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May 2003
I placed my bare feet on Ken’s lap as we worked side by side in his bunker-like office at the Showtime Movie Theater. The room had beige walls, ugly, swirly movie theater carpet, two metal desks next to one another, a few metal filing cabinets, and stacks of rolled-up movie posters in every corner. Ken obviously hadn’t redecorated since his promotion to general manager.
He looked down at my feet on his thigh but said nothing, returning his attention to whatever spreadsheet he was working on at the time. I smiled to myself and continued scoring the IQ test I’d just given him. I’d been testing him in his office whenever he worked the night shift. It was Ken’s idea. After he started the last movies of the night, he had a solid two hours before he had to close up the theater, which was just enough time to get an evaluation session in.
Ken was so smart.
And, as I marveled at the numbers I was getting back, I began to realize just how smart he actually was.
“Uh, Ken?”
“Yeah?” he replied, not looking up from the clunky computer on his desk.
“I think I scored this wrong. Will you look at it for me?”
I turned the assessment manual around and showed him how to find his age and the raw score on the subtests I was looking at to calculate his nonverbal IQ.
“One fifty,” he said, handing the manual and test booklet back to me.
I blinked at him. “That’s what I got.”
Ken shrugged and went back to work as if I hadn’t just told him he was a goddamn genius.
“Ken.” I pulled my feet off his lap and turned toward the desk where my binder sat open. Pulling a laminated piece of paper out of the front pocket, I shoved it in his face. “Do you see what this says?”
Ken raised an eyebrow at me, refusing to read it out loud.
Stubborn asshole.
“Ugh,” I grunted, pulling it away. “It says Psychometric Conversion Table. Do you see this column where it says Standard Scores? What’s the top score on the chart?”
He still wouldn’t budge.
“One fifty, motherfucker.” I poked the page repeatedly with my finger. “You have the highest nonverbal IQ on the fucking chart. That’s visual memory, spatial relations, mathematical reasoning…”
Ken lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “So, I’m good at math.”
“No, you’re not just ‘good at math.’” I made air quotes around the words with my fingers. “You’re fucking Good WillHunting. Why the hell aren’t you working for NASA right now?”
Ken opened his mouth to give me some smart-ass remark, but I cut him off, “And don’t tell me it’s because their 401(k) program is shit. I want a real answer.”
Ken closed his mouth and glared at me.
“Why are you working here?” I asked, my tone softer.
“Because I didn’t go to college.”
“Why didn’t you go to college?”
“Because I hate school.”
“Why do you hate school when you’re so fucking smart?”
With every successive question, I leaned another inch forward in my seat.
“I don’t know. I’ve just always hated it.”
And, with every question, Ken’s impenetrable wall of mystery grew stronger and stronger.
