned tax dollars into the garbage. Maybe he'd throw a few anonymous comments involving windsurfing or France up on the
Herald's website for good measure.

Let's pause here. Put yourself in John Kerry's shoes for a moment: Four years ago he was the toast of half the nation. He was giving rousing(ish) speeches to arenas filled with supporters. He was standing at the podium at the Fleet Center, balloons raining down around him, people screaming his name over thundering strains of Bruce Springsteen's "No Surrender." He got that close to being the most powerful man in the world. And now, in this grim room, in this grim town, he has to sit here and field dumb questions from Talk Radio Nation, and a handful of other people lazing around like bags of feed. It's hard to blame him for being listless. I'd be suicidal.