It was a wet February night, with a full moon shining on the lakes
and sleepy ranch houses of Winter Haven, Florida. A twenty-eight-year-old
man, Byron Hileman, whose credentials are impressiveprofessor
of political science, husband, father, founder of a dozen political
action groupswas standing on the balcony of the Holiday Inn,
sighing and swabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
He shuddered and turned to his friend. "Well," he said,
"come on in and meet the Tiger Lady."
The second man hung back. He bent in to look in the window of the
motel room and saw a dark-haired young woman in jeans, sitting on
the bed with a telephone at her ear.
"That figures," Byron said. "Rose tells me so many
things to do that when I leave her room, my head is spinning. I took
two tranquilizers tonight for the first time in nine years. I've gained
five pounds in the past two days because I'm a compulsive eater when
I'm nervous. And my wife cried yesterday and the day before."
The friend slapped his leg and whispered: "Is that right!"
Through the window, they saw Rose hang up the phone and walk quickly
to the door. Byron moaned. "Here goes. Lambs to the slaughter."
In the two days that Rose Economou, advance woman for Senator Edmund
Muskie, had been in Winter Haven to prepare for a thirty-minute rally
at the train station the next weekend, she had given Byron Hileman,
her only "local contact," responsibility for the following:
getting out a crowd; moving people in buses; setting up a phone bank;
recruiting volunteers; calling all churches, clubs, and schools; inviting
bands, black leaders, unions and politicians; buying refreshments;
and sending literature to all registered Democrats.
So far, Byron had not done one of those things. He had no helpers.
There was no one but him, solitary and quaking, taking Rose's orders.
By the end of the week, a total of ten people were to be drawn into
the effort. Most of them wanted to help Muskie be elected President
of the United States. But by Friday, what they wanted more than that
was to see Rose Economou leave town.
The advance man has been a character in American politics for as
long as anyone knows. He arrives on location from two to ten days
before the candidate, and attends to every detail: the choice of VIPs
to ride in a motorcade; the eruption of a "spontaneous"
demonstration; the packing of a hall with excitable, photogenic bodies.
He is rarely paid, and has little to go on but his wits and nerve
and other people's needs and gullibility.
The job did not have a name until 1959, when Jerry Bruno built advance
work into a science for John F. Kennedy's presidential campaign. In
1972, the presidential candidates opened the field to women. The Muskie
organization received a windfall of publicity by introducing the first
two advance persons: Marsha Pinkstaff, a former Miss Indiana; and
Rose Economou, a social planner from Chicago. The women have functioned
no more and no less effectively than the men, for it turns out that
sex counts less in advance work than age. Nobody could do this job
much after thirty. It requires one to travel constantly, to have no
private life and to need no income other than living expenses on the
road. The advance man will never be sent back to the same town or
to his home state, because he is expected to make enemies and to take
the blame for anything that angers local supporters. Advance work
is called, by one veteran, "the absolute lowest level of politics.
The goal is serious, but the exercise is silly. Politics becomes an
effort at making things look good."
The effort to make Muskie look good on a two-day train trip down
the central gut of Florida had its origins last December. Muskie's
chief advance man, Michael Casey, sold the whistle-stop to campaign
strategists on the grounds that it would generate "a media explosion.
Because of the nostalgia element, we'll make all three nets."
Casey did not worry about details until February 2. Then he ran into
so many problems trying to lease railroad equipment that the dates
had to be changed three times. "I'm starting to sweat,"
Casey said, "and I'm a calm guy."
On February 10, he closed a rental agreement with Amtrak for $5,800,
pronounced the train "go" for February 18 and 19 and assigned
advance people to each of the eight towns on the route from Jacksonville
to Miami. Rose Economou (the name is Greek; it's pronounced like economy
but with a "moo" at the end) was deployed from New Hampshire
to Winter Haven. "Rose is really something in a small town,"
Casey said. "She's twenty-five, she's been advancing for tour
months and we've gotten a dozen letters from people who want her back."
I met up with Rose at the Tampa airport at two in the morning, Saturday,
February 12. She had not slept in several days, but words were spilling
from her in a whisper-jet voice, easy on the ear but persistent. "I
have one contact here, and our organization tells me they're having
trouble with him. I thought, uh oh, another dictator."
Rose was wearing aviator glasses and a white coat lined with fake
fur. She is slim, long-legged, with a wide face and strong jaw. "I
feel so awkward coming into Florida," she said. "But I can
visualize just how I want this stop: old-fashioney, with lots of bunting,
little kids with flags and high-school bands. Just one big party.
Won't that be fun!"
We slept four hours at an airport motel, then drove sixty miles inland,
past groves of orange trees and flat, lime-green fields with cows
grazing. When we reached what seemed to be the center of Winter Havenan
intersection with four corners of parking lots and a banner announcing
a Guy Lombardo concertRose said, "This is it? Oh, I'm starting
to feel sick inside."
She checked into the Holiday Inn, which was in the midst of welcoming
the Boston Red Sox to their winter quarters, and called up her local
contact. An hour later, he walked through the door: a short, slightly
overweight man wearing a brown suit with a Kiwanis pin in the lapel.
He gave her his card:
Byron P. Hileman, Professor Political Science, Polk Community College
She asked him to take her to see the train station. They had lunch
at a drive-in called Andy's Igloo and while waiting for hamburgers
and pineapple milk shakes, Rose asked Byron about the town. He ran
down the statistics: twenty-five thousand people in the city, fifty
thousand in the area. Democrats outnumber Republicans three to one.
Main industries: agriculture and tourism (because of Cypress Gardens).
"The county went to Wallace in '68, but things are changing.
The fact that I myself am involved in local politics is evidence.
I'm considered 'wildly liberal.' I am to Winter Haven what Jerry Rubin
would be to New York City."
Byron said he had worked for McCarthy in '68, but then became "terribly
disillusioned with the phoniness of the so-called New Consciousness.
To me, Muskie represents the antithesis of this phoniness, while he
has the right position on the issues. I volunteered to help out in
his campaign, but there were no other volunteers in the area so they
dumped the chairmanship in my lap."
As he drove Rose back to the motel, he said, "When they told
me you were coming, I thought, that's the strangest name I've ever
heard. But it grabs you." He laughed merrily. "Once you
get the hang of it, you can't get it out of your head."
When Byron left, Rose said, "I don't think he's so horrible.
I'm going to have him call a meeting tomorrow." She began thumbing
through the phone book. "Wouldn't it be great if we could draw
two thousand people? We could outcrowd Miami. Wouldn't that be out
of sight?" She bounced on the bed in excitement.
The phone rang. "Rose, I'm here!" It was Rich Evans, the
chief advance man in Florida, who was driving up the route of the
train, checking every stop. When he walked into Rose's room, he was,
as is his custom, grinning. "I think the secret to good advance
work is a big smile on your face. It throws people off." Rich,
a tall, hale blond, used to organize singles clubs across the country
before he became an advance man. "Everybody likes Rich,"
Rich suggested they go to a reception celebrating the start of the
annual Florida Citrus Showcase. They found the hall packed with red-faced
men and ladies wearing chiffon dresses, platinum hair, orange plastic
shoes and lavender eye shadow. Rich introduced himself to everyone
he saw. One man stepped back aghast. "Is Muskie coming here?
I'll tell you, whatever he's for, I'm not."
SUNDAY. Byron was nervously eating a piece of Danish pastry in the
coffee shop. Rose asked about volunteers. "Can we get ten people
Byron's face reddened. "Let me explain something to you. I'm
not enthusiastic about this visit at allit's come too late.
I've been sitting here the past two months screaming bloody murder
because nothing was getting done. Then last Friday, out of the blue,
I get two calls, one telling me to open two headquarters next week,
and the other telling me about the train. After that, I had one of
my infrequent fits. I tore a newspaper in half, cussed everybody out,
called the state office and told them to go to hell. When I got over
the fit, I figured, oh, what the hell. Now I'll help you all I can
to do this job, but your plans are overdrawn. I don't have any organization.
I just have one helperCharles Davis. I've got classes to teach
and my family to take care of. Things aren't gonna work out the way
Rose stayed in her room the rest of the day, washing her hair, making
calls and humming "The Swanee River." She spoke to the head
of the Muskie office in Tampa and asked if he could send busloads
to the rally. The man complained that no one in the state had been
consulted about doing a whistle-stop. "No Floridian would have
Rose hung up calmly. "What he doesn't understand is that this
is being done primarily for the media. It will also give our supporters
a feeling of momentum, but the effect on the general public will be
slight. It always is, except through the media."
The Muskie staff is "media sensitive," partly out of an
awareness that in 1968, according to a series of Galiup polls, less
than 6 percent of the people saw any one of the presidential candidates
in person. Yet Muskie's schedulers continue sending him to shake hands
at factories and shopping centers, asking for votes one at a time.
A partnership between the media and the candidates seems to keep politicians
locked in this ritual dance. The candidates say they must stage crowd
events and "visuals" like the train because the press demands
them; the press complains about "contrived routines," yet
continues to reward "visuals" with extra coverage and to
judge a candidate's merit by the crowds he draws. The press even helps
subsidize such campaigning. The Muskie organization, for example,
made back half the cost of renting the Florida train by charging each
reporter sixty dollars to ride it.
MONDAY. I spent the day driving to other towns along the train route;
when I returned to Winter Haven at sundown. Rose was pacing in her
room, swearing. "I've had a terrible day. The local newspaper
printed the wrong information because Washington sent them the old
schedule. I have no leaflets. No people to give out leaflets. And
I can't get phones installedit takes two weeks." She stamped
"I'm goddamned pissed! I've never been part of anything as bad
as what's going on in this town. And it's all my fault, because I
trusted these people." The phone rang it was Byron. "We're
gonna mail cards to everyone on the Democratic voter list," Rose
said. "We've got to get twenty-five volunteers to address twenty-four
hundred envelopes. I don't care how." She hung up. "I said
that just to make him nervous." She laughed. "I got four
hours sleep last night. That's why I'm acting this way."
That night, Byron drove to Lakeland, the largest town in Polk County,
for a meeting called by former Mayor Joe Ruthven to organize the Muskie
operation in the region. Byron had taken two tranquilizers and was
just calming down. "Rose has scared me out of my wits all day.
I figured she's the professional, right? If she's cracking up, it
must really be bad. I couldn't believe the language she used, right
in a store!"
I asked why he didn't give up. "There's too much of the Protestant
ethic in me. I feel like I can't let this poor girl down."
When Byron walked into the meeting at the OK Tire Store in Lakeland,
Mayor Ruthven asked, "Well, you all set to open the headquarters?"
Byron fidgeted. "We had planned to do it this week, but we've
been having a problem with this, uh, advance work. Senator Muskie's
coming to Winter Haven Friday, and we've got Rose Economou in town.
(He pronounced it Econo-mew.) She's the lady advance man, and she
says we have to send out twenty-four hundred invitations. Could you
loan us some volunteers?" Ruthven told him to bring the cards
to Lakeland and they would address as many as they could.
Byron walked out euphoric. "The weight has been lifted. I thought
I'd have to address twenty-four hundred envelopes myself, stay up
seventy-two hours and die of a cardiac when Muskie steps off the train."
Byron said he had never been this upset, "not even over my oral
exams. But I'm not suited for this work. I'm an academic. I can write
speeches like nothing, but when Rose hands me this broad organizational
task, I feel like it's a problem in calculus." There were three
passengers in the back seat, and all were howling with laughter at
Byron's style of exaggerated self-pity and terror. "And I like
Rose," Byron said. "If she'd take off her tiger suit she'd
be a real nice girl."
Byron had the effervescence knocked out of him when he stepped into
Rose's room. "Good news," he said. "I bear glad tidings.
The Mayor's people will address those envelopes. Okay? All right?
Rose, you don't seem very positive."
Rose did not look up. "What else did the Mayor say?"
"You answer me first. You're not gonna send them out, are you?"
"Why?" Byron asked weakly.
"I called Tampa. They have an offset machine and professional
secretaries. If we get the list there in the morning, they can do
it in a few hours."
She began rattling off the things to be done the next day. Byron
perched on the edge of the bed, struggling not to slip off, smoking
and trying to write down what she was saying. "Honey, wait, please
wait. We can't do ninety-two things at once."
"I'm gonna do more than I did today, goddamn it!"
TUESDAY. Rose woke up to heavy raina bad omen. Crowds shrink
from rain. In the afternoon, a box was delivered with five thousand
handbills printed in antique script: "Picnic at the Station,
Meet Ed Muskie."
"Oh, super," Rose said. "Aren't they beautiful?"
Byron nodded grimly. "I was happy for a moment, then I thought,
What am I happy for? They all have to be handed out."
He picked up the phone to order roses for his wife Becky. "She
screamed and broke four dishes this morning," Byron said. "She's
too young to take this kind of tension. We've only been married six
months, and she thinks she hardly ever sees me because of politics."
Rose suggested bringing her along. An hour later, Byron returned
with Becky and his two children by a previous marriage, a five-year-old
boy and a six-year-old girl. The kids watched television and took
to following Rose around, chanting her name. Becky, a blue-eyed, warm-spirited
girl of nineteen, found herself gradually sucked into the chaotic
process. She recruited her friends to work in the evening, ran errands,
typed, sewed and even made phone calls saying she was on Senator Muskie's
staff. "That's a laugh," she said. "I'm probably voting
Rose instructed Byron to find a school band to perform. "Tell
them the band will get to be on television, in Life magazine and all
the big newspapers." Byron tried every school in the county to
no avail. Before he went home, Rose gave him the evening's plan:
"Put two people on the phones, calling clergymen and asking
them to tell everybody they know. Have the other volunteers leaflet
at shopping centers and all the clubs that meet tonight, especially
the Knights of Columbus. They're a sure winner for us."
When Charles Davis came by, Rose told him, "Hit the high school
basketball game. Pass out handbills and recruit too. Go up to everybody
and say, 'Do you wanna help us with Senator Muskie's trip?'"
Charles scratched his head. "I don't feel right asking strangers
to work. This is the first time we're having a big-time campaign in
Florida. The kids are kinda apathetic."
"We have to change things," Rose said.
Charles, who is twenty-three and teaches geography in junior high,
picked up his fifteen-year-old sister Carole. She wore braces and
saddle shoes with pompons tied on the back, and carried a comb for
her hair, which was wet from swimming practice. "Now, Carole,
we're supposed to ask anybody and everybody that wants to and will,
to work with us on this train trip. The boss says to just ask people
Carole stood at the entrance to the gym, and most of the students
who passed her looked at the handbill and said something on the order
of "Ick." She forgot about recruiting. Charles fared no
better. They drove back to Byron's and announced, "We bombed."
There were three college students in the dining room, and one said,
"So did we. The shopping center was dead. The American Legion
wouldn't let us in, and the Knights of Columbus didn't even meet.
I wonder how Byron's doing at the Coin Club." Becky rolled her
head back and laughed. "I'm in a good mood now. I think this
is fun that it's all bombing."
Byron came home and asked Becky to get him a tranquilizer. He swallowed
it and called Rose. "Things are a mess. The clubs are not accepting
us so far." Rose told him to call the Grand Knight of Columbus
at his home. When Byron did, the Knight told him he couldn't make
an announcement to his group because they don't take political stands.
Byron said, "Being as Muskie is a Catholic, we were kind of depending
on the Knights . . ." He slammed down the phone. "What incredible
goddamned stupid people we have in this county! Who's asking for a
Becky said, "You wanna call some ministers?"
"Preachers?" Carole said.
"It was Rose's brilliant idea."
"Who is this mysterious Rose?"
"She's the boss, and you should see her," Becky said. "She
doesn't eat, she doesn't sleep. She's gonna kill herself. And she
doesn't get paid. I think Rose is crazy. Why else would she drive
herself like that?"
WEDNESDAY. "There's a jinx," Rose said. She and Becky drove
around town, shopping for supplies, and could not find one person
who knew about the train.
The motel room was becoming a disaster zone. Every surface was obscured
by stacks of paper, posters, bits of lumber, fliers, buckets of plastic
American flags (made in Japan), cases of beer, bunting, old sheets,
crepe-paper streamers and Styrofoam fake-straw hats. The motel was
close enough to the station so that whenever a train passed, there
was a faint whistling. The sound grew progressively more ominous.
Rose said she was on a "downer. I have no band. I need more
people and not Byron at the top. I just don't feel I'm being effective
At six that night, there was supposed to be a sign-painting party
at Byron's house. Rose got there at eight. Seven people were sitting
on the floor, still working on their first sign. They were measuring
with rulers, outlining in pencil and laboriously coloring in spaces.
George Harrison was singing "Wah Wah" on the stereo. Rose
took a brush and started painting directly on cardboard:
"The sun shines on Senator Muskie." Byron returned from
his night class in a sweat. "Where is she? Rose, where were you
at six? We had seven people here sitting on their asses for two hours."
Rose said, "They still are," and walked off to the back
Byron, startled, turned to the seven limp forms. "Look, we gotta
have some organization. All fifty signs have to be done. Don't measure.
Just eyeball 'em."
The group groaned and came to life; they began scrawling on the signs:
"Ed," "We like Muskie," "Super Ed."
Rose, alone in the back room, was making a master banner out of three
bed sheets. Byron sat at the phone, calling everyone he could think
of and begging them to help decorate the station. He made a list of
people who could work. "Rose, we're making progress," he
Rose yelled: "Tell them to bring hammers, stepladders, rope,
"Damnation," Byron said. "Hey, Rose, I'm gonna assign
all my classes to come. That'll be a small crowd."
Byron: "I never get any reaction from that woman."
He opened his third cigarette pack of the day. "This whole thing
has put me in a real personal quandary. I have a desire myself to
run for office. I can see myself on the floor of the State Capitol
being some classy legislator. It's appealing. But if I had to live
under this tension . . ."
Everyone was leaving now, and one young man got in his car, started
the motor and smashed right into Rose's car. "I didn't see it,"
the young man said. "I just didn't see it."
THURSDAY. Rain again. But at last, a story about the train appeared
on the front page of the Winter Haven News-Chief. Rose asked Tom Skinner,
a round-faced, slow-moving young man, to find a place to buy popcorn
and rent Early American costumes. "Rent one for me, Becky, and
Byron." Byron said, "I will not be in costume." Everyone
Rich Evans called up for a report. Rose said, "Oh, baby, I have
no music, no VIP guests. What's my program? The band that we don't
have will be playing when the train pulls in, and we'll have
two hundred wet people, because it's raining. If it rains hard we'll
be lucky to get fifty."
Four hours later, a local rock band was talked into playing for free.
Tom got a friend who works in a dime store in Lakeland to promise
to pop four sacks of corn, as a special favor. And Byron arranged
for the Florida Citrus Queen to present Muskie with a glass of orange
At four-thirty, Byron, Tom and Becky's teen-age brother Jim tied
a rented speaker onto Rose's car and took off to cruise. Byron picked
up the microphone. "Senator Edmund Muskie . . ." Jim laughed
and scrunched down. "I hate to be stared at." Tom said,
One old man on the street booed.
Tom said, "I'm waiting for a bullet to hit the windshield."
They pulled up to a canning plant just as the workers were getting
off. Byron began his pitch, and the mike went dead. "What next,
what the hell next! Jim, can you fix it?"
Jim was jiggling the wires. "It's just like my amplifiers. But
I have no confidence in myself." He held the wires at an angle
and the power came back. By this time, the workers had disappeared.
They drove to the Northgate Shopping Center, which, to their joy,
was teeming with traffic. Byron started to speak, but now the mike
switch wouldn't work. He began to laugh, groan and pound his head
on the upholstery. "Every goddamned thing I touch turns to shit!
I want to go home. I want my mama is what I want. Tell Rose I died.
Tell the Senator tomorrow I'm indisposed, I'm being driven to the
Jim was using a can opener to take the microphone apart. Tom hit
the brakes suddenly, and all the tiny wires, screws and microscopic
curlicues spilled down the cracks in the floorboard. Everyone collapsed
with manic laughter. Recovering, Byron said, "They call Rose
the ten-percenter because she turns out ten percent of the population
in some towns. Winter Haven is gonna lower her average severely."
Back at the motel, Rose told Tom and another student to get something
to eat and charge it to her room. "Go on, you've been working
hard." Byron said lightly, "You've never offered to buy
Rose: "You haven't done any work."
Byron did a double take. He stalked out to the restaurant with the
others, ordered a hamburger and paid for it himself. He was so furious
he could hardly swallow. "I've been abused once too often. When
this is over I'm resigning. It's never enough, no matter how hard
you try, and I've tried to the best of my ability. Rose has never
said I've done a good jobnot one word of praise or thanks. If
she had, I'd have felt a lot better about things."
Tom was staring sadly at his plate. "I think Rose should apologize
to you." Byron shook his head. "She doesn't care about people's
feelings. She just used me as an instrument. If she'd been a man,
I'd have punched her in the mouth."
When Rose heard later that Byron was angry, she said, "Is that
the royal screw. If the stop goes well, Byron will get all the God-blessed
glory and I'll disappear. I don't mind it if people hate me. But when
Byron gives everyone this defeatist attitude, they end up hating politics."
FRIDAY. Miraculously, the day began with clear sunlight. Byron had
stayed up most of the night writing Rose a twelve-page letter explaining
why he was hurt. He dropped it at the front desk and left to teach
his classes. Rose put the letter in her purse without opening it.
Seconds later she had forgotten it. Her mind was fixed on a single
Through the morning, she ran nervously around the train station in
jeans and a yellow sweater. She threw bits of crepe paper on the palm
trees and cactus, while others wrapped streamers around poles, hung
bunting and attached pairs of American flags to the walls.
At noon, she went back to the motel to pack. Byron arrived at the
station, missing her by minutes; after checking the scene, he went
home to change. When Rose returned, dressed in a suede miniskirt and
high-heeled sandals, the station was deserted. She started blowing
up balloons. She had a dozen on strings when she suddenly remembered
something. "Where's Byron?" She stood still, blinking, as
if the lighting had just been altered. "I wonder why he wasn't
Without warning, a gritty wind came up, tearing the crepe paper from
the walls. Tom asked Rose who would be picking up the popcorn from
Lakeland. "No one," she said. "I decided to get hamburgers
from McDonald's instead." Tom flushed. "My friend got up
at six this morning to fix that popcorn."
At one-thirty, the first official crowd members arrived. They were
mostly senior citizens, who lined up their cars facing the tracks
and just sat in them, waiting. At three, the buses from Tampa delivered
one hundred fifty students, and the grounds took on a festive air.
The students danced in the parking lot, drank beer and tossed Frisbees.
Byron drove up with his family and started furiously passing out buttons.
The handmade signs popped up above the crowd, hovered a few minutes
and then all but three went under. "They're hard to hold in the
wind," one girl said.
At three fifty-five, the crowd pressed toward the platform. By my
estimate, there were at most four hundred. Rose said, "Let's
sing 'God Bless America!'" No one did, so she started cheering
loudly by herself: "We want Muskie!"
At four-ten, a whistle floated in from the north, followed by a black
engine. Byron turned his eyes heavenward. Rose was jumping up and
down screaming, "Muskie! Muskie!" The train chugged through
with Rich Evans hanging over the side, Roosevelt Grier singing "Aquarius,"
girls waving, flags flying, TV cameras poking out, and, lo, why, there
was Ed Muskie! Right there on the back platform, in a bright blue
shirt, smiling and reaching for hands.
After Byron introduced him, the first thing Muskie said was how much
fun it was to do a whistle-stop. Muskie knewall the candidates
knowwhat went on in Winter Haven, in all the towns, in preparation
for his arrival.
Muskie spoke about "pollution of the human environment."
He described the pollution due to "unkindness, fear and hatred,"
and said the goal of Americans should be to reach "not the moon
but each other's hearts." "A-a-a-men," Rosie Grier
sang. The train started off; the crowd waded up the tracks until Muskie
was only a blue spot with arms. Five minutes later, the station was
There was no celebrating, no after-party for the volunteers. When
the decorations were ripped down, everyone went off in the hissing
wind. Charles Davis said, "I think it was worth it. I think Muskie
got a lot of publicity, and I had some fun." Becky was leading
her two exhausted children by the arms. "Peace," she whispered.
Tom Skinner said he would do it all again, "with somebody other
than Rose. I don't think you oughta step on people like she did."
Byron sighed. "Maybe in two weeks I'll be glad I went through
Rose herself was disappointed at the crowd. "But for here, I
think it was a success. And I only got three people angry at me. That's
not so bad. That's the nature of my job. There are so many forces
pulling you in every direction, you just can't leave everybody happy.
That's why women haven't done it before. No one thought they could
be tough enough."
In the car driving off, she read Byron's letter. When she finished,
she said, "I had to be brutal with these people because they
didn't realize the magnitude of the thing." She said she had
known the day she arrived that it would be "criminal" to
rely on Byron. "But I was dependent on him. He was the only one
who had information, and contact with Muskie sympathizers. I think
by the end of the week, he reached a much greater capacity to do this
work than he thought he was capable of. And I don't think he'll quit,
because he'll find out he likes it."
At midnight, Rose got on a Greyhound bus headed for Miami. She planned
to sleep in the airport until she could get a plane north, where she
had two days to advance a labor rally in New Hampshire. While in transit,
she would write her report on Winter Haven, and perhaps work on a
needlepoint pillowcase for her mother.
At the depot, she stood in her coat in the milk-warm night, her skin
still winter pale. "I feel just full of energy," she said.
though I know I didn't do a good job here, I feel at peace. It's
as if I haven't been working." She picked up her suitcase, spun
around abruptly and waved. "I can't wait for the next advance