The Granite grind

NASHUA, N.H. -- We are nearing the end of the one week out of every 208 when America actually takes some interest in what the people of New Hampshire have to say.

Nothing changes. The forests of candidate signs sprout like mutant plants in the brown snow. The bar at the Sheraton Wayfarer is awash with the bald judgments and wet lies of hacks and consultants. The motorcades pass like crows over the back roads toward another snooze. Reporters ask questions -- no, beg for answers -- from people they consider representative of no one.

This weird little state bristling with sharp edges wallows in another quadrennial burst of attention before sinking into the granite again like Brigadoon. Meanwhile, we Bostonians suffer the collateral damage of political ads that blanket our airwaves like mustard gas.

Then again, everything changes. Iowa, bless its soul, rescued a Democratic nomination fight that was almost throttled in its crib. New Hampshire, until this week, was uncommonly quiet because the players were slugging it out in meatpacking houses in another time zone. Now it's as hot as ever.

The Observer awakes from his torpor and just has to smell the political napalm in the morning. So off he goes to an event -- any event -- north of Methuen.

I end up on Wednesday at Roland's Family Restaurant in Nashua, where John Edwards stopped a tad after noon. Billy Zaharopoulos, a Greek American, has owned the place for 18 years. He bought it from Roland, a French-Canadian to the best of Billy's memory, who opened it in 1947.

Roland's is a perfect venue for a political event. Too small to hold a decent crowd, the place will be packed even if no one shows up but staff. And it has classic New Hampshire everyman credentials: formica, vinyl booths, and a robust menu of offerings that hermetically seal your arteries.

At 11, the place is perking along nicely. Locals, most with some mileage on them, chew the cud at tables and booths. A group of network folk finish a late breakfast at the counter, where I find my old friend Benson Ginsburg, a veteran CBS cameraman, who reminisces with me about the 1984 Democratic campaign. (New Hampshire, if nothing else, is reunion time for recidivist political junkies.)

By 11:30, other crews and still photographers are pouring in, extraterrestrials in shades, hats, and cold weather padding. (To determine what to wear in the early primaries, take your cue from the camera crews.) Enter the portable step ladders and the sound booms that hover over people like cranes. Even some Nashua residents join the scrum out of curiosity.

Then Edwards's staff materializes. You can recognize staff, any staff, because they resemble young undertakers in topcoats and terminal earnestness. They pass out pamphlets of Edwards's positions on issues. These documents look like DVD manuals.

By 11:45, the place is an official fire hazard. No one can move. Bye-bye, bathroom. Cameramen are set up on their ladders around the room like weathervanes. Most of the clientele had no idea this tsunami was coming. One woman at a strategically perilous table is interviewed with the lights and the sound boom about a foot from her face.

Imagine: You go out for a tuna melt and end up in a media nightmare.

The networks pull the shades down for better shooting light. No, say the still photogs, the dark is lousy. A compromise is reached. One shade stays down.

The waitresses complain in Greek and English that they're losing business.

Edwards signs are now bobbing outside the window. The campaign bus is here. More people squeeze into Roland's. Someone puts a milk case on the floor to elevate the candidate. Then John Edwards, a flashbulb specter, inches his way in.

He starts talking about The Two Americas of George Bush and the rest of us. By now, I can not see nor hear him. My view is the back of a cameraman's cable-stitch sweater. I stand on a stool to hear Edwards say, in response to Bush's State of the Union address, "The union of special interests in strong."

There's noise back in the kitchen. Four waitresses wait it out there, talking in two languages until a network producer hisses them to silence, briefly.

Edwards is on the pharmaceuticals and drugs from Canada, tax cuts, and credit card abuses. Cellphones ring. Reporters scribble furiously in notebooks.

After about 20 minutes, he takes questions. We hear him on stem cell research and the Confederate flag. ("It is a divisive symbol and should not be flown.") He excoriates Washington lobbyists and war profiteering in Iraq.

By now, most of the cameras are off. The still photographers are bored. Uh-oh. That means they're looking for arty shots. One of them starts shooting the mirrors to get reflections of crowds on the other side of the room. Then they all do.

Edwards leaves in a human coil. Those of us media trapped inside assume he's telling our colleagues important things outside and experience agita. By the time we reach the door, he and his bus are gone.

The street is still, save a few stray reporters still thrusting their microphones into people's faces. Then they leave. It's as if none of this ever happened.

So did I dream this or what?

Sam Allis can be reached at allis@globe.com.