Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 1

I wonder how ridiculous we can get here. – SENATOR JOSEPH McCARTHY

“Mr. Thompson. It’s the White House!”

I shoot up from my official United States Customs Office chair and look over my cubicle wall toward the administrative assistants, where Glenda has a phone to her ear and looks directly at me. Glenda and I are not on formal terms; normally, she calls me Chris. Her shout though, brings the occupants of the entire cubicle pond, and the cubicle sea beyond, to their feet. Heads bob out of the powerful window offices, and people on the move come to a stop.

My jaw drops. “The what?” 

Glenda’s mouth forms the words with exaggeration. “The. White. House—for real. Line two.” 

I look at the telephone and see line two blinking next to the stack of immigration files on my desk. The weighty stares of my nosy office mates press me slowly into my seat. I wet my lips and reach for the phone. “Chris Thompson.” 

A gravelly voice barks. “This is Vance Slater, President Wright’s chief of staff.” 

“Hello, Mr. Slater. How can I help—” 

“Are you the Chris Thompson who graduated Georgetown with a not-too-shabby 2.37?” 

Why does the president’s chief of staff know my GPA? “Yes, well, I had some trouble my freshman year,” I say. 

“No excuses,” Slater bellows. “Hell, round it up to a 2.4. I would. Chris, President Wright wants to see you straight away.” 

I stand at attention. “I don’t understand.” 

A recording beep sounds in the phone. “There’s a car out front. Don’t mess around. I’ll see you in ten minutes.” 

I look around the office and feel like I’m balancing on a life raft. All is calm but for me. “I need to tell my boss.” 

“National emergency,” Slater says. “I’ll take care of your superiors. You’ve got two bosses now—the president and me. Now get in that car.” 

The phone goes dead. 

I sit down and hide from my staring coworkers. I tap the desk. My knee bounces. Why would the president be interested in me? Could it have to do with the resume I sent to the CIA in college? Those spooks did give me a series of interviews, though none of them came to anything in the end. I didn’t put my GPA on my resume. I didn’t think the government had a minimum, which was fine, because without the grades or gumption for grad school, I’m lucky to call the United States Customs Service home. 

I hear the rumble of a truck passing outside. Is there really a car waiting to take me to the White House? My throat is dry. My water bottle is empty. I pick up the phone to call my wife, Karen. No. I have to go right now. 

The file shelf shakes. I look up and see my coworker Archie’s long face hanging over the brown wall from the adjacent cubicle. “What was that all about?” His mustache twitches with curiosity. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Oh, stuff it. What the hell’s going on?” 

Archibald Lamb III is an East Coast blue-blood flunky sitting on the sidelines of the fast track like myself. He can be a real pain in the ass, but I count him as my only friend in the place. Vance Slater didn’t say I couldn’t tell anyone, but I feel reluctant to divulge the conversation, as if it’s top secret or something. 

“Nothing, Arch.” 

“You mean to tell me that Glenda yells out ‘The White House, line two,’ and you say it’s nothing?”