New Hampshire Is for Lovers

Dick Benjamin gets an idea: A man with an IQ like his (stratospheric), and influence like his (endless and probing), had obligations that regular people, even professional golfers, couldn't understand.

By Dave Eggers

Jul 22, 2004 | Now that Dick Benjamin's brain had been deemed, by a reputable Web site, a certifiable supercomputer-like force, he was developing theories. He had always had his theories -- like for instance, isn't "Planet of the Apes" just one long and tiresome anti-Semitic rant? -- but now his theories seemed more crucial, more likely to change the direction of the earth and the lives of its people.

He knew the price would be high. Never are prophets allowed to live unchallenged in their times. More often, they are scorned, called mad, exiled, their contributions recognized only after they'd been chased away from the bosom of society. Was he ready for that kind of life?

But then there had been others. Others had made it work, right? Didn't Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, for example, live long and fruitful lives, despite their often radical ideas? Then again, there was Nikola Tesla, who was burned at the stake or something. For every Franklin there was a Tesla. For every Jefferson there was a Socrates, a Wilde, a Gingrich, a Christ -- destroyed by the very people they had been trying to enlighten.

He was home for a day, to rejuvenate, and was on his roof, where he did his thinking, and he sighed. A chipmunk jostled into his field of vision, snuffling through the leaves in the gutter. Dick Benjamin waved to him. The chipmunk kept moving.

It would be a lonely life as a master-genius-man. A solitary life but a meaningful one. He would surely, sooner or later, alienate those close to him -- his wife Donna, his friend Steve, and of course the golfer David Duval (with whom he'd struck up an e-mail correspondence) -- but he felt that the price would be worth it.

A man with an IQ like his (stratospheric), and influence like his (endless and probing), had obligations that regular people, even professional golfers, couldn't understand.

Of course, he was still trying to get word of his geniusness out to the public, without its being traced back to him. He had thought about this for eight days straight now, in between and sometimes during campaign events, and though he didn't for a second doubt that a mind like his would soon come up with the solution, it was discouraging, somewhat, that his first conundrum since realizing the power of his brain had stumped him so.

One of his plans seemed not to have worked. A week ago, he'd driven two hours -- to avoid easy detection -- to Hartland, Vt., to a gas-station Internet cafe, and, using a phony Yahoo account, had sent an e-mail to the Washington Post's political gossip columnist. That message:

Dear Columnist,
I have heard anonymously that Dick Benjamin has an IQ of 138. This has even been verified by Web sites. I think he wants to keep his huge brain a secret but I don't think you should. People in the know are already calling him Big-Brained Benjamin.
Your reader,
A. J. Foyt III
Virginia

He'd checked the Post online every day since, but he'd seen nothing. He'd tried to slip it into conversations with his aides and traveling press.

Attempt No. 1:
Traveling press member: Senator, the food on this bus really stinks. Rob Jones had Quiznos.
Dick Benjamin: That's a problem. It would take a genius to figure out a problem like that.
Traveling press member: Yeah, I guess.

Rats! Dick Benjamin had counted on the traveling press member to say something like "I bet you're a genius, Senator," or "Speaking of geniuses, are you one, Senator?" But damn it all, it hadn't worked. All the smart reporters were following Alexander Washington Hamilton, because it allowed them the use of irony and adjectives.

He tried again.

Attempt No. 2:
Aide Named Joan or Thomas: Senator, can you hand me that clipboard?
Dick Benjamin: What's that, did you ask my IQ?
Aide Named Joan or Thomas: Uh, no sir. I asked for the clipboard. I can reach it, actually. Thanks, though.

The thing is, people at one point in history -- he was sure -- had been able to take a hint. What happened to people taking hints? All the Zolofts and Prozacs had dulled people's senses.

Still, every day presented new opportunities, new chances to get the word out, and new windows through which to try out his theories. Just yesterday he'd been at Paul Revere Junior High, asking the 13-year-olds assembled why, if stem cell research could help cure Parkinson's and diabetes, why couldn't it also create more fuel-efficient cars?

"Honey."

"Yes."

Dick Benjamin's wife Donna was below him, on the front lawn, shielding her eyes and looking up at him.

"Honey, they're picking you up in a few minutes. You have to go back to New Hampshire."

"Oh," he said.

"I packed you some carrots and celery."

"What about Bugles?"

"I can pack some Bugles, too, if you want them."

"Bugles would be nice."

"I'll pack some Bugles if you get off the roof."

And like that, his 16-hour vacation was over. He was going back into the fire.

• View blog reactions