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appealed to my Greek work ethic. So did his devotion to education — from Head Start to student loans to worker retraining — and he had made progress in Arkansas. He wanted to raise taxes on the rich and cut them for the working poor. He wanted national health care and a domestic Peace Corps. Unlike most Southerners, he didn't kowtow to the National Rifle Association. On race, he was willing to fight for what was right in a state where they once had to call in federal troops to end segregation in the schools. He'd never let the Republicans get away with Willie Horton.
    But I was moved by more than what he stood for or how much he knew. It was how I felt around him: uniquely known and needed, as if my contribution might make all the difference. Clinton spoke to the me yearning to be singled out for a special job — the boy who had wrapped his fingers around the archbishop's staff and waved the censer in the path of his dad.
    The day before Clinton announced, I was formally offered a job: deputy campaign manager for communications, a loosely defined slot in which I'd be responsible for figuring out how policy issues would play in the media and the political world. Although my duties were not defined with precision, I didn't press for clarification. I wanted the freedom to freelance, and I was too excited and grateful to raise the other awkward questions my friends were urging me to ask before signing on.
    My girlfriend, Joan, was especially wary. She thought Clinton was way too conservative and Little Rock was too far away. We had first met on the Dukakis campaign. Both of us knew that campaigns have the same effect on relationships as the first year of law school or a new doctor's internship. Sometimes the trial strengthens the relationship; more often it breaks the couple apart. But that wasn't the only thing bugging her. There was something about Clinton. The stories. Everyone we knew seemed to know someone who knew someone who had a tale to tell about Clinton and women.
    That night, we celebrated at my neighborhood Greek restaurant with our friends Richard Mintz and Helene Greenfeld. By the time the baklava arrived, we got to the subject lurking beneath the surface of our little party. They all lowered their voices and questioned me in the same protective tones you reserve for a good friend you suspect is marrying the wrong girl. “What about his past? Are you sure you know what you're getting into?” We kicked around the idea of my raising the issue with Clinton, but I couldn't imagine doing that. I was too young and too junior to be interrogating my future boss about his personal life. His marriage was his business — and Hillary's. Besides, if adultery were a disqualifying offense, half the politicians in Washington would be out of work.
    I had no problem defending Clinton against interrogations into his past. What I cared about was the present — and the immediate future. Was he fooling around
now
? Was there any danger that he would pull a Gary Hart and sabotage his own campaign? Impossible, I thought. After Gary Hart's 1988 meltdown on the
Monkey Business
, everyone knew that was against the rules. Getting caught in the act could end a campaign in a heartbeat. I was certain that Clinton was too smart and too ambitious to be so self-destructive.
    I was also reassured by what Clinton had already said publicly. Shortly before he announced, Clinton had attended a Washington ritual known as the Sperling breakfast. About twenty reporters invited by Godfrey Sperling, the longtime
Christian Science Monitor
columnist, gathered a couple of times a month over eggs and coffee to give a politician or policy maker the chance to talk about an issue at length without the confrontational tone or live cameras of a press conference. Aware that the womanizing rumors were the most worrisome cloud over his potential campaign, Clinton tried to inoculate himself against future questions by bringing Hillary to the breakfast. Toward the