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At one point I wander through the office to take in the strange Salvation Army feel of the place. Besides the peeling paint, there are missing ceiling panels, and — more alarmingly — a mysterious nook with the sort of flower-patterned kid's bed that my big brother used to beat me on in our basement while his friends watched. I picture Gingrich kicking off a pair of weathered Florsheim shoes during the peak of his surge in December, leaning back with the sort of evil smile that one might imagine he wears after a racy motel rendezvous with a mistress. I'm already queasy from trying to convince voters that Gingrich is the man with the plan. This isn't helping.

At one point there's a flutter of conversation audible from the hallway, and I start jotting down what I can hear while pouring a sad cup of the stale coffee in the kitchen. One staffer suggests that one of the rival candidates had begun a robo-call campaign. Another describes the Dixville Notch Town Hall — "a fahkin' crackhouse" — while one supporter asks how the Mexican event is lining up: "Are the Spanish responding?"

I trudge through each auto-connect call that the system cues up, one after another. In a former life, I did telephone sales for a corrupt UK-based B2B publisher in Manhattan, so I'm comfy blathering by phone to strangers trying to sell something that I don't believe in. Before I leave, a tall campaign staffer — working in his own office with the yellow "Don't Tread on Me" flag stretched across the wall — praises my phone skills and asks if I'll be continuing to fight for Newt. For a moment I can picture a new career path in presidential politics, working for whoever emerges for the GOP.

Then I remember the kiddy bed I saw earlier, which triggered a particular moment of clarity: I'd already been mercilessly whipped on a daily basis by a cruel thug and his platoon of cronies. It's just about as fun as it sounds.

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ARTICLES BY DAN MCCARTHY
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