middle-class, and we weren't going to do that by scaring them off. I grew up in a blue-collar home, factory, my dad was union. I wasn't one of those kids from West Hartford or Avon. I was East Hartford."

(Airbrushed out of his bio was this: Mr. Dolan was an employee of Pratt & Whitney Aircraft, supplier of jet engines for the US military aircraft dropping bombs on North Vietnam. That union job was the nexus of bitter arguments over holiday dinner tables, at one point driving father and son to non-speaking corners, backs turned, which held right up to the old man's fatal heart attack.)

Sam took a toke, and shook his head, thinking way back to the campaigns of 1968 and 1972. "Long, strange trip, man! As Sauladvised, you don't win by looking like a freak. Put on a suit, infiltrate. I think we have a real good chance now with Jimmy Carter." He lounged on the couch, his arm around Patti, she absorbed in the TV. They both wore beige flares, were in stocking feet, their Earth Shoes in the bedroom. The beehive was long gone, a Farrah Fawcett flip in place; her head bobbed to the blues-rock as she took a hit of the joint handed her by Sam. A few pounds heavier than in 1963, a hint of belly, but still gorgeous. Red sighed, felt a stab of envy. Sam was a lucky man.

Jack swigged from a bottle of Boone's Farm, took the occasional hit. Rory Gallagher laughed as he made his