Volunteers Are Stunned, Angry : Campaigns: At Ross Perot’s Sherman Oaks headquarters, supporters react emotionally to his decision not to run for President.

In happier days--Wednesday, for instance--this was the place to be. On Thursday, the mood at Ross Perot’s Los Angeles County campaign headquarters in Sherman Oaks was still red, white and blue, but mostly blue.

“The party is over,” Ed Haas of Reseda said as he sat dejected at the back of the Ventura Boulevard storefront. “Now the hero, the man in the white hat, turns out to be just another . . . rat.”

In the minutes and hours after the Texas billionaire announced that he was bailing out of the race for the presidency, dozens of somber volunteers, many of whom had never before worked on a political campaign, streamed into the tiny office in search of comfort, hugs and, most of all, an explanation.

All were shocked by the news. Most were frustrated. Some were distraught. And a few, such as Haas, were just plain mad. Quite a contrast to the optimism and enthusiasm that had pervaded the office in recent weeks. These were people who had spent 60 and 70 hours a week volunteering for a man they thought was the country’s last, best hope.

And now he was gone.

“This isn’t a wake,” said Phil Mardell of Sherman Oaks.

But it was.

Volunteers with tears in their eyes hugged and reminisced about the heady days of the campaign when 300 people a day would stop off to sign petitions. Many pointed out that they had collected several times the number of signatures necessary to get their man on the ballot, evidence that their campaign could not really be dead, they thought.

“It’s not over until we say it’s over,” campaign spokesman Gene Waldman said. “This is our movement. Just because Perot is gone, we’re not. Now we need a new leader. Jerry Brown, we have to talk.”

For every supporter who showed up, perhaps 20 phoned, and Earl Simonson’s phone rang constantly throughout the morning. Yes, it’s true, he told callers. To each, the Van Nuys man gave the address of Perot’s Dallas campaign headquarters, urging them to send a postcard reading simply: “Don’t give up.”

Some volunteers already had. Haas, a former paratrooper with a red goatee, jokingly explained an easy way out: some barbiturates and a bottle of Jack Daniels. That sort of hopelessness washed over most of the workers as they listened to their televisions and radios. But the feeling subsided quickly into disgust with the political process.

“My first reaction was to get down here as quickly as possible,” said Marlana Charles-Wilcox, a Valley Village vocalist who sang the national anthem at Perot’s campaign stop in Orange County last month.

The same apparently went for the news media, which gathered outside the office even before the doors were opened. Some workers unlucky enough to arrive early were surrounded and deluged with the same question over and over: “How does it feel?”

Many simply did not know. It felt different from hour to hour.

“I would be lying if I told you I was not angry,” campaign spokesman Mike Ruppert said. “But we need to take a certain amount of time to get together and just heal. We need to spend some time crying, some time kicking and screaming and some time being angry.”

And so the office staff went through the steps of mourning. Small arguments broke out here and there as supporters found themselves at different stages in the grieving process.

“He is a coward,” Sandy Walkes of Encino said. “When things got tough, he cut and ran. He is the captain who jumps off the ship before it hits the iceberg and leaves the rest of us to die. I hope he enjoys his billions.”

As volunteers pondered the campaign, television camera crews feverishly stuffed handfuls of campaign buttons and key rings into their gear bags. A Perot worker shouted: “If you’re going to take souvenirs, please pay for them!”

The crews turned away, acting as if they did not hear, and zipped the loot in their bags.

Others paid for their souvenirs. One Los Feliz woman spent $82 on water bottles, shirts and buttons. They were for a friend in England, she said. Carole Mendelsohn of Sherman Oaks donated $10 and took a few items off an outdoor table, which campaign workers said was doing brisker-than-usual business.

As morning melted into afternoon, the television crews tapered off and headed across the street for a hamburger and cola at Johnny Rockets. About 30 volunteers remained, talking quietly or sitting with spent looks on their faces.

“We’re all upset, disappointed, frustrated,” Mardell said. “But I don’t think any of us have given up hope of getting him to change his mind.”

“We’ve got to get the captain back on the ship,” added Jane Antes of Northridge.

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