"You see, my dear, you shouldn't worry about changing history at all! What we did in the past already happened--they were writing that little gem into Twilight Zone episodes long before we realized it was true--it was supposed to happen and don't you forget it. Why, if the South ends up winning the Civil War, lucky for them they got the one time traveler who listens to Lynyrd Skynyrd!!"
I chuckle into her silence, the haughty laugh of a jaded jet-set time traveler.
"Excuse me, but Lynyrd who?"
I am awestruck. This is the worst date ever. I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.
There are four words written on my thigh in red scar tissue: DON'T MAKE SKYNYRD JOKES. It is a very embarrassing scar, I keep it under a bandage when I shower. They were written by my Second Grade teacher, when I was in Second Grade. I remember myself, a confused seven year old, as Mr. Smith traced on my skin with a soldering iron while all the other kids were at recess. What I remember most is how Mr. Smith spoke to me, how he reassured me in calm, even tones that everything was going to be alright. "This is all for the best, Jimmy." "I'm sorry Jimmy, but science has proven that the best time to give a child an embarrassing scar is when he is in the Second Grade, the skin is softer and the kids aren't as mean."
At the time, I didn't understand. The cops went to arrest him for child abuse, but he had vanished and was never found again. The state paid for some very good therapists and I had largely come to grips with what had happened to me until just this moment.
As my last chance at true love saunters out the door, I dig out a picture of Mr. Smith from my wallet. It's strange that he looks so much like me.
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