Jim McGreevey needs to eat.

He’s just charmed a barking pit bull, danced with strangers to Missy Elliott, fawned over a caretaker of stray cats and posed for photos with teenage girls.

Now he makes a beeline through stopped traffic, a tornado of enthusiasm in a crisp, white button down and a pair of well-traveled gray Sauconys.

“Hey guys!” he shouts, approaching a blue and yellow umbrella on a frenetic Friday evening. “You want any hot dogs? They’re nasty!”

It’s late summer. Jersey City’s gritty Bergen-Lafayette neighborhood. McGreevey, the scandalous early-aughts governor, is in his natural habitat, canvassing the streets — and anyone who happens to pass by.

An NJ Transit bus pulls up across from the food cart, and the driver opens her window, points at McGreevey and shimmies. A woma

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