Christopher Buckley - Boomsday

“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?”