Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy

Chapter 9

I didn’t think I could be touched very deeply. 

—Senator Joseph McCarthy 

The cab begins a slow, rumbling descent. Down and down. The air smells damp and earthy. My ears pop. The vent fan clicks above me. One minute passes, and then two, and still I move down. This death trap might go on forever. I look at the control panel: no stop button or up arrow. I’m never coming back. The cab rattles, and then stops with a thud. There’s a clicking sound outside the door. I take a deep breath and compose myself. Courage. The doors open. 

I step into a room dimly lit with yellowish light. The elevator doors close behind me, and I hear the cab automatically start the long ascent back. The clicking is louder. I feel like I’m in a hazy dream. I expected Emergence to be an electronic paradise with bright lights and clean walls like in a Silicon Valley research lab, but it looks like I’m in a decaying dormitory stuck in time. Cinder-block walls are painted a drab, sandy beige. I stand before a common room of sorts. A wide American flag covers a wall. Two men sit on a worn orange fabric sofa. One is reading a paper. The other leans over a coffee table and looks to be playing solitaire with real cards. 

On a wall next to the men looms a stainless steel bank-like vault door. It is adorned with blinking Christmas lights, a locked present that looks impossible to open. Next to the vault door is a black-and-white photograph of Senator Joseph McCarthy, smug and confident. In front of McCarthy are two rows of gray metal desks with a black manual typewriter on each. Two desks are occupied by men. They rapidly tap and click away on the typewriters. A ding sounds, and then a ratchet as one of the men manually returns his carriage. 

I watch the young men, each in his own world, silent, content, and unaware of me. I clear my throat. A man on the couch jumps up. 

I give a short wave. “Hello.” 

“Liaison!” he shouts. 

The other men stand up. They look at me like I am a strange being, like they haven’t seen an unfamiliar human in their space in a long time. 

A hallway extends in both directions with open doors to rooms that look like sleeping quarters. Three other men emerge from these rooms. They gravitate toward the others until they form one group. They all scoot toward me tentatively and then stop a few feet away. Seven twenty-something men stand before me in a line for inspection. Six are skinny, clean-cut Caucasians. Most have crew cuts, as if they’re a 1950s glee choir. They are dressed in black pants with white long-sleeve button-down shirts. The last man is a Native American with black hair down to his waist. He wears blue jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. 

I give them a friendly smile. “Hi, I’m—” 

“Liaison,” someone says. “Nicknames only, please.” 

“Oh, yes, silly of me. I guess you could call me Giorgio, or Ward, or—” 

“Liaison.” 

“Or Liaison,” I say. 

They all nod their heads in agreement and say “Liaison” to one another to affirm it. They remain where they are and take turns introducing themselves. 

“X-ray.” X-ray’s eyes are beady cobalt blue and look like a hunter’s. We shake hands. His is cold and limp. 

“Clutch.” He looks stern, menacing almost. He shakes my hand and nearly crushes it. “Clutch,” I say as he continues to clutch my hand. 

A friendly blond-haired kid rescues me. “Flipper.” He shakes my hand with a big smile and laughs like a dolphin. “Welcome to our world.” 

“Thanks.”