ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? by Harvey Ardman Page A
Authors: Harvey Ardman
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sure are burning bright."
When Pickett got back to Wang's office, Wang was just hanging up the phone.
"Everything copacetic?" He asked. "That was my first look at your
President. He seems to be feeling reasonably well."
"He's okay. Tired, but okay."
"Good. Listen, Roy, I've made a couple of calls, asked some people to help
us out with the announcement. We'll be meeting with them here at 2 p.m. Now
it's getting to be lunchtime. How about if I call down to the kitchen and have
them send up some burgers?"
"Yeah, I'm getting hungry," Pickett said. "But if it's all the
same to you, Eric, I wouldn't mind having lunch out. This is the first time
I've ever been in Washington, you know. I kind of want to take a look at
it."
"That could be arranged," Wang said.
"Arranged? We gonna need an escort? Secret Service."
Wang laughed. "No. If I had guards, everyone would want them. But it's a
little nippy out there. That summer suit of yours won't do. I'll have to
find you a jacket. Gimme a minute. I'll be right back."
Wang left Pickett sitting in his crowded, chaotic office, looking at the
pictures on the walls—a fairly good reproduction of Starry Night; an
autographed photo of a grinning Tom Brady about to throw a football; a big,
slightly dusty shot of the Chrysler Building, gleaming warmly in the late
afternoon sunlight; and an ancient, elaborately framed double-portrait of an
elderly man holding a rake and an equally elderly woman wearing a floppy
sunhat, the Asian version of American Gothic. These must be the
great-grandparents, Pickett decided.
Then there was the desk, which was large and impressive, but had seen better
days. Its top was scratched and worn, its legs scarred and dented apparently
from several administrations' worth of passing shoes. A small, picture
frame sat on one corner of the desk, displaying two male grade schoolers, one
with missing front teeth; and behind the desk, a tall, cheap, glitzy tennis
trophy protruded haphazardly from an open cardboard box. All of this was
floating in a sea of books and stacked file folders.
Wang returned, carrying something bright blue and puffy.
"A pillow?" Pickett said. "You brought a pillow?"
"Nothing of the sort," Wang said. "The Assistant Press Secretary
was kind enough to loan me his genuine L.L. Bean down jacket. Take off your
suit coat and try it on."
Pickett did as instructed. The down jacket was a nearly perfect fit. "I
look like the Michelin man," he said, swinging his arms.
"You'll thank me."
Wang slipped on his own down jacket—his was red—and led Pickett through the
barely controlled bedlam of the West Wing and out of a side door, into the
chilly crisp air of the Nation's Capital. The sidewalks and streets were clear,
but a thin layer of snow lay on the grass. Pickett bent down, scooped up a
handful and studied it.
"Never seen snow before?"
"Not since I've been an adult." Pickett rubbed his hands together
briskly. "kind of crystalline," he said, intrigued.
"Sometimes," Wang said. "Sometimes powdery, or flakey. Or
mushy."
"Your breath," Pickett noted.
Wang exhaled a stream of frosted condensation. "Yours too."
Pickett puffed out a little cloud. "Interesting." He shivered.
"Zip up your jacket, Roy. This isn't N'Oleans."
Roy zipped up, as did Eric Wang. Then they walked over to 17th Street NW and
toward the creamy white spire of the Washington Monument, which contrasted
sharply with a sky full of threatening dark clouds.
Pickett rubbernecked. "Impressive buildings," he said.
"Yeah," Wang said. "That's the Baker Executive Office Building
and up there is the Corcoran. They have one of Gilbert Stuart's
Washingtons."
They pulled into a nondescript deli a couple of blocks from the White House.
"Doesn't look like much," Wang allowed, "but they have the best
pastrami south of 2nd Avenue."
"The best what?"
"I'll order for you."
And there he sat, Roy Pickett, black, Southern and about as out of his element
as a toad on a birthday cake, eating a
When Pickett got back to Wang's office, Wang was just hanging up the phone.
"Everything copacetic?" He asked. "That was my first look at your
President. He seems to be feeling reasonably well."
"He's okay. Tired, but okay."
"Good. Listen, Roy, I've made a couple of calls, asked some people to help
us out with the announcement. We'll be meeting with them here at 2 p.m. Now
it's getting to be lunchtime. How about if I call down to the kitchen and have
them send up some burgers?"
"Yeah, I'm getting hungry," Pickett said. "But if it's all the
same to you, Eric, I wouldn't mind having lunch out. This is the first time
I've ever been in Washington, you know. I kind of want to take a look at
it."
"That could be arranged," Wang said.
"Arranged? We gonna need an escort? Secret Service."
Wang laughed. "No. If I had guards, everyone would want them. But it's a
little nippy out there. That summer suit of yours won't do. I'll have to
find you a jacket. Gimme a minute. I'll be right back."
Wang left Pickett sitting in his crowded, chaotic office, looking at the
pictures on the walls—a fairly good reproduction of Starry Night; an
autographed photo of a grinning Tom Brady about to throw a football; a big,
slightly dusty shot of the Chrysler Building, gleaming warmly in the late
afternoon sunlight; and an ancient, elaborately framed double-portrait of an
elderly man holding a rake and an equally elderly woman wearing a floppy
sunhat, the Asian version of American Gothic. These must be the
great-grandparents, Pickett decided.
Then there was the desk, which was large and impressive, but had seen better
days. Its top was scratched and worn, its legs scarred and dented apparently
from several administrations' worth of passing shoes. A small, picture
frame sat on one corner of the desk, displaying two male grade schoolers, one
with missing front teeth; and behind the desk, a tall, cheap, glitzy tennis
trophy protruded haphazardly from an open cardboard box. All of this was
floating in a sea of books and stacked file folders.
Wang returned, carrying something bright blue and puffy.
"A pillow?" Pickett said. "You brought a pillow?"
"Nothing of the sort," Wang said. "The Assistant Press Secretary
was kind enough to loan me his genuine L.L. Bean down jacket. Take off your
suit coat and try it on."
Pickett did as instructed. The down jacket was a nearly perfect fit. "I
look like the Michelin man," he said, swinging his arms.
"You'll thank me."
Wang slipped on his own down jacket—his was red—and led Pickett through the
barely controlled bedlam of the West Wing and out of a side door, into the
chilly crisp air of the Nation's Capital. The sidewalks and streets were clear,
but a thin layer of snow lay on the grass. Pickett bent down, scooped up a
handful and studied it.
"Never seen snow before?"
"Not since I've been an adult." Pickett rubbed his hands together
briskly. "kind of crystalline," he said, intrigued.
"Sometimes," Wang said. "Sometimes powdery, or flakey. Or
mushy."
"Your breath," Pickett noted.
Wang exhaled a stream of frosted condensation. "Yours too."
Pickett puffed out a little cloud. "Interesting." He shivered.
"Zip up your jacket, Roy. This isn't N'Oleans."
Roy zipped up, as did Eric Wang. Then they walked over to 17th Street NW and
toward the creamy white spire of the Washington Monument, which contrasted
sharply with a sky full of threatening dark clouds.
Pickett rubbernecked. "Impressive buildings," he said.
"Yeah," Wang said. "That's the Baker Executive Office Building
and up there is the Corcoran. They have one of Gilbert Stuart's
Washingtons."
They pulled into a nondescript deli a couple of blocks from the White House.
"Doesn't look like much," Wang allowed, "but they have the best
pastrami south of 2nd Avenue."
"The best what?"
"I'll order for you."
And there he sat, Roy Pickett, black, Southern and about as out of his element
as a toad on a birthday cake, eating a
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