"It's likely a very influential group," said Peter-Marty Pipinic, Dick Benjamin's scheduler. They were parking in a mini-mall in a suburb of Nashua. The air was colder than it had ever been anywhere on earth at any time before.
"They sound influential," Dick said. "What are they called again?"
"The Senior Women's Center for Democracy and Revolution."
"What was that last part?"
"'And Revolution.'"
"Oh. Good. Good."
Dick Benjamin and Peter-Marty Pipinic walked into the center and were greeted by Helen Ho, the director, who was very tall, in her mid-70s, and dressed in a Nehru jacket and capri pants. She explained the program for the visit.
"You know about speed dating?" she said, "where a bunch of women get to meet a bunch of men in about two hours? You move around, you sit at tables, you ask the basic questions, you see if you feel a connection. Can't get that kind of thing online, that personal zing or zang. At the end of the two hours, you've met 40 people and you haven't wasted a whole night on any of them. Right?"
"What a great idea!" Dick Benjamin said, trying not to frown. "I can't believe I didn't think of it myself."
"So here 40 of us get to meet you," Helen Ho continued. "We all vote, some of us are even delegates. We even have a superdelegate," she said, pointing to a woman of about 86 smoking a cigarello and wearing a Tom Hayden T-shirt. "So what say we get started?"
She led Dick Benjamin by the hand and sat him at a table in the middle of the room.
"You just sit here, and we'll rotate every three minutes. Oh, and I should warn you, some of our members are a bit hot on the subject of campaign finance reform. Or campaign finance revolution, you might say, ha ha."
"Ha ha," he said. He put his elbows on the table and pressed his hands into a steeple.
A bell rang and the first woman sat down. She resembled, eerily, the mother from "Good Times." She was looking into Dick Benjamin's eyes with the same exasperated look often made by the mother from "Good Times," usually just before she said "Oh James!"
Dick Benjamin was staring at her.
"Yes," she said. "I played the mother on 'Good Times.'"
Dick Benjamin almost swooned. He loved that show.
"I loved that show!" he said. "I have 'em on DVD."
"Thank you."
"You're really that actress?"
"I am."
"Very nice to meet you," Dick Benjamin said. "Great show. Groundbreaking. You might even say it was dy-no--"
"Please don't."
"Sorry," he said.
She sighed in that way she sighed. Dick Benjamin felt very young and small in her presence. Then he remembered that he had an IQ of 138 and composed himself.
"So what's on your mind?" he asked.
"We need to get the money out of these elections."
"OK," he said.
"That's it?" she said. "OK?"
"I will vote for campaign finance reform as soon as I'm elected, ma'am."
"But you're already a senator."
"Yes, I am."
"So why can't you vote for it now?"
Change of tactics needed. Work, brain, work!
"What?" he said. Genius!
"You heard me."
"Excuse me? There's something wrong with our connection. Hello?"
"You're sitting right in front of me."
"You're going in and out."
"Are you serious?"
It was working!
"Let me try changing channels."
"For god's sake!"
"Didn't work. Let me try again."
"I can't believe this."
"Oh, sorry. I have another call. Hold on."
He ducked under the table for a minute, pretending to be drawing a tattoo on his ankle. The bell rang.
The next woman was in her 30s, trim, with glasses and very curly brown-blond hair.
"Hello," he said. "Great hair."
"Yes," she said, "well, there's a perception out there that you're beholden to the groups that fund your campaigns. Trial lawyers and HMOs, for example."
"Who would you rather me be beholden to?"
"How about me? The people in this room?"
"How much money do you guys have?"
"Excuse me?"
"Just a joke! A joke. A simple joke. But seriously. I'm just trying to survive in an imperfect system."
The bell rang.
The third woman had a sympathetic face.
"Good afternoon," he said.
"I read today that you had a fundraiser in Tiananmen Square, in which you and 12 Chinese businessmen drank the blood of murdered students."
"Marrow."
"Excuse me?"
"Not blood, marrow. There's a difference."
"This was shortly after the massacre."
"And just before a primary."
"I'm disgusted."
"I didn't invent the system, ma'am."
The bell rang.
It hadn't been the easiest bunch, but he left that night incredibly inspired. Walking on truffles, you might say -- dancing with the moon, skipping back to his hotel.
He had an idea. He would campaign for finance reform. He would work to get the money out of politics, not just in fits and starts, but completely and permanently. He would preach this message all across the state. He would speak in gyms and in town halls, in hotels and Legion bars.
And to make sure he could get elected -- where he'd be able to do much more in the way of these reforms -- he'd charge $5 for anyone who wanted to hear him.
