Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 2

It is like pulling teeth. I should not have to ask several questions, in order to get to the truth. 

—Senator Joseph McCarthy

The president turns on Bulls-Eye Ball. “So Slater doesn’t become suspicious.” 

I scoot back farther into the chair to be more comfortable. “I studied about the McCarthy period in school.” 

“Good, good. I’m not an idiot, you know.” 

“No, sir.” 

“Cut the crap, Thompson. I’ve been yapping around here like a mad cow in a funny farm, and we both know it.” 

He sure has, but I’m not going to say anything.

“I get confused sometimes,” he says. “A lot more lately. I might not be the smartest president, but I’m a damned good speaker. Used to be a TV anchorman in Jackson.” 

“I recall that, sir.”

“Said what they told me, and said it good, and played stupid all the way to the White House.” 

 What is he trying to tell me? “Who are they?” 

“Slater and the Big Mac Party. They’re always watching every move, making all the decisions.” 

The Big Mac Party appeared in the 1980s, when Reagan called the Soviet Union the “evil empire.” These old zealots, mostly men who had been supporters of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s 1950s witch hunts, got all fired up on the anti-Communist bandwagon again. They spouted on about how McCarthy was right about all the Communists infiltrating America and about how we were doomed to collapse from within. In the late 1990s their ranks grew, and they formed the Big Mac Party and turned their un-American rhetoric to more contemporary issues. They have a few people in the House and Senate, but they’ve made little impact nationally—even with their greater electoral presence these days, the Big Mac Party is still on the fringe. It’s incredible to learn that Slater’s part of Big Mac. 

“I thought you were a Democrat,” I say to the president. 

“I am. And I was a Republican my first two terms in Congress. Slater didn’t care what we were—winning was the only thing that mattered. Don’t look so shocked, Thompson. Everyone’s a sellout sooner or later.” 

Regardless of the situation, I’m not going to argue with the president. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Emergence.” 

The word means nothing to me. “Is that like a support group or something?” 

“No. It’s a secret program.” President Wright looks around the room. “So secret, even I don’t know about it.” 

“But . . .” I stop myself from pointing out the inconsistency of his statement. An antique grandfather clock indicates five minutes to three. I need to get to Scotty’s concert; presidential meeting or not, Karen will be pissed. “I have another appointment, sir.” 

 The president raises his index finger. “A few minutes. I want to explain the invasion.”

“What about the invasion?” 

 The president chuckles. “It’s a complete farce.” 

“What do you mean a farce?” 

“The invasion is not real,” he says, as if it’s no big deal. “It’s a program inserted into border patrol surveillance computers that mimics illegal crossings. Some kid from Arizona State created it for me.”