1957, New York City
McCormick’s office was always so stale: The walls as gray as the overhead clouds, the decayed desk stained with old coffee, and the air of a library all around. After being called in, I sat across from him in the creakiest of chairs. His hands were folded over his mouth and his head was slightly tilted down (unfortunately highlighting his growing baldness).
“Did you hear what happened?” He grunted, pretending to be serious (bosses often do that).
“No, what?” He ran his hand over where his hair would be, pulling back all three gray stragglers that clung to his sweaty scalp.
“Sputnik was launched into space by the Russians, a device more powerful than any- its name means ‘Ultimate Destroyer’!”
“Is that true?” I asked.
“Probably,” he shrugged, “It’s what I heard. The main point is: the Commies are beating us! They’ve pushed themselves into our suburbs and are stealing our designs! We must be on high alert for any communist activity.” I could see where this was going already.
“I’m not a communist, Mr.McCormick.”
“Aha!” he shouted, “You’re getting defensive!”
“I’m defending myself against harmful allegations, you have no proof.” He smirked and giggled wickedly at this, pulling a light beige folder from under the desk as though it were the holy grail. SMACK! He slapped it on the table and went whizzing through the papers.
“January 15th!” He grinned, staring at me with wide eyes, “You attended an educational meeting for communist ideas.”
“I was trying to find out what a communist was, Mr.McCormick, but no one would give me a straight answer.” His face flickered for a moment. I continued, “Being educated isn’t grounds for firing me.” He tossed the paper behind him and flipped ahead some more, until he furrowed his brow and tried to read.
“You saw ‘The Crucible’ with a Mr.- uhmm… Bo-kin-ski?” He didn’t know how to read it, but his glee continued, “A communist play with a Russian!”
“It’s Ukrainian and- wait- have you seen The Crucible?” He paused a moment, then tossed that page too. Closing the folder, he began to pace like a tiger in a cage; pondering… pondering… pondering… pondering – then his face lit up.
“You don’t like milkshakes,” he softly said.
“What?”
“Milkshakes- the most American meal and you don’t like it!”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a meal-”
“And there it is!” He yelled as he signed, confirming me as fired.
“This is bull!” I yelled.
“You’re bull!” He retorted, “Bolshevik!” I wondered if he knew what that word meant, and in an instant, I was out on the street. Facing the disgusting New York air with my desk lamp, my sack lunch, and my copy of Karl Marx. My comrades would not be happy about this.