Mayday! Mayday!

This is a campaign disaster, the political equivalent of a plane crash, and Larry M. Epstein is the pilot.

He thought he was the Republican candidate for state comptroller. But somehow he has become the teacher in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

L "Then there is the Y2K problem. You all familiar with that?"

Thirteen inert eighth-graders stare at him. Their bodies slump in a mid-morning torpor, heads balancing on hands, droopy eyelids closing fast. The most energetic among them steal furtive glances at the clock. There is much, much time left.

"Does everyone know what a computer virus is?"

More silence. Heavy-lidded stares. Three weeks before Election Day, Epstein stands in a Bel Air classroom that contains exactly four adults of voting age. He could meet more voters changing a flat.

Why do they do it? Why do politicians wear funny hats, rise before dawn to shake hands at Metro stops and endure enough chicken dinners to sprout feathers? Why do they humble themselves before a public that ranks them somewhere between telephone solicitors and graffiti artists?

They do it for votes, sure, but where's the satisfaction in winning? We live in a mean political age, with subpoenas and sensational accusations replacing Fourth of July speeches and civil discourse. Both political parties say it's more difficult to attract new candidates.

Is there any joy in running?

"Absolutely," says Stephen H. Sachs, the former Maryland attorney general who ran for governor in 1986 and lost in the Democratic primary. "It's fun in terms of meeting people and learning. It was a tremendous education for me and my family."

Every politician has a campaign horror story. Losing a speech. Getting the wrong directions to an important event. Learning you aren't universally loved. Sachs held out his hand to a prison guard in Hagerstown and had it spat upon.

What's surprising is how many politicians enjoy the campaign life. Or atleast say they do. You know you can't trust them. (Another job hazard: cheap shots.)

"I've been to a thousand meetings since the spring of 1997," says Ralph G. Neas, the Democratic candidate for Congress from Montgomery County. "I average 18 hours a day. I go to speeches and coffees every single night. ... It's exhilarating. You think you are doing something that transcends self."

This is the first time Neas has run for office. Ask candidates why it's fun, and they yammer like college graduates at their first job interviews. I'm a people person, they say. I'm a people person who likes helping people because there's lots of good people out there. People who need people are the luckiest ... you get the idea.

Sachs reveals another reason.

"It's a high," he says.

Candidates and the people who work for them say embarking on a political campaign is one of life's great adrenalin rushes. First, there's the competition. Then there's the non-stop activity and the knowledge that other people agree with you and are volunteering to help you. Then, come Nov. 3, you receive the world's most public report card.

"I love it, I absolutely love it," says Jason Shoemaker, 20, a junior at Loyola College and a field representative for Republican Ellen R. Sauerbrey's campaign for governor. Shoemaker's job is driving Richard Bennett, Sauerbrey's running mate, around the state.

"I've learned more in the past two months going out on the campaign trail with Dick Bennett than I have learned in the rest of my life," Shoemaker says. "You just feel like you're so much a part of something that matters."

Feeding the ego

And don't forget the ego food. If you're a candidate, you're in demand. Community groups ask you to speak. Supporters give you money. Neighborhoods invite you to walk in their parades -- former U.S. Rep Helen Delich Bentley says she liked the parades best of all.

"If you have an ego -- and you can't be in politics without one -- there's the applause," Sachs says. "When you get the recognition and the approval, that means a great deal. But it's also about trust.

"It's a very sobering and moving thing to have people trust you."

Don't misunderstand. The campaign trail isn't all chicken gravy. There's begging for money and scrambling for votes and learning how little sleep the human body actually needs.

But Julian L. Lapides has fond memories of his seven terms in the Maryland Senate. He remembers campaigning door-to-door in the 1960s, when people sat on their front steps and didn't

mind a visitor. One person gave him a check. Another, a jar of spaghetti sauce. Another invited him in for a drink.

Now, with so many political advertisements on television, "there's no interaction with another human being," he says. "People would really welcome you. Today everyone's hiding behind closed doors."

Candidates run for any number of reasons, both selfish and altruistic, says Joseph Tecce, a neuro- psychologist at Boston College who has studied presidential candidates.

Some believe in public service. Some want to change the world. Some want to help people. Some lust for power -- "they feel a sense of satisfaction in moving chess pieces around the board," he says. Almost all, at some elemental level, are seeking approval.

"On election night, politicians get a natural high by being validated by all those voters," Tecce says. "If they lose, that's a huge drop and a huge comedown."

And that's why candidates put on silly hats and stuff themselves with ethnic food and, if they live in Boston with Tecce, make the pilgrimage to an Irish pub.

"They make fools of themselves because they want to be part of the common herd," he says. "If there were 100,000 clowns in Boston, the candidates would dress up like clowns."

Perhaps the best analogy to the campaign trail is the athletic field, where decisions are made on the run and a winner is crowned. There's also a sense of teamwork.

"It's uncanny how much they're alike," says Chris Tolton, 21, a senior at Bowie State University, and he should know. He's a college baseball player who volunteers three days a week for the re-election effort of Democratic Gov. Parris N. Glendening.

"I equate the opponent with the pitcher," he says. "You can almost see what's coming, but you never really know and then they'll slip one in there."

But is it fun?

Releasing tension

When tension mounts, Peter Hamm, Glendening's campaign spokesman, strolls around the office quoting from the movie "Bull Durham": This is FUN. Come on, we're going to have some FUN. This game's about FUN.

If that doesn't work, he sings a line from "Mary Poppins": In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun.

"They don't seem to like that one as much," Hamm says.

"The bottom line is that when you're doing something because your heart is in it, it's going to be fun," he adds. "If it's not fun, you won't get up at 5 in the morning."

Let's return to the Bel Air classroom and check on Epstein.

"One of the goals I have is making Maryland more progressive," he tells the students. "Does anyone know what a bond rating is?"

Silence. More blank stares.

Maybe this is why William Donald Schaefer, the former Maryland governor, Baltimore mayor and Epstein's opponent for comptroller, says he knows of only two people who truly loved to campaign.

The first was Hyman A. Pressman, the late city comptroller. Schaefer says Pressman would compose spur-of-the-moment poems on the campaign trail. Schaefer remembers this one:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You sure are pretty,

So hoo-hoo-hoo.

The other official who loved campaigning was Louis L. Goldstein, who served as state comptroller for four decades and in the General Assembly for two. When Goldstein died in July, Schaefer and Epstein won primaries to replace him. Neither recites much poetry.

"It's a very serious matter with me," Schaefer says, very seriously. "Sometimes it's fun, but mostly it's going around trying to sell yourself and the programs you have. I don't do much joking about it."

Sense of humor helps

But even Schaefer must acknowledge funny things happen. Candidates need more than a sure handle on the issues. They also need a healthy sense of humor.

When Sachs was campaigning for governor, a voter tore up one of his leaflets and dropped the pieces at his feet. Leon, the candidate's teen-age son, came to the rescue: "That fellow doesn't seem to grasp the issues."

When Hamm was working in Minnesota to re-elect President Clinton, he scheduled a press conference on the environment that featured a U.S. senator, the state attorney general, a baby tiger and a baby snow leopard. No reporters showed up; they all were drawn to a triple homicide that occurred an hour before in another part of town. The tiger, in particular, was not amused.

When Paul Simon, the former Illinois senator, ran for president in 1988, his campaign stopped at a restaurant in a small Iowa town. The audience consisted of two old men. One said, "I'm for the death penalty." Simon shook his head. "I'm not." The two men left.

So Simon walked over to the cash register, where a mother and her 4-year-old son were waiting. "Hello, I'm Paul Simon and I'm running for president," he said. As the mother turned to greet him, the 4-year-old slugged Simon in the abdomen. The stricken candidate looked as if he'd been shot.

"You never know what they're going to say or what they're going to ask," former Gov. Harry R. Hughes says of voters. "You have to get a little thick-skinned."

Even now, though, with negative political advertisements and mud-slinging a given, the animosity between candidates rarely filters down to voters. Candidates say most voters are gracious when approached.

Dan Kenney, 22, a Towson University student and volunteer for Sauerbrey, receives a variety of reactions when he waves "Sauerbrey for Governor" signs on the street.

"You get people honking," he says. "You get people who'll give you a thumbs-up. Somebody'll give you the finger once in awhile, but it doesn't happen that often."

Back at Bel Air Middle School, Epstein would accept any reaction.

"The big difference between me and the other person is that he's a very good politician," he tells the students. "I don't consider myself a politician. I'm an accountant. Does anyone know what a certified public accountant is?"

More stares. A girl raises her hand. This is a start.

"What's your position?"

"What's my position on what?"

Flustered, the girl shrugs. Epstein bails her out. And then, finally, mercifully, the bell rings and the students bolt.

"I did the school because I thought it would be good public service," the candidate says. "I want students to know the importance of voting."

This day was typical. Epstein spoke to four classes, fielded calls in his office, visited a senior citizens center, attended a Carroll County forum and a Harford County Chamber of Commerce meeting.

"I don't like campaigning all that much," he says. "I find it belittling a little bit. More than that, I feel like I'm harassing people. Yet you have to do it. I hate it when a lot of people start shoving a lot of stuff in my face."

Schaefer, his opponent, has 10 times the campaign money and 10,000 times the name recognition, but Epstein is undeterred. "If people vote for who's most qualified to be comptroller, I'll win," he says.

And if not?

"You have to be able to take rejection, that's for sure," he says. "Everyone ought to go through this once, just to see what other people go through."

Pub Date: 10/22/98