little lives
short stories by
John PicardISBN 13: 978-1-59948-086-2
~300 pages, $14.95
About the Author / Comments / Sample / Synopsis
John Picard, a native of Washington, D.C., lives in Greensboro, North Carolina. He earned his B.A. in English at the University of Maryland in 1973 and his MFA in creative writing from the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in 1989. He is currently an employee of UNCG's Jackson Library. Before moving to Greensboro he had many of the jobs common to struggling writers: general office worker, hotel reservations clerk, chauffeur, courier, dish washer. He has published stories in the Iowa Review, for which he received the Tim McGinnis Award for humorous fiction, Greensboro Review, Mid-American Review, The Seattle Review, and others. He is also a recipient of a North Carolina Arts Council grant for fiction.
The "little" lives in these stories are rendered with big heart and considerable skill. John Picard's vision is sharp and humane, and his unfailing ability to locate that point in our lives when the waters flow toward a different sea makes this a timeless and memorable collection.
Michael Parker
Author of If You Want Me to Stay and Don't Make Me Stop Now
Little Lives is a collection whose major themes are solitude and longing. Most of the stories deal with the anguish of the single middle-aged male, though if these men are experiencing a mid-life crisis, which they may be, they don't seem to know it. What they do know are feelings of insignificance and smallness. They seek to alleviate these feelings by attaching to something or someone bigger than themselves. It could be a movie star, an imaginary wife, an eye patch with talismanic powers, a pretty co-worker, an exercise machine-whatever it takes to generate the magic to escape loneliness and disappointment. They are secret and not-so-secret sharers whose fantasy lives are colored by the attractions of a celebrity culture: fame, riches, appearances on Letterman. These stories could only be written in a country with powerful myths of instant acclaim and overnight success. The characters are quintessentially American in that they pursue a kind of get-rich-quick scheme of the soul to get what they want, a short-cut to happiness and fulfillment that is almost certain to fail.
Nixon: The Man And His Muse
"...And, Diane, I want you to find out everything you can about Emily Dickinson," the President said.
This direct order came at the end of a meeting with his press staff, dealing with the recent break-in at the Democratic National Headquarters in the Watergate Complex and the arrest of five men rumored to have ties to CREEP, Nixon's reelection committee. I found it an odd request to say the least, and normally I would have asked for an immediate clarification, but Nixon was out of sorts that morning, groggy from lack of sleep, with a full slate of legislative business ahead of him. I knew from experience that at such times he was impatient with questions that impeded the flow of his brilliant, if overburdened, mind.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"This is nothing but a third-rate burglary, but the Democrats will try to use it against us. They're already trying. Well, if they think Nixon's going to just sit around and take it, they've got another thing coming. We'll hit back, and hit back hard."
Dismissing us with a wave, he took up a yellow legal pad and swiveled in his chair until his back was to the room.
Outside the Oval Office, I asked Ron Ziegler, my boss and White House Press Secretary, "Why would the President want information about a nineteenth century American poet?" The President's antipathy to the arts has been greatly exaggerated, though it's true he tended to associate them with his liberal enemies and the Eastern elite, a prejudice, as will be seen, not sufficient to extinguish a dormant enthusiasm and a profound appreciation.
"I have no idea. Can you believe how he was shouting at me in there? Why doesn't he like me? I do everything he asks. My support is unwavering."
"He likes you. He thinks of you as a son practically. Well, a son-in-law."
"I don't mind being his whipping boy, but I wish I got credit for it once in a while. What were we talking about?"
"Nothing, Ron. Back to work."
While researching in the Library of Congress, I had plenty of time to ponder why I'd been chosen for this strange assignment. I was a recent graduate of Wellesley and been labeled, quite undeservedly, the "brainy" one on the staff. I'd studied Dickinson in two of my college literature courses, and been a devotee of her poetry since childhood. But the President couldn't have known that. It might also have to do, I thought, with Nixon's traditional view of the sexes, women being more inclined to literary matters than men, especially men like John Erlichman and Bob Haldeman, his closest aides, "the Nazi's," as Dr. Kissinger referred to them. But none of this explained the motive behind the President's request.
That came three days later when I presented him with sixty double-spaced pages that included poems, a brief biography, some criticism, all bound together in a beige, looseleaf notebook.
"It's not everything," I told him. "She wrote almost two thousand poems, and there's a wealth of scholarship that I didn't even-"
"Who's this?" the President said. He was pointing at the only known photograph of the poet, aged only sixteen, which I had photocopied and pasted on the cover.
"Emily Dickinson."
"What's it for?"
"You said you wanted everything I could find about Emily Dickinson."
"Angie Dickinson. Kennedy's old mistress. Not Emily Dickinson." All but forgotten now, in her day Angie Dickinson was one of Hollywood's reigning starlets.
We looked at each other, then burst out laughing. Contrary to the popular perception, Nixon enjoyed a good laugh as much as anyone else.
"Oh, Mr. President. I feel so foolish."
"This better not leak, Diane," he quipped. "We can't let my enemies think I'm getting soft."
We tried and failed to determine whether he'd misspoken or I'd misheard; not that it mattered. It was Nixon's habit to blow off steam by giving orders he never expected his staff to follow up on, his directive to Haldeman during a rough patch in the Paris Peace talks to nuke Hanoi being a good example. He'd already gotten over his momentary pique regarding the break-in, having been assured by his aides that it was of minor consequence, and would be of no use to the Democrats in the upcoming election.
I was only 26 but, looking back, I think my youth and inexperience were among my chief assets. It was 1972, the year Nixon opened up relations with China and created detente with the Soviet Union, the year of the Christmas bombing that expedited the end of the Vietnam war. That was the greatest year of a great man's presidency, and I was smack in the middle of it. Certainly, being chosen America's Junior Miss when I was seventeen (my more beautiful sister, Linda Sawyer, had been first-runner up the year before) and winning the $5000 scholarship that led to four idyllic years at Wellesley was a huge thrill, as well as affording me valuable life experience. But nothing could have prepared me for jumping directly from my one misguided year of law school into the White House, my only protection from paralyzing fear being my naivete, along with a belief in the man whose goals for America I was fortunate to advance in some small way.
In addition to my duties on the press staff, I occasionally served as an "anecdotalist," one of numerous staff members assigned to accompany the President throughout his work day and record examples of his warm, human side-Nixon the Man, as it were-and then leak them to friendly media outlets. It was an attempt by the White House to show an aspect of the President that a hostile press either refused to see or ignored.
I was present when he thoroughly charmed the Ambassador of Nepal with stories of his superior skill at poker and other games of chance. I overheard his comforting words to a congressional aide whose wife had just died of cancer: "There, there now." During a ceremony in the Rose Garden, I saw him twice touch the forearm of that year's poster child for the United Way. But I wasn't the one who first noted evidence of the President's new passion.
"The Old Man said the strangest thing when he was briefing Goldwater on the Mideast," Ron said. "'I dream in possibility.' Isn't that weird?"
"Not at all. I think it's very apt." I recognized the line, of course, and then remembered that at my meeting with the President I'd accidentally left the Dickinson notebook behind. "He does dwell in possibility. Are you going to release it?"
"No way. Too fruity."
With growing concern, Ron came to me a few days later with a quote gleaned during a visit by Jordan's King Hussein. He closed the office door and recited, "'We never know how high we are till we are called to rise.' What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"It's a line from Dickinson."
"Kennedy's girlfriend?"
"Emily. The poet."
"Jesus Christ. If it gets out the Old Man's quoting poetry to world leaders, the press'll kill him. Talk to him about it, will you? He'll listen to you."
"Don't be so alarmist. The President deserves to have a little beauty in his life."
"Not until after the election, he doesn't."
Naturally, I said nothing. I'm not sure if Ron did, though something he said the next day triggered a Presidential scolding I could hear on the other side of the door to the Oval office. I was still there when Ron came out, head bowed and face flushed, followed by the President who, looking invigorated, gave me a sly look. "'Anger as soon as fed is dead.'"
"Mr. President, I think you've been reading your Emily Dickinson."
"Thanks to you, Diane. Great gal," he said, though whether he was referring to me or the Belle of Amherst, I couldn't say.
***To finish this story and read the rest of Little Lives , we invite you to purchase a copy of the book.***