Boomsday

by Christopher Buckley

  The foreign situation was encouraging. U.S. and Mexican troops were now taking potshots at each other across the border, inasmuch as Mexico had declared a destino manifesto policy of free emigration. The border to the North was similarly vexed. In the wake of the U.S. embargo on Canadian lumber, paper goods, gypsum, and beer, rogue units of Canadian Mounted Police were now harassing American truckers—on the American side of the border. In the Persian Gulf, never a quiescent body of water for Uncle Sam, U.S. Navy ships were blockading the Strait of Hormuz in an effort to drive up the price of Alaskan crude oil. (A bold move, to be sure, initiated by the Alaskan congressional delegation, now wielding disproportionate influence in the Capitol.) Meanwhile, a small but powerful cabal calling themselves the “geo-cons” were clamoring for U.S. military intervention in Tahiti, Taiwan, Tashkent, Tibet, and any other country whose name began with the letter T.

  Amid this tumult, President Peacham set about the business of running for reelection. By all indications, it was going to be an uphill battle. Thus far, the best his people had been able to come up with by way of a campaign slogan was, “He’s doing his best. Really.”

  Randy and Cass went about the business of the Transitioning commission. Cass was engaged; Randy was bored witless, at least at the outset. To him it was just an obstacle standing in the way of his appointment to the vice presidency. He had been in Washington long enough to know, in his heart of hearts, that presidential commissions are for the most part things to be ignored, a vermiform appendix to the body politic. It was always the same.

  Important personages are appointed to the commission, with instructions to—by all means—study the problem in all its complexity, get to the root of it, and report back to the very highest levels of government. Six, nine months go by, with occasional fifteen-second sound bites on the evening news of commissioners sternly telling witnesses that they were not coming clean with the commission; the witnesses replying that, really, they’re doing their best (give us a break). In due course, the commission delivers its report. There is a day or two of news coverage. The media reports the findings, that the United States is about to run out of molybdenum, or be overcome by bacteria emanating from geese; or that filthy, disgusting Arabs have no right to own American seaports, no matter how moderate they are; or that the government has no disaster plan ready in the event an asteroid the size of Rhode Island lands in the Pacific Ocean; or that the CIA failed to detect the cold war, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, the Tehran embassy takeover, Grenada, Iran-contra, Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, Bosnia, the attack on the USS Cole, 9/11, Operation Iraqi Freedom, Operation Oh Shit, Now What?; or that really there was no excuse at all for launching those cruise missiles against Papua New Guinea.

  These revelations are duly followed by grave tsk-tsking and chin rubbing and hand-wringing about how these vitally important issues are still being mishandled and even ignored by the government. The commissioners are officially thanked for their diligent efforts and given commemorative paperweights with the wrong middle initial. The president and the relevant cabinet secretaries and government officials pledge to give the commission’s recommendations “the most serious consideration” (which is to say, none whatsoever), and everyone goes back to ignoring and mismanaging the vital issues.

  Six months later, one of the ex-commissioners writes a pained and well-argued op-ed piece in The New York Times, complaining that nothing—not one single recommendation—has been acted upon. Whereupon a junior White House press secretary issues a pained, not-very-well-argued statement saying this is simply “not the case.” Moreover, that as a result of the commission’s “fine work,” a number of things have been done, though he is not at liberty to go into the details. Moreover, further study is needed, as this is—“indeed”—an issue of vital importance not only to the nation, but to all nations. And that’s the end of it.

  The TATA Commission, on the other hand, was proceeding rather differently. The proceedings themselves were eminently watchable. One pundit pronounced it a new kind of reality TV show, where instead of being voted off the island, you were voting to kill the contestants.

  The pros and cons of Transitioning, which had started policy life as a notional “meta-issue,” were being fiercely debated on live television and beamed into millions of American homes. The names of the commissioners, most of whom had been obscure Washington lobbyists and special interest advocates, were now familiar, and none more than Randolph K. Jepperson, Cassandra Devine, and her sparring partner, the Reverend Gideon Payne. As these pugilistic spectacles wore on, the public’s view of Transitioning was evolving. More senators had come over to the pro side, though the anti side was hardening. But a surprising 38 percent of the American public now favored having the option of being legally euthanized in return for huge tax breaks and subsidies. Posters were going up: UNCLE SAM WANTS TO KILL YOU!

  “The chair recognizes Foggo Farquar, chairman of the President’s Council of Economic Advisers,” Randy said. “Mr. Farquar, good morning. You were asked by this commission to study the economic impact on the U.S. Treasury of the Transitioning proposal?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And what were your findings?”

  Mr. Farquar took out a large binder whose contents were projected onto a screen in the hearing room.

  “The so-called Baby Boomer population cohort,” he said, “numbers approximately seventy-seven million people born between 1946 and 1964. Given the rate at which they are currently retiring and withdrawing funds from Social Security, as well as the Medicare and Medicaid systems, we estimate”—the next slide showed a series of bar graphs, all the color of deep red—“that Social Security will exhaust its resources approximately two and a half months from now.”

  “From today?”

  “As of noon. Yes.”

  “That’s not very desirable, is it?”

  “I would call it very far from desirable, Senator. But those are the numbers. They do not lie.”

  “Have you then run the numbers in the event that Transitioning becomes the law of the land?”

  “Yes. As I was requested to, by this commission.”

  “And?”

  The next slide showed more bar graphs, all colored black.

  “According to our projections—at the direction of this commission—in the event only twenty-five percent of retiring Boomers opted to, um, Transition at age seventy—”

  The commissioner representing ABBA interjected, “They would of course have the option to do so at age seventy-five.”

  Cass rolled her eyes.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Farquar, “though that would of course significantly decrease the savings to the Treasury. In the event, the savings to Social Security based on Transitioning at age seventy would be . . .approximately eighteen trillion dollars over seventeen years.”

  “Are you then saying,” Randy said, “that for each one percent of Boomers who Transition, that would save the United States Treasury about one trillion dollars?”

  “Approximately, yes.”

  “Mr. Chairman,” Gideon interjected.

  “I’m not finished questioning the witness, Reverend Payne. I’ll yield when I am finished. Thank you for your patience.” Randy returned to his witness. “That’s quite a savings to the Treasury, is it not?”

  “Yes. Of course, the total savings would be offset by the tax benefits the government would be offering in exchange for Transitioning—the elimination of death taxes, free medical, and the other benefits described in the bill. Those benefits,” Mr. Farquar said, looking toward the various Boomer special interest commissioners, “do seem to be increasing as the bill progresses. At any rate, the overall impact of Transitioning would be, yes, decisive and consequential and indeed beneficial to the government in terms of revenue outlay. I mean, inlay.”

  “Are you saying in effect that this would save the Social Security system?”

  “Oh yes. Absolutely. Social Security would become solvent. Something it has not been
for a very long time. You understand, Mr. Chairman, that I take no position on the issue. I’m just a simple numbers cruncher.”

  A ripple of soft laughter went through the chamber.

  “Thank you for crunching, Mr. Farquar. Your witness, Reverend Payne.”

  Gideon said, “Mr. Farquar, you have a degree in economics, do you not?”

  Randy leaned forward into his microphone and said, “Reverend Payne, Mr. Farquar is one of the country’s most eminent economists. He is the president’s top economic adviser. I think we can take it for granted that he has a degree in economics.”

  “I did not mean it as an insult, Senator Jepperson. But since we as a nation are in deplorable economic shape today, I thought I would just inquire.”

  Another ripple of laughter.

  “We’re not here to harass our witnesses, Reverend Payne,” said the chair. “Proceed with your questions.”

  “Senator, I well understand the purpose of this august body. Mr. Farquar, I apologize for my frankness. But we are here, after all, to study a most grave issue. As it were.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “So you’re saying, Mr. Farquar, that this . . .Transitioning is the . . .final solution to the Social Security crisis?”

  An awkward, embarrassed murmur went through the hearing room.

  Cass had been anticipating this. A few days ago, Terry had said to her and Randy, “Sooner or later he’s going to call us all Nazis.”

  “Reverend Payne,” Foggo Farquar said, his face reddening, “I am most certainly not saying that.”

  “But you implied it. You did say this would finally solve the problem.”

  Cass broke in. “Mr. Payne”—she steadfastly refused to call him “Reverend”—“why are you comparing Mr. Farquar to Adolf Hitler?”

  “I am merely trying to let some light into this miasma of moral degradation to which you have led us, Miss Devine.”

  “This isn’t the Wannsee Conference, Mr. Payne. We’re not talking about exterminating six million Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals, Catholic priests, and mentally disabled. We are talking about a voluntary program by which Americans could opt to do something altruistic, even noble, on behalf of their children, in the face of intractable irresponsibility by the federal government.”

  “Your nobility is showing, Miss Devine.”

  “Mr. Chairman, permission to question the witness.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Mr. Farquar,” Cass said, “am I correct that your wife’s family emigrated from Poland in the 1930s?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “And why was that?”

  “They were fleeing Nazi persecution, on account of their being Jewish.”

  “Were they successful in this regard?”

  “Not entirely. My wife’s father was the only one to make it out alive.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Farquar,” Cass said. “Sorry to put you through that. I’ll yield the balance of my time back to Mr. Payne.”

  It was a good moment for the Transitioners. Gideon Payne was seen about town in the days following with red blotches on his face. The consensus was that they were from burst blood vessels. But another development prevented Cass from taking a victory lap.

  Police in Budding Grove, Ohio, arrested a pudgy, soft-faced twenty-nine-year-old nursing home attendant named Arthur G. Clumm and charged him with putting to (permanent) sleep thirty-six residents over a six-month period. This might have been just another one of those self-appointed avenging angel stories, only the police found his somewhat unkempt apartment plastered with photographs and clippings of—Cassandra Devine. They impounded his computer and found that the cache of his Internet search engine was chockablock with CASSANDRA blog page views as well as sites linked to CASSANDRA.

  During his interrogation by the police, Nurse Clumm showed no remorse at all over having dispatched nearly three dozen senior citizens and, according to the Ohio State Police detective sergeant who conducted the interrogation, blithely and repeatedly referred to his deceased charges as “Wrinklies” and “resource hogs.”

  On being apprised of this tiding, Gideon Payne lifted his eyes toward heaven and said aloud, “Lord, Thou art truly just and bountiful.”

  Terry Tucker’s reaction was in a different key, consisting of a single word beginning with the letter f, uttered loudly.

  Cass’s reaction was somewhat more dignified but equally dismayed.

  She and Terry reached Randy on his cell, on his way to a fund-raiser in Hyannis.

  “Oh, hell,” Randy said. “How’s this going to look?”

  “We weren’t calling,” Terry said over the speakerphone, “to alert you to a public relations triumph.”

  “Well, you’ll have to insulate me,” Randy said.

  “That’s my boy,” Cass muttered. “First one into the lifeboat.”

  “What?” Randy said.

  “I was just praising your moral courage, to Terry.”

  “Is this ghastly person Clumm connected to you in any way?”

  “Yes, Randy. We’ve been having phone sex for years.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  “Of course I’m not connected to him, you idiot.”

  “Well, why in heaven’s name is his apartment a shrine to you?”

  “Randy,” Terry said. “John Hinckley shot Ronald Reagan to impress Jodie Foster. As I recall, Jodie Foster wasn’t impressed.”

  There was silence on the line. Randy said, “Is that going to be our line?”

  “No,” Terry said. “We’re going to need something better. We’ll keep you posted. Go raise money.” Terry hung up and said to Cass, “Do we really want him a heartbeat away from the presidency?”

  “Our leader,” Cass said. “He makes you want to take the bullet for him.”

  “Never mind him. We got some spinning to do.”

  Chapter 25

  Gideon carried his own bully pulpit wherever he went. In the days following the arrest of Arthur Clumm, he was ubiquitous, on every TV show, fulminating and demanding that the attorney general investigate “all links between Arthur Clumm and Cassandra Devine’s diabolical death factory.”

  Watching this explosion of spittle, Terry said to Cass, mentor to student, “You caught the operative word in there, right?”

  “‘Diabolical’?”

  “No. ‘All.’ Not just one link. All links. Subtle, in a diabolical sort of way.”

  Arthur Clumm’s salamandrine visage was on every front page and TV show. Here was Arthur, in jailhouse orange jumpsuit and manacles, being transferred from Budding Grove jail to a more secure facility. Here was Arthur again, arriving at the Cunch County Courthouse, wearing a flak jacket and a—what’s this?—blanket over his head. “What’s the blanket for?” a reporter asked. “To confuse snipers,” replied a sheriff’s deputy.

  At his arraignment, Arthur, in the best tradition of American criminality, pleaded “not guilty.” It transpired that during his interrogation, he had called CASSANDRA “my personal goddess and inspiration.” It was further revealed that Arthur possessed an autographed photo of Cass, with the inscription “Keep up the good work.” This was not good news for the Cass camp.

  This grim tiding was revealed to her by way of a phone call from a reporter for the Columbus Dispatch. She told the reporter the truth—namely, that she received many requests for photos and autographs from followers of her blog.

  The problem was, the reporter informed Cass, that the postmark on the envelope containing the autographed photo was dated in the middle of the six-month period during which Arthur had taken it on himself to euthanize half the population of the Budding Grove nursing home.

  “Oh shit,” Cass said. She immediately added, “That was off the record.”

  The reporter said he wouldn’t be able to quote her exactly, as the Dispatch was a family paper, but that he would have to quote her as uttering an expletive.

  She told Terry about the call.

  “‘
Personal goddess’?” he said. “Uch.”

  “I feel like Transitioning myself.”

  “Why so glum?” Terry said. “I thought women liked being on pedestals.”

  “I’m dead meat,” Cass said.

  “Cass, you didn’t . . .know this creep?”

  “Of course not. I get thousands of requests for autographed photos.”

  “Why did you write, ‘Keep up the good work’?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t remember every autograph, for God’s sake. He probably wrote that he was a nurse or—I don’t know. You don’t think I’d encourage a freelance mass murderer?”

  “You weren’t, like, urging him to put people to sleep.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” Terry said, “that’s a relief. Good to know that one of my senior vice presidents isn’t moonlighting advising serial murderers.”

  “Hilarious,” Cass said. “So hilarious.”

  Not long afterward, two FBI agents appeared in the reception room of Tucker Strategic Communications.

  “Your friends are back,” Terry alerted Cass by intercom. “It’s always nice to have a couple of G-men in the waiting room. It really impresses clients. Especially the big corporate ones.”

  “Terry, I’m sorry about this. But—”

  “Just don’t tell them anything until I get Allen. It’s always good to talk to Allen. He’s a great guy, and he only charges seven hundred an hour. Which, under the circumstances, is going to come out of your next paycheck instead of mine.”

  Allen Snyder arrived and conducted a $700 discussion with the FBI agents over the finer points of something called Rule 41 of the Federal Rules of Criminal Procedure. Cass and Terry, listening in, gathered that it had to do with the Fourth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution and “probable cause”—in this instance for searching the hard drives of Cass’s computers. Allen eloquently maintained that they had no such probable cause. The agents argued that they did, and if it came to that, they would be more than happy to return with a search warrant.