Hunting for heads on the campaign trail

Council Bluffs, IOWA ­– There’s an eerie sort of tension here.
Like a rubber band stretched to its bounds, this state nears its breakout, and it’s an outcome that could change the political landscape for years to come.
Yet, this town seems to be settling dust.
It’s a biting cold at 7 a.m., but cheap motel coffee and a Camel cigarette take the edge off as I pace the foggy pavement off the Days Inn, just off of Interstate 29 and a short trek from the state border.
Anyone who has ever worked with me knows it’s a cold day in hell when I wake before my colleagues; today, I was the first. But this is worse – it’s a cold day in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
This town, first described to me by an instructor reared on the Nebraskan plains as “the place where Nebraskans go to sin,” seems anything but. A casino to the north and a neon-laden strip club to south seem to be decaying remnants of a town whose heyday waned when the drinking age was upped to 21, forever ousting the destination from the roadmaps of restless youth looking for a fix.
It seems now this town is nothing more than a place where Nebraskans go to get the fuck out of Nebraska. One caucus volunteer told us last night this town has become “the trailer park of Iowa.” Either way, I feel like we couldn’t find trouble in this town if we sought it wholeheartedly.
Being a reluctant student journalist fresh off the ennui of Christmas vacation, dragged across the least exciting section of the country by four zealous underlings, I am not too hyped to be hundreds of miles from the bosom of Colorado State University, where attractive young women would be jogging despite the freezing weather. No mountains here, nothing but dirty snow covering the flat landscape.
“This place is worse than Greeley,” I say as I take my last drag and walk through the front entrance, feigning a good morning wave to the front desk clerk.
I return to the room on the second floor where my four colleagues – two on the floor, the other two sharing a full-size bed – are likely snoring to dreams of journalistic accomplishment. We’ve been planning this trip since summer time, and these kids have approached the coverage of the Iowa caucuses with all the fervor and zeal of naïve, young political reporters. And we certainly are.
Staring at the disheveled, warm covers of my own bed, I wish I hadn’t indulged in the nicotine and caffeine – a journalist’s take on Captain Crunch and orange juice. It’s too damn early to be awake, I think as step quietly to the side of our photographer, careful to not disturb the dragon.
Our photog, as we say in the industry, Brandon Iwamoto’s middle name is Tatsuo, which means “dragon” in Japanese, we learned the night before over cheap beer and a 750 of Southern Comfort. While fire doesn’t rush from his lungs, I’m learning quickly that complaints and really horrible reggae music – two things for which have little patience – come as easy at breathing to Tatsuo. But, out of fear of sharing a modest motel bed with another man, his boss no less, he takes the floor, so he’s cool with me.
Sean Reed, our resident smart-ass and budding political theorist, is also snoring, while Aaron Hedge, a news editor known most for his 80’s surfer-dude hair cut, lies in the fetal position at the foot of the bed without a blanket.
The other news editor and the most interesting character in the group, Erik Myers, just woke up.
“Want to get breakfast?” he says as he distances himself from the snoring smart-ass.
Any other time, I’d say no. But running out of patience with the incessant and bombastic Z’s that woke me, I’m keen to spend some of the Collegian’s money. Running on three hours of sleep, and preparing a day campaign organizers with all their hopes invested with presidential candidate Joe Biden, I figured I needed more stimulants.
But what we’d find in this rural slice of Iowa four days before the launch of a potentially history-making national election would rekindle my interest in American politics.