Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 4

I don’t claim to be a master of words. 

—Denator Joseph McCarthy 

The marines shut the helicopter door and the president comes running out of the White House. He has a Taco Bell bag in one hand and is waving the other. The Marines open the door, stand at attention, and salute. 

The president sticks his head through the helicopter door and hands me the bag. He shouts over the noise. “Your burrito. I put some nachos in too.” 

I look down at the bag, at a loss for words.

“You like margaritas?” the president asks. 

The question takes me off guard, and I have to think. “Um, yes.” 

President Wright looks to the back of the helicopter, where a steward and more plastic-faced men sit. “Fire it up, boys.” He looks at me. “I had a frozen margarita machine put in— you’ll love it, Thompson.” The president gives me a thumbs-up and backs away. The door shuts. 

“Where do you live?” the captain asks. 

I start to respond, but I am awestruck by her beauty. Her shoulder-length blonde hair cascades down from her helmet, and her skin glows with a gorgeous Miami Beach tan. I start to stumble over my words when the equally attractive brunette copilot gives me a notebook and pencil. “I’m Lieutenant Singer,” she says. 

“Special Agent Thompson,” I say, wondering if the president personally selects the pilots. 

She gestures to the captain. “Captain Pearson.” 

Captain Pearson gives me a salute. “Welcome aboard.” 

I write down my address and hand the notebook back to the lieutenant. 

“Rock ’n’ roll,” Lieutenant Singer says. She reaches out her left fist to Captain Pearson, who reaches out her right. They touch knuckles and shout, “President’s big green dream machine!” 

The helicopter lifts into the air. I look out the window and watch the president become smaller and the whole White House come into view. The president waves excitedly. Plastic-faced men and women look on stoically from behind windows, the roof, and various spots on the lawn. I watch DC pan under me as we propel toward the Virginia suburbs. 

I’ve been called out of my monotonous job on a secret mission for the president of the United States. I’m on Marine One. The government is about to declare a national emergency on the pretext that Canada and Mexico are secretly invading us, a ruse known only to President Wright, me, and somebody named Wizkid. Vance Slater is a part of the Big Mac Party, which has some sort of influence over the president. The president believes that the Big Mac Party is somehow involved with an old clandestine McCarthy program called Emergence, and I, while officially acting as a liaison to this program, am supposed to spy on it for him. There are a thousand guys in the government better qualified than me to be a presidential liaison, probably more, but I suppose that’s why Vance Slater chose me. I’m wearing a secret-weapon ring, and I’m supposed to remember that Cannonball likes roast beef or something. And to think I’ve always laughed at conspiracy theorists. My head swirls with the rotors. 

My neighborhood comes into view. We fly over the high school, the civic pool, the small downtown, and the park next to our subdivision. I find our house by counting three in from the park. The roof slants strangely from this angle, and the trees are indistinguishable, arranged similarly to those around the other houses. It all looks like a real-life version of an architect’s 3-D model for a planned community. These buildings, places, and trees are home. They come at me all at once as we descend, and I take it in with a sense of pride and belonging.