By: Jamie Steidle
I was never really good with history.
The future is what people call 10 years from now. They always imagine that it will have flying cars, talking phones that can not only beat you at a game of chess, but can also beat you at picking up women.
I had an uncle who thought that in 10 years he would not only have glow-in-the-dark skin, but the ability to turn himself invisible so he can sneak into local museums late at night and read placards in front of dinosaur exhibits without a flashlight. But the future never really had anything special in it. It had the same old stuff. Cars that you could drive. Phones that you could call people on. And skin that didn’t glow in the dark, but could look nice and shiny if you applied special ointment to it at night.
The only things that really seemed to change every 10 years was the way people viewed the past.
The past changed more than the future ever had. And with each passing decade, the previous years became as foreign as people wanted the future to be. And so filmmakers started making historical films.
The films were of course wildly inaccurate and got so much criticism that many notable directors retired and bought whole islands in order to live as recluses.
The public of course enjoyed these films. They enjoyed seeing the famed action hero Napoleon battle Julius Caesar for claim over all of western civilization. It didn’t matter to anyone, save the critics, that Caesar and Napoleon lived about 2,000 years apart, nor did it seem to matter that the Napoleon depicted in the film was 6 feet tall and liked to drive around with a motorcycle - or that Caesar had a pension for puppies, especially little brown pugs.
But soon these movies weren’t enough. The public and the critics wanted something more. They wanted something a little more accurate than Napoleon’s love of fast motorbikes and Caesar’s illegal foray with dog fighting. And so the historical films were put on the back-burner of many noted production companies until they could make a movie that was, at least, partially inaccurate but not entirely false.
It wasn’t until the semi-secret invention of the time machine that some of the most notable people (famous actors, rotten politicians and Russian Diplomats) concluded that the future was so boring that they decided to take part in living in the past.
The past had wonderful things, people said. One of these things was that it had crazy, romantic ideas about the future. Of course, those few who could afford to live in the past most likely died of some disease that was completely curable some 10 years later than their time of arrival.
It was around this time when time machines were beginning to become very dull things indeed (time machines had become synonymous with the plague) that I had just graduated from the Los Angeles Historical Film Institute (LAHFI). A very small college housed on a reclusive mountain on an even more reclusive island.
I had wanted to be a director since I had seen the film Alexander the Grand, a great action adventure epic that showed Alexander the Great’s fantastical and unbelievable feats. In the film, he had not only constructed the Pyramids with the help from Nephilim Giants, but he had battled with some very shady looking Aliens. The movie was so amazingly filmed, that everyone was able to look over the fact that Alexander was not grand, but great—oh, and all the parts about giants, pyramids and the aliens.
The film was directed by Linus Abraham, headmaster of the LAHFI. It was his last movie before he became a recluse. He tried to run away from the industry and had even purchased his own island, but he couldn’t stay away that long, which is why he constructed the school for those who wanted to direct grand films. And he named himself headmaster.
I didn’t want to direct grand films, I wanted to direct great films. An argument on the differences between grand and great always brewed up between Professor Abraham and I, but that did not stop him from naming me second unit director for his latest film.
“Aaron,” he said to me, stroking his long white beard. “Tomorrow, after graduation, I have decided to start a new project.”
“That’s great!” I said excitedly.
I had been one of a few people trying to push Professor Abraham back into filmmaking. He had been adamant to never make a film again. “It’s those sordid critics, isn’t it?” I had asked him about the subject many times. He had said that it was always the critics.
“What made me change my mind?” Abraham asked. He had a tendency for carrying on his own conversations.
“I was just about to ask that,” I said.
“I had an idea last night, Aaron. It came to me in my sleep.”
“What idea was it?”
“A grand idea.”
“Well, what was it about?” I asked.
“Christopher Columbus. I will direct a movie about his voyage to India.”
“You mean to America.”
“There will of course be a few twists and turns in the plot, to make it more interesting than sailing to some island.”
“It wasn’t just some island,” I said. “It was America. He discovered America.”
“Oh, yes. That, too,” he said with glazed eyes.
“There won’t be any giants in it, I hope.”
He waved his hand defensively and ignored my statement.
“I will of course ask the top of this year’s class to be second unit director,” he said.
“Well, that’s me, sir,” I said excitedly. I felt a wave of emotions that bordered on complete joy and terrible panic. I did not want to let my headmaster down.
“That is why I called you in here.” And then a most devilish smile came across his face. “What do you know about time travel?” he asked.
“I know that since time travel was invented people have been dying left and right. They keep going back in time and either getting themselves stuck on some remote region of time because they didn’t bring the proper batteries or they get killed because they didn’t bring the right type of medicine.”
“Yes, that reminds me. Make sure I bring my migraine medication.”
“Bring it where?”
“I have recently purchased a time machine. I plan on making the most historically accurate movie ever. We will go back in time and ride with Chris Columbus to India—”
“America,” I corrected him.
“Yes - yes. So after graduation, we will begin casting calls in 1492.”
“Casting calls?” I asked.
Casting was a strange thing to do when dealing with real historical figures. But I didn’t question the master. Later, I wish I had.
Graduation was one of those terribly dull moments in my history where I wished that I had instead taken a long nap.
I’m not a fan of great celebrations. I never really liked birthdays - all those relatives you hardly know and would rather not like to get to know showing up on your doorstep with embarrassing stories and presents you’d rather not wear, clasping your hand and telling you that, “You look much older than I thought,” and “Boy, have you grown! Have you put on a few pounds?”
Celebrations and birthdays were always ruined because of Aunt Whoever and Uncle Whatsit deciding that your business was theirs. That was what graduation was like. It wasn’t for me, for my accomplishments or accolades, it was for my family. They could care less about the speech I had given and cared even less about all the honors I had been bestowed. Instead, they bought me dinner and ignored me. The cheeseburger was good, though.
After family had subsided into arguments about who gets what when grandpa dies, I hurried to Professor Abraham’s house, silently sneaking out of the bathroom window with the aid of a hammer.
“You’re terribly late,” Linus Abraham told me after I had rushed in through his door.
“I’m terribly sorry—” I began.
“Enough!” Abraham interrupted me. “Let’s get on with it. The others are already over there.”
Linus Abraham slapped his forehead in annoyance, leaving a large red mark behind. He was trying to clarify what he said by being very unclear. It was the sort of thing he did in his classes that made all of his students grit their teeth. He always, in return, slapped his forehead, which is one of the theories his students postulated as to why his forehead was so elongated and flat.
After he flattened his forehead again, he grabbed me around the wrists and dragged me to his garage. In the garage was the oldest, shabbiest looking time machine I had ever seen. It looked like a riding lawn mower from years ago, with rusted corrugated sides and a plastic seat.
“You pull the lever,” he said. “It will send you back to 1492. There you will meet Sherrie. She’s an intern. Lovely girl. A bit wide in the hips, though. She’ll be the one with the clipboard and the motorbike. She’s been instructed to take you to our new studio. Great thing about time traveling is, you can always have your studio built even before you ask for it.”
“She’s traveling on a motorbike?” I asked. “Shouldn’t we be a little more discreet in 1492?”
The professor slapped his forehead.
“Pull the lever,” was all he said.
I sat on the old time machine and pulled the lever. Instantaneously I went from a dark, dingy little garage, to a bright, sunny day on a long pier in 1492, Spain.
The thing about time machines was that they never traveled with you. They sent you to vast distances by opening a wormhole and dropping your through it, connecting you and the machine with a thin piece of rope. I was no longer on that old machine, but on my feet holding what looked like a frayed piece of rope. The rope rested neatly in the palm of my hand. In order to get back, all I had to do was tug on that small piece of rope.
I wrapped the rope around my wrist like a wristband.
“Are you Aaron Zachary Jr.?” a feminine voice asked.
I squinted towards a shadowy, wide-hipped woman. She was very attractive in the blaring light, with cascading blonde hair, piercing blue eyes and a tight-lipped smile that accentuated her face with small dimples. She was wearing a leather jacket and held a clipboard.
I told her that I was who she was looking for.
She pulled me off the time machine and onto a small motorbike. It really wasn’t a motorbike. It was a moped.
“Professor Abraham told me to travel inconspicuous,” she told me as she hopped onto the bike. I held onto her waist as she started up the moped and we began to zoom across town. “So I thought a moped would be suitable. You know the Europeans with their mopeds.”
“I don’t think Europeans in the past drove around with mopeds,” I said. “Especially in 1492.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.
And we zoomed along quietly after that, flying across ancient Spain on the back of a moped. It was strange to think that at the time this moped was the fastest means of transportation Spain had ever seen.
I’ve never been to Spain before, let alone Europe. It wasn’t at all like I imagined. I saw wide green rolling hills, a bright sun set in a blue sky and people who looked at me like I came from a different planet, or at least a continent they’d never known existed.
“You ever been a second unit director before?” she asked as we stopped at a small, grey building next to a wharf that had many ships docked at it.
“Well, no,” I said. “I just graduated.”
“Oh, great—straight out of high school.”
Before I could correct her, she had peeled me off the bike and pushed me through the double doors of the studio; passed the small sound stage and room with all the expensive filming gear; passed my new assistant whose name was something like Dan or Stan and who gave me a cup of coffee; and back into the sunlight onto a dock were a number of film crew were directing a group of middle-aged men into a line.
“Who are these people?” I asked.
“One of these is our Christopher Columbus,” Professor Abraham said with a sinister smile as he stepped out of the shadows of a very colorful ship. “Hollywood loves a handsome leading man.”
“We’re casting Christopher Columbus?” I asked in shock.
“Of course.” Professor Abraham grabbed my arm and pulled me towards a short, barrel-chested figure with dark, suntanned skin and long mats of black hair. He was about 4 and a half feet tall and smelled of alcohol and beets. “Aaron, Meet the real Christopher Columbus.”
I looked at the short, unimpressive looking man.
“He’s pretty short and unimpressive looking, isn’t he?” Abraham stated.
Columbus growled at me and began speaking to me in Spanish:
“Déjame ir. Deje de perder el tiempo, la nariz grande!” he said. I didn’t know Spanish, I was later told that he had insulted the size of my nose or something like that.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“I’m not too sure. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“I don’t know a lick of Spanish.”
“Does any of your crew know Spanish?”
“Not that I know of,” he said and looked around at his crew. They shook their heads. No one knew Spanish. “That’s why we can’t use this fellow. We need someone who is handsome, smart and who can carry on a conversation in English.”
“You can’t just replace the Chris Columbus with some random person.”
“He won’t be random. He’ll be handsome.”
“I don’t mind that,” Sherrie said.
“Besides,” Abraham said. “History won’t care whether this is the guy or not. So long as there’s a Columbus that discovers India, then all will be fine.”
“America,” I said. “He discovered America.”
“Yes - that, too.” The Professor stepped back and clasped his hands together. “Right!” he said excitedly. “Which one of you devils speaks English?”
Sherrie walked up and down the pier, staring at each of the 25 different men who had all met to take part in the epic voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to discover new lands. She eyed each of them with her blue, radiant eyes. She gave them a look of either incredulousness or the type of look a woman gives a man when she wants to undress him backstage in order to see whether he’s worth it to bring home to the parents or not.
After a lot of time bickering between her and the Professor they picked their man. He was a tall, black haired fellow with deep set eyes, a bright complexion and a very small English vocabulary.
“No,” he said.
“At least he knows a word,” Professor Abraham said. “We can dub the rest in post-production.”
“I’d like to dub some in with him, now,” Sherrie said. No one knew what she meant and by the look on Sherrie’s face, it didn’t look like she knew what she meant either.
Christopher Columbus was sent home along with the other potential actors. He was offered a small role as a deck-hand, but he declined violently, slashing one of the dolly operators with his sword and injuring an assistant with a head-butt while shouting, “la venganza!”
We set sail that day, with the sun slowly making it’s decent in the west, creating, as the Professor said, “Great lighting that just sparkled off the water.”
“It’s beautiful,” he had said.
We began filming.
It became apparent to me that the only person from 1492, Spain in the film was this tall, handsome man we named Columbus. The other crew came from my time and were all hired before we got to 1492, Spain. Some I had graduated with, others I had seen on commercials or in really bad science fiction films.
I soon realized that the movie we were filming wasn’t historically accurate at all. Professor Abraham had not only gotten rid of the real Columbus by casting some random fellow to take the leading man’s part, but he also did away with the real ship and replaced it with a very colorful boat that had a motor stuck onto the back of it.
The dialogue wasn’t real either. It was written by the Professor. And the dialogue was really bad. At first, I felt that the movie could have been compared to a really cheesy reality TV show, the sort of reality TV show that was always on TV and nobody could understand why. But then I realized that the movie was turning out to be more like a soap opera, the sort of soap opera that got canceled halfway through the first episode.
The fake Chris Columbus (who we all called Handsome) was terribly nice. We all began to help him learn his lines, which also helped him pick up a few English words here and there. His biggest fall back was that he would always get very distracted during filming because of all the electronic devises. Telephones gave him the most inquisitive expression. Whenever a phone was out, he would raise his eyebrow and point at it saying in poor English, “Witchcraft!” We all imagined he meant he wanted a phone of his own. Eventually he got his own phone, which he threw overboard on the third day.
The sun was unrelenting. It beat down on all of us with unfriendly rays, cutting at our skin like daggers. Some days, we couldn’t even film because it was so hot and we kept below deck in the air conditioning, playing cards or shooting pool in the billiards room. It turned out that Handsome was really good at pool and beat all of us. He challenged the Professor to a game, but the Professor declined.
Abraham never mingled with any of the crew. He was always on the phone with his producers, trying to appease them.
“You want giants,” I heard him say over the phone. “I can do that.”
It was around the third week of filming, a little after we shot a great scene in a terrible tempest, a scene where Columbus got washed overboard (Don’t worry, Handsome didn’t actually get swept overboard. It was his stunt double, Hank) when we spotted the ship. It was a little speck on the horizon, bobbing up and down on the turbulent sea.
“What is that?” I asked Handsome.
He looked at me with concerned eyes.
“Pirates,” he said.
For the next few days, the ship got closer and closer. Until it was right on us.
The Professor was really upset. He stood on deck, his hands to his hips, yelling across to the other ship. Swearing up a storm, telling it to back off so he could get back to making his movie. The ship responded by firing at us with a canon, splitting the mast to pieces. This made the Professor even angrier, but that didn’t stop him from filming the whole thing.
A pirate swooped in on a rope and landed with a thud onto our deck. He was a short, unimpressive looking man. It was Christopher Columbus. He wanted his history back.
I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anything so gruesome before in my life. Columbus, the real Columbus, was very upset that his destiny had been stolen by some man who didn’t seem to know anything about the round world, let alone anything about sailing. And so Columbus challenged Handsome to a dual.
Rain sloshed on the deck. Lightning flickered across the sky. The boat jostled in the angry tempest.
I watched in horror as Columbus took out his sword. Handsome took out his sword. He didn’t seem at all frightened. He didn’t seem at all concerned. I realized that Handsome had come to the conclusion that this skirmish was nothing more than part of the movie. The last three weeks on the sea had conditioned him into thinking that nothing was real, it was only an act. Lazily he defended himself against the Pirate Captain Christopher Columbus.
The Skirmish quickly turned into a battle. Crew members and filmmakers were being flung overboard and taken out left and right, getting impaled or decapitated by the pirates. As the crew tried to film a real battle, they failed to realize they were part of it.
Columbus was surprised by how unserious Handsome was. However, that did not stop Columbus from taking off his competitors head. One second Handsome was smiling, the next he was split in two and swept overboard.
Columbus had successfully cut off the head of the snake. He smiled happily. He cleaned his blade and pointed it towards the Professor.
“Great!” Abraham said. “This will look amazing in 3D!” He continued filming.
Columbus said something inaudible, but I assumed that it was something along the line of, “This ship is mine!”
Columbus, who was informed by one of the tyrannical mutinous film crew about our time-wristbands, took our wristbands and tied them in his beard. He and his pirate crew then tied up myself, the professor and Sherrie.
The rest of our crew had either been killed, swept overboard or had decided to join the pirates. My assistant was one of the tyrannical mutinous film crew who was very excited about the prospect of being a real pirate. “Sweet!” he had said. “I always wanted to be a pirate.” Soon he would develop leprosy.
We were taken below deck and locked in the billiards room.
“This is what you get for trying to alter history,” I told Abraham.
“Nonsense. We have wonderful footage.”
“Our Columbus is dead,” I said. “He’s actually dead. The crew. They are dead. Some became pirates because they think it will be like the movies. Half the footage we shot is damaged. Half of it is unusable because our hero is dead! How do we have wonderful footage?!”
“So we’ll just have to alter a few things. It’s fine. We can make it the story of the underdog.”
“Who's the underdog?”
Abraham frowned at me.
“You’ve got a lack of vision, Aaron.”
“I think you need to recheck your vision,” I said.
“What is the first thing I taught you?”
“To make sure that the script is good.”
“Nope. Editing is the name of the game. It’s where the magic happens.”
“Well, how do you propose to edit us out of this? We’re being held captive by a Columbus who is a lot less friendly than I remember reading about in my 3rd grade history class.”
Professor Abraham frowned. He hadn’t thought of this.
“Simple. We just tug at our ropes and go back to our time,” Sherrie said. That was when she realized her wristband was gone. “Where’d my rope go?”
“Columbus took our wristbands,” I said. “Hank told him to.”
“Hank?” the professor asked. “Who’s Hank.”
“He was Handsome’s stunt double. Apparently he didn’t like getting swept overboard and forgotten about. He joined the pirates and is enacting revenge on us.”
“Oh,” Abraham said. ”Still, that was a wonderful scene.”
For days we were in the billiard room, tied to the pool table, surviving off of the false hope spewing out of Professor Abraham’s mouth.
Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like ages and eons seemed to slip by as our mouths grew more parched and our stomachs grew so empty that we were fine with eating small insects that crossed our path.
There was nothing romantic about Columbus’ journey. There was nothing beautiful about ocean voyages in the past. And there certainly wasn’t anything to romanticize about pirates. They were brutal. They were mean. They were mad. And they smelled.
Time had slipped by and I actually began to miss my little cramped apartment and the years before I had decided to be a filmmaker - when I just loafed around my apartment eating breakfast cereal and making cakes because I just liked baking.
Golden Age thinking had gotten me into a real mess. I used to think that the past was wonderful, now I realized that a place without proper bathrooms could not possibly be wonderful. The past smelled bad.
I was nearing death when my assistant came into the room. He had developed leprosy. He seemed okay about it.
“It’s all right,” he said as he wheeled in a moped. “I’m here to help, argh!”
“You know pirates don’t actually go ‘argh,’” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I just stubbed my toe on the door.” He pointed at his toe.
He untied us as best he could.
“You must escape. Take the moped. Get your wristbands back. And get out of here.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I like being a pirate. Beats getting people coffee any day.”
“But you have leprosy.”
“I know, isn’t it cool?!”
All I could do was agree.
And Sherrie, the Professor and myself stumbled on to the moped. Sherie was on the front, I was in the middle and the Professor held onto me. He had packed as much film as he could into a large backpack he had strapped around him. He held a camera in one hand and a boom-mic in the other. He was ready to catch everything.
“I’m going to win an award,” he said.
Sherrie revved up the motor and we zoomed out of the room, through the corridors knocking over a few pirates as we went. We bounced up the stairs and out into a sunny day.
“Can you drive a little slower?” the professor asked. “It’s all going by too fast for the camera.”
Sherrie ignored Abraham.
We needed to get back our wristbands, which was a lot easier said than done. Columbus was standing on the deck. He had one leg resting up on the railing. He rested his elbow on this leg, holding in his hand a spyglass. He was looking out towards the horizon.
The horizon was filled with a long sandy shoal. He had made it to land. The land came quickly as the strong current brought the ship towards its destination.
The moped burbled as it bounced across the deck. Pirates chased after us, as we rode around in circles. Their swords were out and they were slashing here and there, but missing us every time.
Columbus paid no attention to us. He could care less about his captives. Not anymore. Not now. He had not only proved to himself that the world was round, but he had made it to his destination. He had made it to, what he hoped, was India. The voyage had taken a lot longer than I imagined he had expected. He had hit some rough patches, but he had successfully found his way back in the history books.
He shouted at his men and they suddenly stopped chasing us. Which was very fortunate for us, because we had become very dizzy driving around in circles. We stopped spinning around and crashed into the railing right beside Columbus. We all fell onto the deck. The moped, however, flipped over the railing and sank into the sea.
Columbus glared at us for a moment. He untied the wristbands from his beard and flung them at us. And then he looked back out at the land just as the ship struck bottom. He hopped off the railing and splashed into the water. We watched him run off onto shore with his hands up in the air spinning around joyously. He frolicked on the sand.
That was when the natives came out of the brush that bordered the beach. They looked different than I imagined. Much different than any Native American I had ever seen.
“They look—” I began.
“—Indian.” the Professor finished. He then smiled as he held his camera up to film the whole thing.
“No wonder why Columbus thought he made it to India,” I said. “They really do look—”
“That’s because it is India,” Sherrie said. She held a GPS in her hand.
“We must have gotten turned around when Handsome was captain,” Sherrie suggested.
“I told you he discovered India,” the Professor said with a smile.
“Handsome was worse at sailing then I imagined,” I said.
“Or better,” Abraham suggested.
We looked out at the short, unimpressive looking man named Christopher Columbus as he attempted to communicate with the Natives of India. He seemed much happier than the angry little man whose history had been abruptly stolen, reclaimed and then altered.
“Well,” the Professor said as he lowered his camera. “It’s about time we start heading back.”
We placed our wristbands on and tugged at them. And we went back to our time, back into the present.
At first no one noticed anything different.
We went our separate ways.
Professor Abraham locked himself away in his studio on the top of his reclusive mountain on his reclusive island.
Sherrie went home to see family.
And I want back to my little apartment.
It wasn’t until I got the phone call from the Professor that I realized things just weren’t the way they used to be.
“Aaron!” he shouted over the receiver.
“It’s Linus. The film is edited. The work is complete. I’m having a premier at the L.A. Theater, the one on Sunset Blvd.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s the most prestigious theater in L.A.” And it was. It was the theater that all the best films got premiered at. I was surprised our film could get such a gig. To me, I imagined the movie we had made was going to get more complaints than any other film in history because it had altered history.
“Now, I know I have kept my movie under lock and key, especially after all the film crew became nasty pirates with that horrible monster of a man Chris Columbus. I have worked hard here every day editing my film and making sure I am the only one who has seen it. But I think it is my best work, yet. But there are other reasons…Things have changed…” he paused for emphasis.
“You’ll just have to wait to see.” he said. He told me the day and time to show up for the premier. “Until then. Check the history books.” And then he hung up.
The Professor was right. Things had changed. History had become altered. It had turned upside down.
Columbus had landed in India. He no longer was credited with discovering America. Instead, Ponce De Leon was credited for not only discovering America, but also being the first European casualty in the Americas.
Columbus went home, making his way past the Cape of Good Hope - the name was changed to The Cape of Columbus. He was credited as being the first person to sail around the world. However, he was put to death soon after he landed in Spain for Piracy.
Other things had changed, too. The largest change was the way people viewed the past.
The past no longer was romanticized. It was seen as a dangerous, unlivable and smelly place. No one wanted to live in the 1920’s, 1500’s, the Renascence or the Age of Enlightenment. They wanted to live in the future. It was no longer the dull place.
And nothing said people hated the past and wanted to live in the future more than when we went to our premier for Christopher Columbus.
I was expecting the streets to be littered with people cheering and calling out my name. I expected beautiful women to be lining the red carpet, throwing themselves at me as though I was some famous actor. But there was no one. Not a single person. There wasn’t even a red carpet. There was only the filmmakers. There was Professor Linus Abraham, Sherrie Winfield, and me, Aaron Zachery Jr.
Gloomily we walked down the black asphalt into an empty theater. We passed by an empty concession stand, which made me disappointed because I would have liked at least a little popcorn.
The film was a flop. We had altered history to an extent that we could hardly imagine. The population of the present was so significantly little that city streets had become deserts. Towns and business were closed because not only was there no one for service, all the servicers had gone away too.
People had left their businesses long ago and travelled into the future, where they had expected everything would be more interesting. But the joke was on them, because without a present, their future was probably just as grim.
A few years later, I was lucky to have discovered a single time machine. And giving up on my prospects as a filmmaker, I went back in time and found myself a nice job as a baker on a cruise ship in 1912. I always liked baking. And that is where I am as I write up this very sad story of mine.
I am on the RMS Titanic, a very stylish and beautiful new ocean liner that I hear is not only state of the art, but unsinkable. It must be, because I don’t remember hearing anything about it in the history books, but then, as you can tell, I was never really good with history.
Aaron Zachery Jr.,
April 14th, 1912