Purity Test | Laura Mullen

My toes are constricted in pointy booties, the faux-leather stiff and unyielding. I avoided real leather, though I couldn’t recall if leather was problematic due to animal rights or environmental concerns. Either way, best to avoid flaunting the use of animal products. This job is an opportunity and I won’t jeopardize it in the interest of fashion.

I haven’t met Martha Botkins before. Her television persona is dogged and severe, her clothing expensive and tasteful. Pearls and cashmere and, I imagine, conflict-free diamonds. When I received notice of my assignment to her team I scoured the internet for old interviews with her, determined to adopt her ethos—and wardrobe—as my own. This tactic, contorting to match the leader I support, has worked well in the past. It should be listed as a requirement in every Chief of Staff job description, though of course, it never is. So many requirements are buried in subtext. But Martha Botkins is tricky. Even after reviewing hours of footage I struggle to nail her down. She doesn’t fit into an obvious box.

Six months ago, the President appointed Martha Botkins to head a new administrative agency. The Administration of Sustainable Solutions—an unfortunate acronym—was created to implement the extreme environmental interventions introduced by the President. His plan, to shutter any corporation unable to meet stringent new environmental impact standards, has received mixed-reviews. On the whole, popular opinion accepts it as a necessary evil, the means required to save the suffering planet; people are equally sure that the plan will decimate the economy. And America has always been economy-first. Regardless, there is general consensus that the president signed his own death warrant when he issued the decree, a fact that earned him grudging respect from some—myself included. But he is a southerner and a gentleman. The right messenger for the job. Besides, once he announced Martha Botkins as the implementer-in-chief he gave the people a new villain. It didn’t take long before she was coined ‘the executioner’. And I suppose I’ll be her henchman. Or rather, henchwoman.

Memes have popped up depicting Martha wielding an ax and hacking away at the GDP, Martha squatting to urinate on America itself—slightly less dignified and less impactful than the same act done by a man. I’m not surprised by the response, though her real work hasn’t yet begun. The impact standards—the bible for every reach of industry—were released one year ago. Corporations were granted a one year moratorium on enforcement, acknowledging the uphill climb industry faced on its path towards compliance. But the year is up, and I have been hired just in time to assist Martha Botkins’ in dismantling our economy, cleaning our air, and saving our future.

I meet Martha Botkins for the first time at Rockefeller Center, where she is finishing a television appearance. She sits at the news desk, swigging coffee from a single-use Starbucks cup, the plastic lid amplified by the cameras, sure to invite hateful commentary. This is her standard appearance. Her nails are manicured, her hair is expensively dyed, her cup is not reusable, and, I observe, her shoes are real leather.

Martha’s words are carefully choreographed to portray herself as a short, slender sacrificial lamb tasked with saving the world, no matter the cost. It’s a don’t shoot the messenger tactic that minimizes her role and maximizes the long-term benefits of her work.

“It is time to get serious about the climate crisis. The President has spoken, and I’m here to serve. I’m here to make good on the promises he made to the American people.”

Of course, the comments will pour in: tweets and emails and call-ins on AM radio. Martha attracts haters from all reaches of the internet; she has made herself an easy target, almost by design. From the left: Martha Botkins is a hypocrite, a poser, a part of the problem; from the right: Martha Botkins wants to destroy our way of life, our history, and everything we stand for. However you slice it, she’s a villain, and starting today, I am her Chief of Staff.

When she meets me after the filming, Martha’s handshake is perfunctory, her look appraising. We have spoken on the phone once, during a cursory interview that preceded the job offer. Evidently, young staffers weren’t knocking down her door to take this job. My own parents had reservations, but they were raised in a different era, they cherished their privacy. I was not afraid of the attention this role would attract. Notoriety is the close cousin of celebrity. And when the work is done, we will declare victory.

“Call me Martha,” she instructs. She walks quickly, a pace I struggle to meet, and thrusts a folder towards me. I open it to find the day’s schedule. We will be meeting with the head of the EPA in New York and then heading back to Washington DC. I’ll take the train, though Martha, apparently, is flying. Tomorrow morning we will meet the Big Three automakers.

“Lightwork,” she says with irony, and I smile back, aware of how unprepared I am. Who are the Big Three? Ford. General Motors. There’s another, obviously, and I keep wanting to say Honda. Don’t say Honda, I remind myself. That’s definitely Asian. Though if I read the rule right—and I’m sure I did—even Honda will be impacted, unable to sell cars in America without passing the same test as all of the American automakers.

We leave Rockefeller Center and take a car to a government office building near Battery Park. Martha leads me, circuitously, into a round conference room where she closes the door, kicks off her shoes, and sits.

“Water?” There is a pitcher on the table, and two glasses.

“Please,” I say, realizing that I am parched. I want to remove my own shoes, but resist the urge. I am not yet above convention.

“So. I am Martha. You are Molly McIntyre. Cute name.”

“Yes. Alliterative.”

She nods, and then continues. “You came highly recommended. Carolyn said you were indispensable to her success.” Senator Carolyn Richards was my employer for six years, until she lost her reelection bid in November. This Chief of Staff position is her parting gift to me, a consolation for the countless hours I invested in her success only to have her blow it all up with a sex scandal. I still haven’t spoken with Andrew, the legislative aide who somehow found his way into Senator Richards’ bed. Although, apparently, most of the indiscretion occurred on the desk in her office. He’d always seemed unqualified for his job.

Martha hands me a pile of folders. “Review those. Edit the press releases, any external communications while you are on the train back to Washington. We are doing auto this week. Power is next: coal, nuclear, oil and gas. Then airlines. You’ll get the drill. One thing at a time, we tackle, we freeze, hopefully we unfreeze.”

“How did you decide the order?”

“There was no way to decide so we just picked. Too many people are paralyzed by decisions. Sometimes you decide and then find a way to explain it. Besides, everyone had notice. At least a year.”

Under the executive order, signed a year ago, any industry is fair game now. I would have preferred to start with something smaller, like beauty parlors, but Martha didn’t ask me for my opinion, so we will start with a bang. The auto industry.

According to the executive order, the Administration of Sustainable Solutions is to meet with industry executives to review their compliance plans and determine whether they should be permitted to continue operations. If a company is able to show that it had modified operations to meet the Zero-Impact standard, it will be permitted to continue operations. Another arm of the agency is tasked with ongoing inspections to confirm adherence to the standards. The President has thrown a tremendous amount of the federal budget towards this initiative, creating jobs for many of the very workers whose companies will soon be shut down.

“So is the meeting tomorrow to actually shut down the auto production?”

“Yep. Each of them submitted their impact statement and operations plan and the EPA evaluated each to determine whether they were satisfactory. None were. Today they will make their case and at the end of the meeting we will determine whether they can continue operations. To be frank, I wouldn’t count on any of them changing my mind. I doubt they even expect me to. They are going to use this meeting to test whether I have any wiggle room.”

“So if you think their presentation is good, what happens?”

“If we think it is adequate we will submit it for approval from the EPA, Treasury, and so on and so forth to confirm that they are operating with a positive impact score. Or at least net zero.”

Net zero. The ad campaigns supporting the President’s plan say Make Net Zero The New Normal. My mother calls it a grand gesture but agrees that grand is what we need. Myrtle Beach and Kiawah Island were all but erased from the map just a year ago. The president, an avid golfer, was concerned. He held press conferences, created a task force, and declared that we needed to act now. Committed to big, bold strokes. Well, this certainly was big. And bold. The economy will be frozen. The national debt will quadruple. But, hypothetically, the world will be saved.

As I ride the train back to Washington, I picture the SUV in my parents driveway and am relieved that my dad decided to trade-in his old Toyota last year. Once the shutdown starts car prices will skyrocket, inflated for the foreseeable future.

When Martha walks into the meeting with the automakers, she looks very small, and very female. The room is crowded. Three CEOs flocked by their entourages, a mishmash of blue and gray and black suits, ready for photo ops. Chrysler! Ah, yes, that was the one I had forgotten. I always forget about Chrysler. They introduce themselves: Mr. A, Mr. B and Mr. C.

Mr. A strokes his tie as he declares that they have a plan they think is exciting. They are going to reduce their impact through employee mandates. They will require carpools or bike rides or electric shuttles for commuters. They will have zero plastic in their workspace. Employees will plant trees during lunch hours. The company will cancel out its emissions by focusing on the workforce, striving to achieve a net zero score in less than five years.

Martha smiles and sips her coffee. “Five years is a long time to shut down production, Mr. A. I hope you can get there faster, and we will be here waiting to approve your restart whenever you are ready.”

Mr. A frowns, chagrined. I can tell he expected kudos. His report included a lovely infographic on the carbon footprint of each employee.

Mr. B goes next, also proud, touting the progress already made. He tells a lovely story about electric cars and trucks and vans, pointing to charts and graphs depicting declining emissions. They are the industry leader on sustainability.

“Very nice,” Martha says. “But your impact score was -320, if I recall.”

“Indeed, which is the best score in this room, I am sure.” Mr. B’s team changes the slide to show the company’s full conversion to electric: all internal equipment, all heating and cooling in their production facilities. Production on gas engines is already halted. They are only two years away from net zero.

“Excellent work Mr. B! Excellent. I applaud your commitment. But you need to be net zero tomorrow if you wish to operate in this country. And I remind you, no US sales are possible if you take your operations overseas. America First.” Martha’s smile is apologetic. Empathetic.

Mr. B’s face falls and I feel sad for him. He really is trying.

The third company enters, sauntering, and right away the vibes are off. They are going to make it hard. I look at Martha, wondering if she notices, but she is studying her gel manicure.

“This is an outrage.” Mr. C has evidently prepared some remarks. “An outrage. An act of betrayal. You and your administration—” Mr. C’s voice has venom in it, and he spits when he speaks, flecks of poison falling through the air in front of him. “—you’re willing to sacrifice this great nation to pander to the tree huggers.”

Tree huggers. The phrase dates Mr. C. It’s what the boomers—relics—used to call environmentalists. “We won’t play ball. Come shut us down. Come shut us all down and see where you are.”

Martha nods, unperturbed, and I wonder whether she knew this would happen.

“Well, Mr. C I am very sorry to hear that but I will notify the President. Your operations must freeze, effective immediately. If it makes you feel better, the others are shuttered as well, although they are closer to reopening than you appear to be. I suggest you make a plan before they begin to attract talent and customers away from you.”

Companies are eligible to receive government subsidies during the shut-downs, money that will allow most employees to be paid while operations are revamped. But there are limits, and I know Mr. C will get nothing. He isn’t even trying. I look at the faces of the men and woman behind him, all of them masks of disinterest. I wonder whether they will get their next paycheck.

On the drive back to the administrative offices, Martha tells me we will meet at the airport in the morning to fly back to New York. “We’re flying private, Molly, so no need to get there early. We leave at 8:00 am. Come at 7:50.”

“Flying private? Isn’t that kind of, you know, bad?” I read once that the carbon footprint of a single flight undoes a year of recycling.

“No.” Martha held up her hand into my face, stopping me right there. “No, no, no Molly McIntyre. We don’t do good and bad. We don’t do purity tests. We set guidelines and we adhere to them, and if there is no guideline, we live our lives. That’s what went wrong with this whole movement. People shaming each other about plastic water bottles and straws and recycling and Amazon deliveries. That’s no way to sell a movement.”

I nod, relieved. I have spent the last month inventorying my life, wondering if I really have to stop using plastic entirely. Is tupperware okay? My government salary doesn’t cover a lot of the eco-friendly options.

The flight is short and incredible. I cannot believe I have lived my life without it. We have received emails from all three automakers, and I am tasked with drafting responses, which I do from my plush captain's chair on the small private plane, drinking a diet coke and eating a pack of m&ms, despite the early hour. The snacks are free.

Three months later, I have become accustomed to the private flights, the snacks and beverages. At one point I mentioned that my favorite drink is vanilla coke, and vanilla coke appeared on each subsequent flight. It’s spectacular, though I see on our calendar that the food and beverage industry is coming up in a few months. We may have to shut down Coca-Cola. I begin to slip an extra coke into my bag each time I exit the plane, building a reserve for what lies ahead.

“So you’re really shutting down industries?” Sam says, over dinner one night. I met Sam Carter on a dating app a few months ago, and we go out when I’m in town. In this way, it is like he is my boyfriend. I am exclusively dating him, and when I see something interesting, I save it up for conversation during our next dinner. He, on the other hand, may be playing the field. I haven’t had the nerve to ask.

‘Yep.” I take a bite of my veggie burger. “You know, seventy-six percent of emissions come from energy.” We are heading into the summer, which we have designated the Summer of Energy, a cute play on Summer of Love. At least we think so. Meetings begin next week, first coal, then natural gas.

“I know,” Sam says. “Of course. It’s good. Obviously I support it, but it’s just, you know, it is having a big impact on people. Like, not everyone is prepared for the shortages and stuff.”

“What shortages?” I must admit I have lost touch with a lot of the everyday since starting this job. When I’m not traveling, I stay in my government-provided condo on a gated campus near Capitol Hill. When I took the position, I lived near Adams Morgan with two roommates. But after one month on the job, the death threats began. Martha said it was a rite of passage, but I found it hard to sleep through the night. I was relieved when I was relocated. Martha was relocated as well, abandoning her Georgetown home in favor of the security of the federal campus. My own government condo is small and nondescript, but it is safe and private. When I am in town, at dinner with Sam, or the local juice bar on Saturday mornings, I feel conscious of being recognized. But this is Washington DC. There are political celebrities everywhere. I’m merely an underling, and I take comfort in my insignificance. Martha is despised. Detested. I think it is the gel polish. It isn’t sending the right message. But I don’t mention it to her.

Sam presses his point. “Well, cars, for starters—there are no new cars and the price of even the crappiest used car is prohibitive. Overnight. That’s a big deal. And energy—I mean, what about at risk populations? What if none of the companies has prepared a viable plan and you have to shut down all of them? What will people do? Hospitals. Elderly. Have you even considered that? Martha Botkins doesn’t act like she cares at all.”

I nod. “Yes, of course we have. Of course we care. And I know it’s awful, but it’s the only way. These companies need to feel the pressure to really change.” I am dying for a real burger, but whatever Martha says about purity tests and personal responsibility, I know I can’t eat red meat in front of Sam. He’s an environmental purist. He carries a metal straw in his backpack, a reusable shopping bag. When I sleep at his place, I notice strange bar shampoo and detergent sheets. He composts.

On the plane the next morning, I mention Sam’s concern to Martha. “You know, what about people who don’t have generators? How are they going to get heat and water and electricity if we shut things down?”

“They should buy generators. There’s a subsidy.”

“But what if they’re really poor. You know poor people are most impacted by climate change.”

“Because poor people are least likely to make necessary changes,” Martha said right away. “They’re eating fast food and driving old cars that won’t even pass a modern inspection on emissions.”

I don’t argue, though I hope she knows better than to say that in a television appearance. She will be on SNL tonight, a caricature of the villain she has become.

Months later, the night before we begin to tackle the airline industry Martha invites me for dinner at her house, with her family. It is a spacious home, a stark contrast from my one-bedroom apartment. She has two teenagers and a husband. The husband makes dinner and the daughters wear sour expressions on their faces. I wonder whether they are irritated by my presence, or are the types of teenagers with permanently dour disposition.

“Thank you,” I say, as I heap my plate with salad and corn. In the center of the table is a platter piled with seared filet mignon. I ignore it. Maybe this is a test. Or maybe, somehow, the husband doesn’t understand the mandates of Martha’s job. Just yesterday we announced the closure of cattle farms across the country. Evidently, cow flatulence is a lethal weapon against the ozone layer, and the various mitigation techniques—adding seaweed to the bovine diet—don’t go far enough. It felt odd to shut down cattle ranches, odd that something as natural as farting could be so destructive. I wonder whether they have measured the methane output in human farts.

The cattle shutdown made me question this whole endeavor, though I have abstained from consuming meat for my entire time in this job. Still, it felt odd. Usually we fight manmade causes of climate change. But cows were made by God. If cows are responsible for destroying the planet, maybe that’s a sign we should take note of.

I don’t realize I am talking until the room grows silent for too long and I think, oh fuck, did I say that out loud. Did I just talk about God in front of my boss?

“God? What does God have to do with this? Do you believe in God?” Martha asks, her voice harsh.

“I think so,” I say, though of course I do. I am a Christian. Just the word evokes images of crosses and sacraments, head bowed before the altar, accepting the blood of Christ week after week, through my childhood. My practice has lapsed such that my love of Christmas and vague fear of the depths of hell are the only residue of the weekly rituals my parents insisted upon. But still, of course, I believe.

“Hm,” Martha says, a note of judgment in her voice, and a daughter laughs a harsh laugh that surprises me. Her skin is shiny and acne-ridden as she chews—maws—a bite of meat.

I try to smooth things over. Religion can be controversial, of course. I know how to make light of devotion. “Well, I mean, I hope there’s a God. I sure do. Because if the world is ending, what’s next?” I raise my eyebrows, quizzical, and keep my tone light. I take a steak from the platter, determined to fit in.

Martha doesn’t laugh. “There is no God. We need to save ourselves. That’s why we are doing this.”

Martha carefully slices the steak on her plate, juices running, and I observe that her husband should have let it rest for longer.

“Eat, Molly McIntyre.”

It has started to bother me that Martha always calls me by my full name. I’ll tell Sam about this when I see him next. See if he agrees that it’s odd. Though, recently, he hasn’t been available to hang out.

The night ends uneventfully with bowls of vanilla ice cream, and I thank them before proceeding across the courtyard to my own on-campus housing, unfairly glum in comparison to the grandeur of Martha’s home.

In the morning, when I go outside, my car is not waiting.

I dial Martha’s number and she answers quickly. “Martha, it’s Molly. My car is late, but I can still find a way to be there. I’ll make the flight.”

“Oh Molly. Don’t worry about the trip. Erica Jacobsen is going to take over. We will find you a new assignment. I just don’t know that you’re a good fit for this particular role, given your predilections.”

She hangs up the phone. My stomach is cramped, maybe a reaction to processing last night’s bite of red meat—my first in a year—or, maybe, a response to the phone call. I’ve never been fired before. I return to my unit, not sure what to do. I can’t very well leave. My face is too famous, always one step behind Martha in photos that appear in the newspaper, on the television. At first, my parents were proud, but recently they seem concerned.

Besides, there are fewer places to go. The walk to the nearest coffee shop requires me to pass countless panhandlers and closed storefronts, windows covered with graffitied pictures of Martha’s face, the cause of their problems. The last few times I have seen Sam, he has come to my apartment, claiming that the food served on the government compound is superior to anything available in restaurants these days. Shortages abound, accompanied by strange stockpiles. Sam has hoarded several gallons of minced garlic and over one hundred pounds of rice. I have sixty-three cans of vanilla coke, and I open one now. Maybe I’ll dye my hair. I hope my new assignment will let me fly private. The loophole in the law still allows private flight for government officials.

Two weeks later, as I dress for my first day as Chief of Staff for the head of the war crimes unit in the Department of Defense, my phone lights up with a news alert: Government Official Assassinated. Assasination. That’s the word they use, because it was a sniper who took them out. Martha Botkins and Erica Jacobsen and two others in the entourage. Bill, the nice pilot who always gave me my vanilla coke.

I turn back inside to get my cross necklace from my jewelry box. I don’t usually wear it to work, but today, I do believe. Thank God.

Laura Mullen is a lawyer and writer who has been published as a regular contributor to The New York Times and in various literary journals. She sits on the board of the literary arts organization, Pittsburgh Arts & Lectures, and lives in Pittsburgh with her husband and three young children.