'All you have to be is a citizen'

It's 110 degrees outside. The sun feels like an acetylene torch on your skin. The asphalt turns to goo underfoot, as if you're walking on a river of oil. Your sweat glands have to work so hard, they're demanding union wages.

Which means, of course, that if you're running for governor of Nevada, it's a perfect day to roam Las Vegas and put up campaign signs.

There's no one to help out, so you load a few dozens signs into the back of your '88 Toyota pickup, the one with 190,000 miles on it. Your hands already ache from the five painstaking hours you spent assembling the signs. Your pocketbook aches even more from their $1,500 price tag, a not-so-small chunk of change saved up from your day job as a garbage man.

Still you soldier on, crisscrossing the city from South Durango Drive to North Nellis Boulevard. You post more signs than the Nevada Department of Transportation because you're a true believer in democracy and the American way, with the sunburn to prove it.

Could this be a rare, behind-the-veil glimpse of Jan Laverty Jones on the stump?

Guess again. Welcome to a day in the political life of Carlo Poliak, a self-described "one-man band without an orchestra." Besides serving as candidate, Poliak doubles as his campaign's manager, press secretary, chief strategist, voter coordinator, receptionist and sign assembler. So it goes for a working guy with rolled-up sleeves and shallow pockets chasing the state's highest office.

"People feel disenfranchised. They're not being duly represented," Poliak said. "I want to see someone from the general public in there, not from the 'in' crowd, not from a clique -- someone who can talk from the heart."

A Silver State Disposal Service Inc. employee for 16 years, Poliak is one of nine hopefuls gunning for the Democratic nomination for governor. Two in that crowded field, front-runners Jones and longtime state Sen. Joe Neal, are virtually household names. The others are lucky if their neighbors recognize them.

Among those who make up what might be dubbed the "Invisible Seven," three hold decidedly unconventional jobs, at least by conventional political standards: Poliak, 58; his co-worker at Silver State, Caesar Adamson, 42; and topless dancer Barbara Scott, 43, who splits her time between the campaign trail and the runway at Glitter Gulch.

Even in the peculiar realm that is Nevada politics, where the weird and the aberrant play, the bids of Poliak, Adamson and Scott would seem the very definition of "fringe." Two garbage men, a stripper and the governor's mansion: Sounds like a TV sitcom, not Election '98.

Yet as the trio is quick to point out, based on their W-2 forms alone, they have far more in common with working Nevadans than the "big-timber candidates," to borrow Poliak's phrase.

Consider campaign spending. Jones has the millions of her husband, businessman Richard Schuetz, to help pay her way. On the Republican side, Kenny Guinn has won the campaign version of Megabucks by collecting some $3 million in donations from the gaming industry. Aaron Russo has dipped into his personal Hollywood fortune to pay for a haircut and $50,000 worth of TV ads a week. (Lt. Gov. Lonnie Hammargren and Las Vegas businessman Bruce Westcott, both 60, round out the Republican field.)

Meanwhile, Poliak, Adamson and Scott will spend a whopping $18,000 on their campaigns. Combined.

Despite their working-class shadings, the three remain outsiders to the Democratic machine, the media and the party faithful, not to mention long shots -- the ghost of Bugsy Siegel has a better chance of winning -- to succeed Gov. Bob Miller.

To them, their pariah status represents an essential perversion of democracy, namely that blue-collar laborers, who comprise 70 percent of the country's work force, are treated as intruders in the political process while lawyers, corporate honchos and the rest of the white-collar minority hoist the mainstream flag.

But Poliak, Adamson and Scott don't much care whether no one sent them invitations to Tuesday's primary. They're crashing the Democratic Party anyway -- and they think voters will follow them.

"This is not a campaign for me," Scott said. "I'm not a puppet for the casinos. And I'm not a mouthpiece for the party. I'm here for the working people."

Poliak began the governor's race advocating the creation of a state lottery to fund education. Then several weeks ago, while waiting at the Reno airport for a flight back to Las Vegas, he struck up a conversation with three New Jersey women. They explained that their state funnels its lottery revenues into care for senior citizens.

Never say a politician can't change his mind.

"I said, 'That's it. That's the missing piece of my platform,'" Poliak recalled. "So now I think we should have a lottery that would help pay for better care for the elderly."

Hard to imagine Jones, Guinn or Russo changing shoes without first consulting their handlers, much less their stance on an issue. In that respect, a nothing-to-lose candidate such as Poliak brings a refreshing quality to the race, speaking his mind instead of listening to spin doctors. If he consults anything, it's his photocopy of Title 18, the section of the Nevada Code detailing the governor's duties, that he keeps with him at all times.

Such self-reliance comes naturally to someone who tosses around trash bags eight hours a day before setting out to drop a little shoe leather along the campaign trail. Aside from cutting into his sleep -- Poliak survives on five hours a night -- his political ambition quite literally has carried a price. Taking a handful of days off from work to tend to his campaign has cost him $2,000 in pay -- money that political-action committees aren't exactly scrambling to help him recoup.

Even so, Poliak, who punctuates his words with hand gestures that a football referee might appreciate, won't ask for help from friends and co-workers.

"My contemporaries are so preoccupied with providing for their families and working to pay the bills, trying to stay ahead of the bill collector, I couldn't really impose on them," said Poliak, who has previously run for governor, Congress and mayor of Las Vegas. "I decided that I would make the personal sacrifice on their behalf. I'll be their champion."

With more than a few well-heeled candidates looking to cop an authentic blue-collar attitude, Poliak's resume is one they would do well to crib. Before getting into the trash business, the 25-year Las Vegas resident worked as a Realtor and insurance agent, and later as a dealer at the Dunes hotel-casino. A U.S. Army veteran, he's a shade-tree mechanic who can discuss with equal acuity the benefits of flushing out a radiator with vinegar and raising the state gaming tax.

The irony of Poliak's sterling working-class credentials is that even as voters clamor for candidates who relate to average folks, he stands little chance of breaking through. No matter how articulate his thoughts on keeping nuclear waste out of Nevada, and while some would argue that a garbage man is the perfect person to clean up government, Poliak knows the establishment regards him as a politico non grata.

Take the Culinary Union. Despite being a member, Poliak said he was "brushed off" by union leaders when he approached them for support. Before the Nevada State Education Association handed down its endorsement for governor to Jones earlier this month, the group held interviews with each candidate. Poliak received less than 10 minutes of face time.

Maybe because he's used to knee-jerk rejection, Poliak savors the little victories of campaign life, such as the $5 contribution he received in the mail from a retired electrician in Reno, a man he's never met. Or the woman who liked the slogan on his signs: "For the people and of the people."

Those occasional morale boosts move Poliak to predict that Nevada will witness a blue-collar revolution this fall. And should workers unite to elect him, he plans to uphold a truly radical pledge -- a pledge none of the front-runners is apt to crib.

"I'm going to be a full-time governor, something we've never had," Poliak said. "I'm going to work eight hours a day. That's a promise."

Taking an unpaid leave of absence from a good-paying job seems like a sacrifice one would make to indulge in something deeply personal. Traveling to distant lands, perhaps. Climbing a mountain. Writing a book.

Learning about Nevada's goat tax.

Call it an exquisite form of self-torture or the political equivalent of cramming for a final exam. To prepare for the governor's race, Caesar Adamson spent July with his nose buried in the Nevada tax code. Instead of his usual chore of driving a garbage truck for Silver State, he boned up for a month on the nuances of property taxes, the gaming tax and, yes, the 6-cent-a-head goat tax.

"You have to be informed," Adamson explained. "You have to know what you're getting into."

Indeed. In a three-ring binder on which he has scrawled "Tax Info" in black magic marker across the cover, Adamson has stuffed enough notes, photocopies and state tax reports to pass himself off as a CPA.

He's using the materials to buttress the widest plank of his platform: The need for a renters' tax on apartment tenants. Adamson maintains that imposing a 7 percent rent tax would raise more money for education, thereby easing the space crunch in area schools while holding down property taxes on homeowners.

In a broader sense, Adamson's quest to decipher the tax code -- a tome of, by and for attorneys -- parallels the struggles of the working class to chisel away at the lawyer-encrusted political system. A father of three who has driven trucks carrying something or other -- mail, milk and now garbage -- for more than two decades, Adamson hopes his candidacy will prod others to run, Harvard pedigree and PAC donations be damned.

"People are thinking that you have to have a doctorate degree and millions of dollars in the bank to be a candidate," said Adamson, who owns a degree in general studies from the Community College of Southern Nevada. "Money can be an intimidating factor, but if we give up before we even begin, we cease to realize any potential we might have. It isn't about your education. It isn't about the kind of job you have. All you have to be is a citizen."

That simple epiphany awakened the longtime North Las Vegas resident in 1988, when he attended the Democratic Party's state convention as a delegate. Bumping shoulders with thousands of fellow voters, Adamson realized he should have stood up for himself years ago instead of sitting back.

"I was sorry I had stayed home so long. You have to get involved. If people really knew the influence they had, they could really change the system," he said. "If we don't speak out, who's going to speak for us?"

Now that he's found his voice, Adamson thinks he has a shot at winning the primary, although he has yet to post a single campaign sign or knock on even one voter's door. His faith has roots in the sheer number of "regular, everyday people" who decided to run for governor. He figures with two Silver State employees in the race -- Adamson and Poliak are acquaintances, but entered unaware of the other's intentions -- working Nevadans finally will have a chance to leave Jones, Guinn & Co. at the curb.

"This shows that people are tired of the garbage," Adamson said, laughing. "We need to take it out."

---

Barbara Scott has never sought elected office. But if sound bites are the truest measure of a candidate, she's served longer than Stalin did. And if honesty retains any value as a political commodity, she's the anti-Clinton. Let 'er rip:

On her profession: "Why would a person elect a lawyer before electing me, a topless dancer? Lawyers don't have any integrity."

On Jones' record as Las Vegas mayor: "At least no one's calling me in front of the (Nevada) Ethics Commission because of my profession or my conduct."

On how her background as a 911 operator has prepared her for politics: "If I can deal with that, I can deal with the Nevada Legislature."

And during those rare half-seconds when Scott pauses to exhale, her husband, Roy Eichberger, rushes to break the agonizing silence.

"We don't have any secrets," he said. "We're not like Jan Jones and her husband. We're not like, 'Oh, honey, I just made a $1 million land deal. What's for lunch?'"

Then again, there really can be no secrets for a candidate who supports herself and her campaign by giving lap dances.

But make no mistake. Move past the good-natured barbs, the frosted blonde tresses and her profession, and Scott is all business. Her brow furrows as she holds forth on workers' rights, the campaign issue that means everything to her and one that she charges top-tier candidates say nothing about.

In 1990, while employed as a dealer at Harvey's Resort in Lake Tahoe, Scott and several co-workers alleged they were exposed to pesticides sprayed by an exterminator the casino had hired. They sued the hotel, claiming their exposure resulted in prolonged dizzy spells and allergic reactions to chemicals ranging from household cleaners to car exhaust. The lawsuit stalled after seven years of appeals, yet Scott's bitterness over the incident -- and the aftereffects she suffered -- still linger.

As Scott sits in the dimly lit confines of Glitter Gulch, perhaps the only gubernatorial candidate willing to wear a fish-net two-piece to an interview, her eyes start to water. A candle's scent has irritated her sinuses, which remain sensitive to the slightest chemical odors.

"This is what I'm talking about. This is what I have to deal with," Scott said, carrying the candle to another table.

The episode might logically trigger suspicion that Scott's campaign is more about getting even than getting elected. But the 11-year Nevada resident is coldly realistic about her chances of winning. And in that respect, it rings true when Scott insists the only ax she wields is the one she wants to take to Nevada's labor laws. Specifically, Scott would lobby as governor to abolish the state's right-to-work statute -- or "right-to-fire," as she tagged it -- to prevent companies from booting workers without cause.

"That's why I'm running. If I can't win, I can at least get people to talk about what happens to workers in this state. No one's talking about workers' rights, about their need for protection," Scott said.

The absence of rhetoric is deafening for a woman with strong working-class and Democratic ties. Scott's father headed the Connecticut Democratic Party for a time in the 1960s, and one of her earliest memories is shaking President John F. Kennedy's hand when she was a child.

Scott, who studied political science and law at Yale for a spell, has worn a blue collar most of her life, from hairdresser and dental hygienist to cocktail waitress and emergency-room attendant. She got into dancing for the money five years ago, a single mom of three straining to make ends meet.

Given that she became a stripper to put food on the table for her kids, Scott fumes at critics who now accuse of her denigrating the political process. She points out that no announcements are made about her candidacy at the club. And while her co-workers lend a hand with door-to-door campaigning and car-wash fund-raisers, Scott makes it clear that her candidacy is no bimbo bid straight out of Jerry Springer.

"I'm serious about this," she said. "I don't want to make a mockery of the governorship. But I don't feel ashamed about what I do. What I do is not morally wrong. Any American has a right to run for office -- no matter what they do for a living."

And simply by taking part, Scott has won a moral victory that she sees as more meaningful than winning at the polls.

"If I get 100 votes, I'll be happy," Scott said. "It will have been worth it just to get people to think about the workers of Nevada."

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