ReUNION: What if the Civil War had never happened? by Harvey Ardman Page B
Authors: Harvey Ardman
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pastrami on rye so thick that he could
barely keep it together, using both hands.
"Hey, Eric!" The greeting came from a slim man with a triangular
face, shiny black hair and one of those pencil thin mustaches that were
fashionable in the 1930s. He was wearing an excellent suit and grinning mostly
with the left side of his face, as if the right weren't so pleased.
"Mark. How have you been?"
"Not as good as you, Eric." Mark nodded toward Pickett. "Who's
your friend?"
"I'm…"
"An old college buddy." Wang interrupted.
"Always good to get together with old friends," Mark said, performing
a double-entendre, low degree of difficulty.
Eric offered a chilly smile.
"I would love a half hour with the President, Eric. Even 15 minutes,"
Mark said. "I mean, to the country's benefit. And the industry's of
course. I admit it. I just want to make sure he knows the facts, you know.
It'll help when he starts to work on the pipeline bill."
"How about if you send me something? Got a brochure? A press
release?"
Wang caught Pickett's eye and
grinned.
"Well, of course I could send you something. Will you read it?"
"It'll go on the top of the pile."
"Good," said Mark, without asking exactly which pile Wang meant.
"It'll be on your desk within an hour."
Wang stuck out a hand and Mark, having no choice, shook it. "Nice to see
you Mark."
"Same here," said Mark, with his disconcerting half smile. He
wandered off.
"You get that a lot?"
"He's the first one today, but I expect a hundred more before the week is
over. Doesn't happen to you?"
"Rarely. They don't like asking Negroes for favors."
Wang nodded. "I wish they felt that way about
Korean-Americans."
"What are these?" Pickett said, pointing to a pair of thick, amoeba-shaped
blobs on his plate.
"Potato latkes ," Wang said. "You eat them like a pancake.
Smear 'em with the applesauce or the sour cream."
Pickett dipped a spoonful of applesauce, smeared it on a latke , took a
tentative bite, then quickly cleaned his plate.
Meanwhile, Wang managed to flag down a waiter, which was no mean feat in this
place. "Two cheesecakes," he said.
Despite the enormous sandwiches, it took them less than 90 seconds to finish
off their cheesecakes.
"We don't have anything like this in the Confederacy," Pickett said.
"At least I've never come across it."
"Well, you'll just have to spend more time up here," Wang said.
"And speaking of time, we have an hour before we have to get back to the
office for the meeting. Time to wander. What would you like to see?"
"You're the doctor."
They paid, zipped up and walked out into the Washington winter, down 17th
Street to the Mall. "Let's go down to the west end—the Jefferson
Memorial—and head back East," Wang suggested.
They walked past the Reflecting Pool, talking. "You've known the President
for a long time?" Pickett asked.
"Since he was a Representative," Wang said. "How about you and
Bourque?"
"I was born in Arcadia," Pickett said, bending into the chill wind.
"My mother was chief cook at The Plantation. So I've known President
Bourque all of my life."
"You continued to live at The Planation?"
"Never lived anywhere else. Went to school there with the children of
Bourque's cabinet members, and his daughter."
Wang kicked a clump of ice. "That explains it," he said.
"What?"
"You're an educated man—and a Black man from the South. Usually, it’s one
or the other, not both."
"That's true," Pickett said. He stopped, bent down, scooped up a
handful of snow and packed it into a ball.
Wang held up both hands. "No throwing, please. I get enough of that with
the twins."
"Your boys?"
"Yes. They're relentless. And their aim is deadly."
Pickett smiled and tossed the snowball at a stone post, just grazing it.
"You're married, I assume?"
"Kerry. Ten years. You?"
"No."
"Girlfriend?" Wang asked.
"Well, there's…no one I can really talk about."
"I see."
They came up to the Jefferson Memorial, with its circular marble steps and
portico, and the
barely keep it together, using both hands.
"Hey, Eric!" The greeting came from a slim man with a triangular
face, shiny black hair and one of those pencil thin mustaches that were
fashionable in the 1930s. He was wearing an excellent suit and grinning mostly
with the left side of his face, as if the right weren't so pleased.
"Mark. How have you been?"
"Not as good as you, Eric." Mark nodded toward Pickett. "Who's
your friend?"
"I'm…"
"An old college buddy." Wang interrupted.
"Always good to get together with old friends," Mark said, performing
a double-entendre, low degree of difficulty.
Eric offered a chilly smile.
"I would love a half hour with the President, Eric. Even 15 minutes,"
Mark said. "I mean, to the country's benefit. And the industry's of
course. I admit it. I just want to make sure he knows the facts, you know.
It'll help when he starts to work on the pipeline bill."
"How about if you send me something? Got a brochure? A press
release?"
Wang caught Pickett's eye and
grinned.
"Well, of course I could send you something. Will you read it?"
"It'll go on the top of the pile."
"Good," said Mark, without asking exactly which pile Wang meant.
"It'll be on your desk within an hour."
Wang stuck out a hand and Mark, having no choice, shook it. "Nice to see
you Mark."
"Same here," said Mark, with his disconcerting half smile. He
wandered off.
"You get that a lot?"
"He's the first one today, but I expect a hundred more before the week is
over. Doesn't happen to you?"
"Rarely. They don't like asking Negroes for favors."
Wang nodded. "I wish they felt that way about
Korean-Americans."
"What are these?" Pickett said, pointing to a pair of thick, amoeba-shaped
blobs on his plate.
"Potato latkes ," Wang said. "You eat them like a pancake.
Smear 'em with the applesauce or the sour cream."
Pickett dipped a spoonful of applesauce, smeared it on a latke , took a
tentative bite, then quickly cleaned his plate.
Meanwhile, Wang managed to flag down a waiter, which was no mean feat in this
place. "Two cheesecakes," he said.
Despite the enormous sandwiches, it took them less than 90 seconds to finish
off their cheesecakes.
"We don't have anything like this in the Confederacy," Pickett said.
"At least I've never come across it."
"Well, you'll just have to spend more time up here," Wang said.
"And speaking of time, we have an hour before we have to get back to the
office for the meeting. Time to wander. What would you like to see?"
"You're the doctor."
They paid, zipped up and walked out into the Washington winter, down 17th
Street to the Mall. "Let's go down to the west end—the Jefferson
Memorial—and head back East," Wang suggested.
They walked past the Reflecting Pool, talking. "You've known the President
for a long time?" Pickett asked.
"Since he was a Representative," Wang said. "How about you and
Bourque?"
"I was born in Arcadia," Pickett said, bending into the chill wind.
"My mother was chief cook at The Plantation. So I've known President
Bourque all of my life."
"You continued to live at The Planation?"
"Never lived anywhere else. Went to school there with the children of
Bourque's cabinet members, and his daughter."
Wang kicked a clump of ice. "That explains it," he said.
"What?"
"You're an educated man—and a Black man from the South. Usually, it’s one
or the other, not both."
"That's true," Pickett said. He stopped, bent down, scooped up a
handful of snow and packed it into a ball.
Wang held up both hands. "No throwing, please. I get enough of that with
the twins."
"Your boys?"
"Yes. They're relentless. And their aim is deadly."
Pickett smiled and tossed the snowball at a stone post, just grazing it.
"You're married, I assume?"
"Kerry. Ten years. You?"
"No."
"Girlfriend?" Wang asked.
"Well, there's…no one I can really talk about."
"I see."
They came up to the Jefferson Memorial, with its circular marble steps and
portico, and the
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