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Overview
This all changes when Chris receives a phone call from the president of the United States, Oscar I. Wright, regarding a secret invasion of America from Canada and Mexico—an invasion somehow tied to the “Big Mac Party,” a cultish political party that worships the legacy of the notorious Communist-hunting Senator Joseph McCarthy. Soon, Chris is equipped with firearms, designer suits, government helicopters, and an array of gadgets worthy of any top-notch spy. His mission: infiltrate the mysterious “Emergence” program founded by McCarthy within the shadowy halls of the US government—and, ultimately, save democracy as we know it from the xenophobic demons of America’s past.
A unique, bubbling combination of Christopher Buckley-esque satire, political farce, and espionage comedy, Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy reveals—through encounters with a hilarious cast of hallucinating politicians, Border Patrol commandants, crew-cut torturers, stuttering computer wizards, supposedly immortal pilots, and more—just how frightening a contemporary abuse of government power can be, and just how much we sometimes stand to lose when we decide to pursue our dreams.
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781937110536 |
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Publisher: | Emerald Book Company |
Publication date: | 10/01/2013 |
Pages: | 328 |
Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.00(d) |
Age Range: | 3 Months to 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy
A NOVEL
By J.T. Lundy
Emerald Book Company
Copyright © 2013 J.T. LundyAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-937110-53-6
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?"
I feel guilty. We're friends. I should trust Archie, and besides, we both have security clearance. "All right, if you must know, the president wants to see me."
Archie slaps the top of his bald head. "Holy shit. The president?"
I stand up and run my hands over my baggy khaki pants in a vain attempt to press them. I'm sporting a blue button-down shirt and scraped-up burgundy penny loafers. Technically I should be wearing a coat and tie, but I've been in violation for years.
"Think you're in trouble?"
"Why would you say that?" What if I am in trouble? I can't afford trouble. I have a wife and kid. I see Archie's blazer hanging on his wall. "I don't know, Arch. He did say that they were my bosses now."
"Who said?"
"Vance Slater."
"That was Vance Slater? Double damn."
Archie and I are about the same size give or take; five foot ten, medium build, a hundred and eighty pounds. "Hey, can I borrow your blazer?" I ask.
"No," Archie says. He strokes his mustache. "Maybe it's about those apple pies from Bangladesh. I bet that's it. They're going to give you a medal for good relations or something."
The apple pies. Last month the deputy ambassador from Bangladesh requested my assistance establishing approval for Grandma's American Pie Company to import apple pies. The good old boys running Grandma's American Pie wanted to outsource their labor, and the idea was that baker boats would sail from Bangladesh filled with Bangladeshi workers baking apple pies to be delivered fresh for distribution in New York. I felt bad about outsourcing apple pies, but all was in order, and I efficiently filed and approved the paperwork, for which I received a sincere letter from the ambassador commending me on a job "well done." I duly framed the letter and hung it in my cube between the photograph of my lovely wife and my wonderful son and my autographed mini-poster of Sean Connery, the ultimate James Bond.
"Seriously, let me borrow your navy blazer."
"No. That's my Brooks Brothers one."
If the White House wants to know about the apple pies, the meeting might not be as pleasant as Archie thinks. Either way, I need to look decent. I walk into Archie's cubicle. He stands up and positions himself between his jacket and me, folding his arms like a nightclub bouncer.
"Just let me try it on."
"No."
"Slater said there was a national emergency. This could be the biggest meeting of my life. I can't be demoted because I'm not in proper attire. Karen's hours have been cut in half as it is."
"A fine-looking woman like Karen never has trouble finding a job." Archie chuckles. "If she's looking for extra hours, I've got some things she could do."
Archie sometimes gets this hound dog look on his face that makes him appear stupider than he really is and you can't help feel sorry for him. That look added to a childlike smile lets him get away with offensive statements like this about people's wives. "I don't think you're her type," I say.
I step left to get closer to the jacket, but Archie blocks my way. I quickly step right, which he counters as well.
"That hot redhead sure thought I was her type last night," he says.
Archie and I had hit a bar after work yesterday, which we do once every month or so. I laugh. "She was hitting on me the whole time."
Archie raises an eyebrow in a victory arch. "But she went home with me." He smiles and twirls a finger. "Hook, line, and I sunk her."
"Good for you, Ahab."
I try for the jacket again. Archie and I shuffle left, right, left. His shoulder bumps into mine.
"I'm going to see the president, you oaf," I say. "I'll be representing the Customs Department. Have some pride. Give one up for the team."
Archie releases his grip. His face relaxes as he reconsiders. "Maybe you could put a good word in for me."
"You think the president is looking for an expert on pirated tennis shoes?"
"Who knows?" Archie says.
"Who knows?" I say.
"Who knows?" Archie says. He shrugs and steps aside. I reach for the jacket and put it on. Perfect fit.
Archie brushes a piece of lint off the lapel. He pats my face with a good-luck slap. "They say Slater is one of those Big Mac guys."
Archie's always full of conspiracy theories. "I never heard that."
"Big Mac is more than just a movement. They've turned into a real political party with congressmen and everything."
"A couple representatives is all," I say. "Trust me. They'll disappear in an election or two." I straighten out the jacket. "How about your tie?"
Archie reluctantly unfastens the knot from his solid brown knit tie. He pulls it through his collar and hands it to me. "That's it."
I wrap the tie around my neck and twist it into a double Windsor. "What's this tie, like, from '82?"
Archie's mustache scrunches irritably into his nose as he talks. "You're looting me and have the nerve to complain about the quality of the merchandise?"
My phone rings and I backstroke around the worn fabric wall into my work area. Perhaps the White House is calling again—Vance Slater checking up, or even the president himself unable to wait for my sage advice. I always wanted to be a spy like James Bond, and even though the CIA was less than impressed by my resume, I'd still like to be a part of something exciting, something big. Maybe this White House meeting will be my chance. I clear my throat and answer the phone with patriotic zeal. "This is Chris Thompson."
"It's me," my wife says crisply, confident I will recognize her from the other me's in the world.
I'm dying to tell her of my meeting with the president, but I play it cool. "What's up?"
"Just checking. You're still leaving early, right?"
"Three o'clock. I'll be there."
Archie's face plops over the wall like a lazy catfish. "Is that Karen?"
"Scotty was so cute this morning. He's excited for you to be at his concert," Karen says.
"Tell Karen I said hey," Archie says.
I wave at Archie to go away.
"He practiced his violin before school without being asked. I can tell he's nervous to be playing in front of all the kids at the assembly. He's never had a solo before. At breakfast he—"
"Tell Karen I said hey."
"Archie says hey."
"Hi, Archie. He's so sweet."
"No. He's not."
"Now you absolutely cannot be late."
I lean back in the chair importantly and put my feet on the twenty-gauge-steel-topped desk. "Listen to this, honey." I pause. "I will be there right after my meeting with the president of these fine United States." I put my feet down and lean forward, excited for her reaction.
"Okay, perfect. Oh. I have to go. See you at three."
Oh, well. Karen is on autopilot and all wrapped up with Scotty. We both are. He's our center, our creation, our connection to life beyond us. Still, I'm disappointed, but it's okay. I can tell her the details about the presidential meeting later.
I stand up and push Archie's face back over the wall. I grab my black plastic briefcase, textured to appear leatherlike, and traipse triumphantly past dumbfounded coworkers and salute the row of bosses who are menacingly mulling the improbability that I have indeed received a call from the White House.
I descend in the elevator, bewildered by the preceding events and irritated that Archie has cost me five minutes. Surely Slater had been flippant; it would take thirty minutes to fight through DC's traffic. I push open the entrance doors I like to imagine are bulletproof and emerge into a God-forgiving sunshine and mild spring day. A lanky chauffeur stands next to a black Cadillac limo, and a pair of motorcycle police escorts wait fore and aft.
"Mr. Thompson?" A clean-cut dark-suited man wearing the special Secret Service sunglasses that imply he packs multiple firearms has sidled up to me unnoticed as I stare at the limo.
Bond, James Bond, I think. I'm all about 007.
"Thompson, Chris Thompson," I say.
He puts his hand on my back and guides me toward the limo. He opens the rear door, and I scoot across the black leather seat. Sunglasses sits next to me, and we are off.
"Identification, please."
I produce a laser-engraved polycarbonate Virginia driver's license portraying me with an eight-year-old photograph of pre-gray-streaked short black hair parted to the side, baby-sleep-deprived-let-me-sleep-in-once-this-year eyes, and I-am-no-longer-the-important-man-in-the-house frowning lips. Not that I'm complaining. Scotty's our world. But if I hadn't almost flunked out my freshman year, I could have ended up a pay grade or two higher—like at the CIA or the State Department—and had the spare coin for a nanny when he was a baby. Karen and I could have gone on a date or two, or slept in more. As it was I had to scramble for nearly perfect grades my final years to end up with a C+ average. Damn Slater for busting my balls on my GPA. One year of partying still haunts me. I look out the window as we wail along through red lights while traffic guards, used to the drill, hold back less important citizens and wave us on our way.
Slater knows his business. In less than ten minutes we drive through the side White House gates and a car wash full of nuclear sensors, coming to a perfectly placed stop in the middle of more dark-suited sunglasses-wearing heat-packing clones. I step out and am immediately patted down and violated as never before with wands, brushes, swabs, needles, and a Geiger counter. On cue, the clones disperse, and another plastic-faced man steps forward. "Welcome to the White House, Mr. Thompson."
I reach out my hand. "Thank you, Mr.—"
Plastic Face shakes his head in disdain. "No need for shakes or names. Security, you understand."
I feel like a neophyte. "Of course."
"Follow me, sir. This is the West Wing." Plastic Face leads me down golden-rug-surfaced marble hallways, turning left, right, left, left, right, until finally he spins me around twice and pushes me through a door. "The Roosevelt Room," he says. "A shortcut." He leads me around a long conference table and past a row of flags. A painting of Native Americans riding horses bareback hangs on the wall.
We exit the Roosevelt Room out an opposite door to a marbled-floor reception area. I find myself standing in front of a meticulous-looking aide sitting at a desk. A presidential flag is posted left of the desk. The United States flag is posted to the right. Two wide dark-stained doors are behind the man. Above the doors it says "Oval Office" in some old Yankee-style letters.
"Have a seat, Mr. Thompson." Plastic Face steps back and stands against the wall. I sit down and watch the man at the desk work, too nervous to look anywhere else.
The man types on a computer and talks into a Bluetooth headset. He says the same things over and over in an abundance of ways. "No. He's not. President is out. Three thirty in the Rose Garden. Not in. Out. No. Three thirty. Rose Garden. This afternoon. Busy. Not available. No. Don't know when. Out."
The man looks like he could keep it up forever. The passing time only increases my nervousness. I twiddle my thumbs and continue to stare at the president's unflappable gatekeeper. It seems everyone wants access to the most powerful man of the most powerful country on earth. Why the hell am I here? Am I going down for selling America out to Bangladesh? Or maybe the Bangladeshi agreement is spreading goodwill and helping repair our relations with the Muslim world. My hopes rise for a second, but I know I'm being unrealistic.
An hour passes. I am in severe danger of missing Scotty's concert. Karen is going to kill me.
A buzz sounds from the man's desk. He picks up a phone. "Yes, sir." He sets the phone down and looks at me. "Any moment now."
I'm going to see the president. President Wright's public persona defines sophistication. He's polished, professional, and articulate. He presents critically acclaimed speeches, and when asked a question, he always has the appropriate response. I should be respectful, but confident: a take-charge guy. I can accomplish whatever he needs done. I need the president to see that I'm intelligent, too. I need the president to know that I'm his man. I take a deep breath.
The Oval Office door opens. Vance Slater fills my vision. I'm tense and alert. The old University of Michigan linebacker barrels toward me wearing a gray pinstriped suit, power red tie, and white Hermès pocket kerchief, all of it calculated to make someone like myself extra insecure. On television Slater is oily smooth, and in person it's doubly impressive, like a grease slide in an alley behind a Waffle House. There's a pin on his lapel: two blue letters, BM, superimposed over the American flag. He's never worn this pin before; surely the press would have covered it if he had. Archie was right. Slater is a part of the Big Mac Party.
"Thompson! What the hell took you so long?"
I try to explain that I'd been waiting. "Sorry, but—"
"Don't let it happen again."
"No, sir."
Vance Slater walks me into the Oval Office. It smells like fresh flowers. A blue oval carpet with a presidential crest covers most of the room. President Wright sits at his desk, hunched over a mini arcade game like a scientist examining a petri dish. He shouts at the game, "Bring it on, sucka!"
I look closely at the president. He looks strange playing a game and shouting. I look at his gallant photograph on the wall. He has an unmistakable bump at the bridge of his nose. I look to the man playing the game. Same bump. Same man as the photograph. This man is the president of the United States. Maybe he's sick.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Happy Utopia Day, Joe McCarthy by J.T. Lundy. Copyright © 2013 J.T. Lundy. Excerpted by permission of Emerald Book Company.
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