Stories

The Times-Picayune
February 23, 2002

Keith O'Brien
Staff Writer

NEW ORLEANS -- On a cold mid-January evening, a man stepped from the crowd inside an Uptown church. He had a microphone in his hand and a question on his lips. He wanted to know how the mayoral candidates felt about giving health care benefits to the partners of gay and lesbian city workers.

"As a Christian," the man said, "I can't support that."

Six of the seven candidates assembled gave the anti-gay answer the man wanted to hear or they simply dodged the question altogether. Then there was Manny "Chevrolet" Bruno, No. 25 on the ballot in the race for mayor of New Orleans.

He needed a smoke. He needed an answer. He needed a punch line. That's what people expected from him, this candidate that had no chance, this candidate that people considered a joke. When he took the microphone, they expected him to say something funny, something whimsical, because that's what he does best. But when faced with the question about same-sex benefits, Bruno dodged the laughter, turned to the congregation and gave them his answer.

"If I were to become mayor," he said, "I'd have no problem with it. C'mon. We're all God's children. We all have to live together as one."

The audience hissed.

"Hissed!" Bruno told his girlfriend, Marian Herbert, outside the church after the forum had ended. "I got killed on that gay question."

"You lost on that one," she admitted. "But you know what? I'm proud of you."

Bruno considered her words and took a drag off his cigarette. Inside, voters were still circling around the front-runners, shaking their hands, stroking their egos under the white lights of the church. Outside, Bruno stood on the pavement, only his girlfriend beside him, the tip of his cigarette burning orange in the chilly darkness and his answer to that question playing over and over again inside his head.

"Who cares?" he said finally. "It's where I stand."

. . . . . . .

Fifteen people ran for mayor in the Feb. 2 primary. Only some of them -- Councilmen Troy Carter and Jim Singleton, state Sen. Paulette Irons, Police Superintendent Richard Pennington and Cox Communications executive Ray Nagin, among others -- had a viable shot at winning.

They had a shot because they had connections. They had convincing, well-crafted speeches and savvy, well-known political consultants. They had leadership experience, the voters' attention, hundreds of thousands of dollars, and, in the end, a collective 94 percent of the vote.

The remaining 6 percent went to 10 other candidates. Some went to a gardener, Quentin Brown Jr., who got 422 votes, and a 21-year-old student, Timothy Hill, who got 308. Votes went to two self-employed lawyers, a plumber who prefers to be called "Superman" and a grocery store produce clerk who goes by the name "Chevrolet." Some of them were "true lunatics," said Ed Cerrone, himself a long shot candidate who got 135 votes and came in 14th place.

"Some had insane ideas," he said. "Some had no grasp of the issues or what they were suggesting."

But most of the long shots knew what they were doing. They had a message and they needed to -- they had to -- deliver it to the public. And so, night after night, they went to voter forums in churches and community centers just hoping that someone out there, maybe just one person, would hear what they had to say, be moved by it, and spread the word.

They kept running even though they had no money, even though Carter nearly spent more on a make-up artist ($550) than some of them spent during the whole campaign. Even though Pennington spent nearly as much producing television commercials last fall ($22,779.20) than some of them make in a year.

"I took it as seriously as I could, knowing I could not win," said Thomas Delahay Dunn Jr., who finished 10th with 333 votes. "I was told by a respected political analyst that I could spend a half million to a million dollars and still be a long shot to make the runoff."

But even though they knew the reality, they continued to believe. They had to believe to keep going out there night after night, speaking before voters who had already decided to vote for another candidate. They believed even when the voters laughed or hissed or didn't show up at all.

"You've got to believe in it," Cerrone said. "It almost sounds hokey. But you've got to believe in it. You've got to know why you're going out there."

In the beginning, Manny "Chevrolet" Bruno didn't know why, exactly. Maybe the actor turned grocery store clerk got a little too carried away with a "mockumentary" film he had been making about a long-shot candidate running for mayor. Or maybe he had entered because it was time for a change -- personally and publicly.

"I need this gig," he told himself and anyone who would listen. He needed it because here he was, a 38-year-old man who lives in a one-room apartment above a bar, bums rides off of people because he doesn't own a car and sleeps on a flimsy futon at night. He knew that had to end.

So he ran for mayor, called himself "A Troubled Man for Troubled Times," made a banner at Kinko's for $183.12 and hung it up outside his apartment above the Circle Bar. He went to the forums, got interviewed and got some laughs. It was all right, he thought. It was something to do and it made for good footage in his mockumentary. Then, one morning in early January, he woke up, got ready to go to work, and he saw his name, his words in quotes, in the newspaper.

Right then, he said, it hit him.

Maybe I can stir something up, Bruno thought. Maybe this is my shot. Maybe this is my real calling.

He couldn't win, he knew that.

But he was starting to believe he could make a difference.

. . . . . . .

Bruno was late for the forum. He said it was supposed to go from 10 a.m. to noon. He said it was some kind of forum to raise awareness about the mayoral candidates and the minimum wage increase on the ballot. But when he and his girlfriend arrived at about 11 a.m., no one seemed to know what was going on.

"Where's Grace?" Bruno asked.

"Who's Grace?" Herbert replied.

"The woman who called me," he said. "Are you Grace? I've got to find Grace. Grace? Where's Grace?"

After several minutes of wandering, Bruno finally found Grace, who informed him that he had missed the forum and now they were going to parade through the St. Bernard public housing complex. Bruno shrugged and paced. He thought there would be a chance to speak, maybe pick up a few votes. He thought there would be more cute women here. Now they were getting in their cars and honking their horns at voters, who seemed to have no idea what was happening. He shouted out the window, anyway, as the parade began to roll.

"I'm giving it to the people! I'm giving it to the people! Manny Chevrolet! Whatever you want, I'll give it to you! You want higher wages? I'll give it to you. You want season tickets to the Hornets? I'll give it to you. You want a margarita with salt? I'll give it to you.

"People! I'm begging you! Please!"

He has used this line before and not just on the campaign trail. Because before Bruno was a candidate, before he left Los Angeles a few years ago and moved to New Orleans, he was an actor and entertainer. He made short films, such as "Free O.J.!," in which Bruno yells, "People! I'm begging you!" as he tries to convince gawkers outside the O.J. Simpson trial that the former football star is innocent.

It's his shtick, this maniacal, man-gone-mad act. It's what he does when he gets a crowd before him. On this particular Saturday, however, the people on the parade route didn't seem to find the act interesting. Bruno kept shouting anyway.

"Better living wages for living people! No raises for the walking dead! (Pause.) I don't know what that means! I don't know what that means!"

It might have continued all afternoon, this yelling. But after awhile, Bruno lost interest and began looking at the scene outside the car windows -- the trash stacked up, the people walking in flip-flops next to crumbling walls of sagging homes. He began to get serious, talking about all those politicians who have promised all these people so much for so long. And yet, he said, here they were, still living in poverty.

He looked out at the parade. None of the front-runners was there.

"This is grass-roots, kid," Bruno said. "You don't see Pennington or Singleton out here doing this stuff. You don't see Carter out here. You don't see -- what's her name? -- Irons out here."

Then, he turned and waved out the window.

"How you doing kids? Yeah!"

. . . . . . .

Carlo Lizardo, a wannabe Mafia kingpin, meets his old pal, Manny Chevrolet, in a bar in New Orleans and makes his pitch.

Manny must run for mayor, Lizardo tells him. Manny must run if he wants Lizardo to forget about the $40,000 that he owes him for all the bad bets he made back in their wild Las Vegas days. The idea is, Manny wins, Lizardo gets a lackey in the mayor's office, and Manny gets to keep his thumbs.

This is the way it all begins -- not Bruno's campaign for mayor, but his movie about his campaign for mayor. The Lizardo scene will be the beginning of a film Bruno has titled, "Giving it to the People" -- a mockumentary about one man's misadventure in local politics. It will include such colorful characters as Ms. Tilly, a foul-mouthed campaign manager, and Jackson Square, a skeptical reporter. The film will even include footage from Bruno's actual mayoral run.

But Bruno said he didn't run to make a film. He started making it a year ago and then decided that he wanted to run for real, he said. The company that Herbert works for, Zehno Cross Media Communications, put up the money to qualify him for the race.

Bruno held one fund-raiser, then another. He crafted a platform, telling people that, if elected, he would put more police officers on the street and propose an economic aid package like the Marshall Plan that revived Europe after World War II. He said he would free up police by telling them to stop pursuing victimless crimes such as prostitution and possession of marijuana. And he talked about bringing "radical revolutionary change" to the city.

"New Orleans has problems," he told voters. "I've got problems. We've all got problems. Who better to run for mayor than me?"

People laughed. Bruno said he was serious. Reporters called, he got his face on TV and he started getting noticed for his name and for his slogan -- "A Troubled Man for Troubled Times" -- even as fact and fiction began to blur into a combination of the two.

Was Lizardo coming tonight? No, Lizardo was an actor. What about Ms. Tilly and her foul-mouthed ways? No, she was just an actor, too. On the campaign trail, for the most part, it was just Bruno with his "VOTE for ME" button on his lapel. It was just him shaking hands and walking up to people who, half the time, thought he was joking when he said was running for mayor.

"No, you're not!" Ashley Gessner said after he shook her hand one afternoon on Magazine Street.

"Yes, I am," Bruno replied. "I'm definitely running for mayor."

"Wait! You're right," she said. "I've heard of you."

Bruno looked at her, saw his opening and took it. He told her to vote for him, because he's giving it to the people, because the other candidates don't want change and it's about time for some revolutionary radical change in this city.

She giggled.

"Basically," he said, "I really need the job."

She laughed again. But Bruno stood there watching her. He could see it happening. She was starting to believe.

"We really need you to have the job," Gessner told him as he walked away. "Good luck," she said, then waved.

. . . . . . .

When the polls closed on election night, Bruno was sitting in a bar surrounded by his girlfriend, a man dressed as a jester, his half-brother's ex-wife, her two former roommates and Tony, an ex-felon with a head wound.

Tony, who was drunk and slurring his sentences, had tripped and fallen outside on the street. Now, people were trying to stop the bleeding above his eye while Tony explained to Bruno that he would have voted for him, if Tony wasn't an ex-felon and all that. Bruno eyed him, thanked him and ordered up another Stoli with a lemon and a splash of cranberry. It had been that kind of day.

In the morning, Bruno had voted. Then he had climbed into a yellow convertible with zebra stripes, perched himself on the seat backs with a megaphone and crisscrossed the city. The shouting began.

"Slow down, people," he said. "Slow down and vote. Manny Chevrolet for mayor! Manny! Manny! Manny Chevrolet for mayor!"

And:

"Forget people like Pennington and Irons and Carter . . . My name's Manny Chevrolet. I want to be the next mayor of New Orleans . . . Hi, doggie! Hi, doggie! Hi, doggie!"

And:

"I'm giving you kids what you want and I know what you want. You want progress. You want jobs. You want to be able to get high every once in a while without somebody breathing down your neck."

They stopped for cocktails and later Bruno pulled a shift at the grocery store. Now he was sitting back in another bar, his bar, the Circle Bar, ordering up his Stoli and waiting for the election returns to appear on the television in the corner.

His film still doesn't have an ending. Maybe, Bruno said, it will be an uplifting ending, maybe his character will be like the Rocky Balboa of mayoral candidates, the know-nothing nobody that comes out of nowhere to shock the world. Or maybe, he said, he will shoot several endings and let the viewer choose which one they want to believe. He's not sure which would be best.

In real life, however, he didn't have much choice in the matter. He only had one vote in the election and he knew that he didn't have a chance. But Bruno still believed he could crack the top 10 and he was guaranteeing that he would get at least 1 percent of the vote, if not 2. That would make it all worthwhile, he said. That would prove that he wasn't a joke, that people had heard him.

And so, when the returns started appearing on the television, he cheered as his vote count jumped quickly from two to 20, then 46 and 63. He was on his third Stoli now and flying. But as it became clear that it would be Nagin and Pennington in the runoff, the networks abandoned him. Many stopped showing his returns and the returns of other long shots. Bruno yelled and swore and flipped the channels, searching for something about him.

"Show my picture, man!" he cried. "Show my picture! Oh, c'mon!"

They didn't. And in the end, they stopped mentioning him altogether. Bruno had gotten 274 votes, enough to finish 13th out of 15 candidates, enough to finish ahead of Cerrone and the plumber known as "Superman." Nearly 133,000 people voted for someone else.

But as the night dwindled and the news coverage ended and the mayor's race, once a crowded field of 15, shrunk to two, Bruno didn't let it bother him. He didn't make a concession speech. He didn't concede anything. He only said one thing:

"I'll endorse Nagin -- if he'll fix my cable."