The Simulacra

by Philip K. Dick

It had been done, he told them. Jesse Pigg, the fabulous jug-artist from Alabama, had gotten to the White House first, entertaining and delighting the dozen and one members of the Thibodeaux family gathered there with his versions of “Derby Ram” and “John Henry” and the like. “But,” Ian Duncan had protested, “this is classical jug. We play late Beethoven sonatas.” “We’ll call you,” the talent scout had said briskly. “If Nicky shows an interest at any time in the future.” Nicky! He had blanched. Imagine being that intimate to the First Family. He and Al, mumbling pointlessly, had retired from the stage with their jugs, making way for the next act, a group of dogs dressed up in Elizabethan costumes portraying characters from Hamlet. The dogs had not made it, either, but that was little consolation.