Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 11

And wait till you hear the bleeding hearts scream and cry about our methods. 

—Senator Joseph McCarthy 

At four in the morning I gather my government-issued toiletry kit—complete with beeswax, stale Crest, and Brut aftershave—and, wrapped in a towel, nimbly walk down the hall so as not to wake my sleeping comrades. 

I enter the shower room and turn on the lights, shocking my pupils. I inspect the green, metal-enclosed shower stalls and can find no evidence of the crate. On the back wall are two dark green maintenance doors that blend in with the multi-shaded green mosaic tile. 

The first door opens to a dark room with low humming machinery and an orgy of plumbing guts and pipes. The second door has a sign that says “Maintenance.” There’s a latch secured with an old gym combination lock. I pull on the lock, but it doesn’t budge. I look around. Etched into the outside of a stall behind me are the numbers 23–12–31. I try the lock, twisting the faded orange face twice around right to 23, left once to 12, and then back to 31. The lock opens. 

I walk into the dark room. I rub my hands over the wall. I find a switch and flip it. A dim grayish light reveals a toolroom. There are metal cabinets and shelves filled with power tools, rusty cans, and boxes of who knows what. A Peg-Board on one wall has hammers, chisels, and other tools hanging from hooks. What really grabs my attention takes up most of the tiny room’s interior. A man lies facing up on a worktable. 

The man has red hair. He wears flip-flops, silky red gym shorts that extend past his knees, and a white long-sleeve hockey jersey trimmed in red with a large Canadian maple leaf on the front. An IV tube drips solution into his flabby arm. His large chest rhythmically rises and falls as he breathes. He is either sleeping or in a coma. 

I hear a door shut. There are voices in the shower room. 

“Who left the light on?” 

I look for a place to hide. The crate stands in a corner. I move the lid aside and step in. I pull the lid closed, hold it in place, and peek between the latticed boards. 

The door clicks. Three men in scrubs and surgical masks enter. They wear square beatnik sunglasses to further hide their identities. 

The surgeons lock down the man’s ankles, legs, wrists, and arms with red rubber clamps. They tighten burlap straps around his waist and chest. They secure a square metal box clamp around the man’s head. 

One of the surgeons removes the IV and injects something into the man’s arm with a syringe. The man wakes up. He screams and struggles against his confinement. Mozart’s soothing Symphony no. 21 fills the room. One of the surgeons leans in next to the man’s ear. “Relax,” he repeats until the man becomes silent and still. 

“Welcome.” I recognize X-ray’s voice. 

The man’s voice trembles. “Where am I?” 

“That is not important.” 

“You’re not stealing my organs are you?” 

“We do not steal. That would be dishonest.” 

The surgeon who gave the first shot lifts up another syringe. He injects it into the man’s arm. 

“Ow,” the man says. 

“You’ll be feeling just dandy in a moment,” the surgeon says. I recognize Noodles’s voice. 

The man struggles against his restraints. “I want a lawyer. I demand to speak to a lawyer.” 

X-ray puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Relax. All we want is a little information.”