George Washington’s Wig

Time travel is real and time tourists show up in large numbers around major historical events. One day, thousands of time tourists are in ships above the earth, quietly waiting.

On the corner of a busy intersection in a small suburb of Cincinnati, a black sedan rattled near the curb, skidded to a halt, and fell silent. A portly gentleman with a mustache and black umbrella alighted and walked towards the building on the corner, a squat gray-ish structure sandwiched between a department store and a sushi restaurant. The building might otherwise have been unremarkable except for its exterior, which was papered with colorful fly bills, their curling edges a testament to their age. In the windows, fading posters advertised the “Action of Normandy,” “Lindbergh: The Man Behind the Rudder,” and “The Knights of the Round Table.” This was the home of Replay, and despite an unassuming appearance, it was the world’s leader in time travel entertainment — an authority on destinations past, present and future.

Replay featured trips to every continent over a wide range of centuries; it had successfully shown its customers the intrigues of Cleopatra’s Egypt, the gruesome clashes at Gettysburg, the cramped quarters of the Mayflower and more. But while any time agent in the business could arrange tours to familiar locations, Replay’s specialty lay in revealing behind-the-scenes peeks at how history had really played out, so that mysterious disappearances, political schemes and more were accessible and accountable to the viewer himself.

Wondering what was actually said in the officers’ quarters of the Titanic? Replay hosted a trip for firsthand observation. What about the loss of Amelia Earhart? Replay could arrange a cruise to the time and place of her disappearance. Curious about spies in World War II? Replay had a trip for that too, with destinations all over Europe. It was Replay’s business to seek out the popular, the mysterious, and the scandalous and arrange a guided trip for interested travelers with open wallets. The company chartered the time cruises and arranged the details; travelers simply had to purchase a ticket. And trips with Replay were five-star affairs; for a price, time tourists could enjoy the stories of the past from the comfort Replay’s fleet of airships, gigantic cloaked cruisers equipped with state-of-the-art technology, unobstructed views, and top notch cuisine.

Inside Replay’s headquarters, Vincent Hatfield, general manager, sat behind a bare metal desk, shuffling papers into an equally bare metal cabinet. His umbrella rested in a corner. The office was small, off-white, and decorated in loud colors. Reproduction Mayan pottery — the appropriation of originals being strictly prohibited — collided with hairy ferns on a white coffee table whose sleek lines were vaguely reminiscent of furnishings from the set of Star Trek. A shelf mounted behind the desk housed a cluttered collection of snow globes, featuring Replay’s signature destinations, while a crystal cut chandelier with garishly large glass drops dangled from the ceiling. On the wall, the hands of a giant clock pointed to 2:30:15 pm. The scene, when considered with the wall-to-wall orange shag carpet smothering the office floor, was not for the faint of heart; Hatfield admired the arrangement wholeheartedly.

A knock echoed on the door of the office, and a thin secretary, clad entirely in pink, fluttered into the room.

“Oh, Mr. Hatfield! Have you heard?” she exclaimed, and before Hatfield could ascertain whether he had or not she was rattling away.

Hatfield had trouble following his secretary on the best of days, and this was certainly not one of them. He was distracted by the massive pink stole she wore around her neck, which was so voluminous and furry it gave her the appearance of being swallowed by a small animal. He idly wondered how many minks had been obliged to sacrifice themselves for the creation of this hairy monstrosity.

“ — and I thought, what better person to see than George Washington? I mean, he’s so famous and everything, it would just be an absolute shock to see him like that, and of course it doesn’t do him any harm — after all he’s got his picture on currency, so it’s not like we’d be ruining his image, if you know what I mean, and I was talking to Gary the other day, and he said –”

With difficulty, Hatfield interrupted her stream of consciousness. “Hold on. You want to see what on George Washington?”

Grace affected a giggle. “Why his head, of course, that’s the whole point. No one knows what’s under there, do they, I mean not really, and it’d be sure to draw absolute crowds –

“Do you mean to say you want to see George Washington’s head?” Hatfield scratched his own appendage, not quite sure he understood. Suddenly an idea began to dawn on him.

“You don’t mean –” He started, and subsided into horrified silence. Grace, unfortunately, mistook this as approval.

“Yes, yes, exactly!” she squealed. “Wouldn’t that be amazing? Wouldn’t that draw the crowds? I can just imagine the headlines now, “Washington shocks world with hairless crown.” She beamed at Hatfield from the depths of her stole.

Hatfield fell limply against his chair. It was an appalling suggestion.

“Have you got any documentation for it?” he asked, grasping at a straw. He brightened a little. Surely Replay couldn’t fund the research for anything so trivial as that. “When he takes his wig off, I mean?”

Grace tossed her head. “Oh, that. Yes, we’ve got it. I asked Gary to look it up, and he found the perfect time.”

Now Hatfield was really alarmed. “When is it?” he asked, already dreading the answer.

Grace glowed. “Right after the crossing of the Delaware. He says the spray makes him itchy, he returns to his tent, he washes, and bam! There it is.”

***

Hatfield was conflicted. Damn that girl and her silly ideas! She would make his company the laughing stock of the time warp industry. Replay had begun as a perfectly respectable service that offered trips to major events of the past, mostly observing crown-heads and battlefields, that sort of thing. In less than five years, it had been reduced to shriveling tabloid fodder, gossip that would have made the newspapers of 1776 scream with the headlines: “Washington bald under powdered wig.” “President is follicly-challenged.” “Commander-in-chief’s hair nonexistent.” It was an insult to the man and to the company.

Hatfield snorted in disgust. Who cared what was underneath the wig? For all he knew, Washington had a crew cut, but it wouldn’t change popular history. And yet, he had to admit the phone had been ringing off the hook with sales for pre-order tickets, queries about the departure date and time of return, expected dress-code for the voyage. People, quite simply, wanted to know about other people’s lives, whether they lived centuries away or next door, and Replay had provided a delicious reason to snoop.

Hatfield glanced out the window. A line of expectant customers, waiting to buy tickets, stretched past Suzuki’s Sushi Palace, wrapped the corner at the Drug Mart, and disappeared into the distance. He rubbed his temples, where a small spot was beginning to throb.

Another knock sounded on the door, and before Hatfield had a chance to say, “Come in, please,” Leopold had entered, bearing a roll of paper Hatfield surmised to be a poster advertising the new event. Not that they needed it, by the looks of things outside. Hatfield sighed and gestured for Leo to sit down, but the act was unnecessary. He had already settled himself in front of the desk and was engaged in unfurling the roll with a flourish.

The paper, when revealed, was printed with a cartoonish profile of George Washington, surrounded by floating hairbrushes. A frontispiece below reproduced the famous crossing of the Delaware, and the entire notice was captioned with the dramatic incitement to see “George Washington as he has never appeared before!” And in smaller type, “What will be the result? Cast your vote at P.O Box 5, 47 Main Street, Cincinnati.”

Hatfield sagged, unable to take his eyes off the poster, but equally unable to find words to express the depth of his horror. Unfortunately, like Grace, Leopold mistook his speechlessness for delight and launched into a monologue about where he planned to put the poster (which Hatfield deduced was pretty much every establishment in town). This ended with the pocket extraction of a small hammer and pouch of nails as he disappeared through the door, intent on plastering the building from top to bottom.

Hatfield reached for the phone.

“Get me Karkoff,” he barked, and banged the receiver back onto the hook. He was no longer in the mood to be peaceable.

A moment later a discreet tap announced a newcomer and a tall, thin young man with spectacles and ginger hair combed into a fastidious part entered, bearing a sheath of papers. He stood waiting expectantly before the desk while Hatfield scowled at a scratch on the metal surface.

“We’re slammed,” he groused.

Theodore Karkoff only nodded. He had earned a reputation internally for his impassive detachment; consequently, Hatfield thought he would have made a good judge. No one ever would have guessed that beneath his mild demeanor, Karkoff was secretly pleased someone had proposed the issue of what lay beneath Washington’s wig, even if it was that silly secretary. He hoped the president had ginger roots, like his own.

“How many ships do we have available for the day?” Hatfield asked, running his finger along the crack.

“13 and counting, sir.” Each ship held 100 passengers, but at the rate they were taking reservations it might not be enough.

Karkoff’s expression of placid patience was irritating Hatfield.

“Can you get more?”

“I rang the pilot’s guild, and everyone that’s available is already booked. The only one that’s not is Billy Shwartz, but his wife’s due any day.”

Hatfield’s florid features turned a delicate shade of red and he banged a meaty fist on the desk. Files scattered and a paperweight jumped.

“Dergonnit!” He bellowed. “What does she have to go and have a baby for at a time like this? Pitiful need we had for pilots during the Lindbergh job, but now that George Washington’s going to go and remove his wig, she has to have a baby!”

Karkoff ignored this. “We’re doing the best we can. It will work. Just leave it to us.” His words held a pacifying tone, as though soothing a ruffled hen, but Hatfield was not ready to be soothed.

“Well, you see that it does,” he griped. His chest deflated, and he carefully rearranged the scattered papers at right angles on his desk top. “Damned silly nonsense,” he added.

“We’ll make it happen.”

Karkoff turned on his heel and left, breathing a sigh of relief. Meetings with Hatfield could be trying.

***

Weeks later, Hatfield watched from the steamy window of an F-16 Clock Cruiser as the pilot prepared to make the jump into time warp. Around him, hundreds of guests talked in hushed, expectant murmurs. To the right and to the left, more ships filled the horizon, each piloted by an employee of Replay Enterprises. Within a minute, they had passed through Replay’s private portal and the ships slid silently into position above 18th century America.

Below the ships rippled the choppy gray waters of the Delaware River, while a sleeting mixture of snowflakes and frigid rain obscured most of it in the approaching twilight. Karkoff switched on the Zoomatron2000, which allowed the guests to see beyond the iced windows of the F-16 and gain a clear view of the action below, as though they were standing on the banks of Pennsylvania. The Zoomatron actually projected an image onto the window panels, but it was so clear an image one would never guess, unless by leaning in for a close look. Silence settled around the ship like a veil. The passengers watched eagerly.

A moment later, Washington and his crew came into view, at the head of a regiment of boats. Several of the guests stifled gasps, and one lady gave a shrill squeal of anticipation. Washington looked nothing like he was portrayed in the 1851 portrait of the crossing. Instead of kneeling in the bow, hand thrust triumphantly forward, he sat shivering, erect, clutching a wool blanket around him in the stern of the ship, while spray from the rough waves battered the wood and him and his crew. It was a miserable December night, and the cold was evident, etched in the lines and cracks of their red faces as they strained at the oars.

The crossing took some time. The passengers in the time ships began to get restless, edging towards the dining room and whispering to one another about the expected climax. Karkoff spotted one enterprising young gentleman in the corner conducting a brisk trade over matters which he soon discerned to be contingent to the evening’s outcome. The existence of hair, and the color of its extant, was a topic of hot debate. The room rapidly divided into factions, one side supporting “brown,” one “blond,” and one tiny sector adhering stubbornly, if irrationally, to “red” on the grounds of his English ancestry.

Karkoff shook his head. He lightly touched the controls and the ship zoomed closer, the camera remaining steady on the central figure in the frame.

Meanwhile, below, the boat ground against the shore of New Jersey, the bottom of the ferry scuffing against the rocks imbedded in the banks. One of the sailors jumped out and hauled on the tow line, dragging the boat inland. He looked half frozen, Karkoff thought, feeling sorry for him. Washington remained huddled in the stern. Once it was securely anchored and fastened, the men rose stiffly and clambered ashore. Karkoff squinted. Trees were dimly visible in the distance, their blurred shadows looming through the fog and swirling snow.

The next scenes passed quickly. Washington pitched and entered his tent. There was a collective gasp from the audience as he dropped into a chair and was handed a bowl of water.

This was the moment.

Washington’s hand reached slowly upwards, drawing closer to the hairpiece, then stopped at his nose. He scratched thoughtfully.

The tension in the room was palpable.

Scratching aside, Washington’s hand continued its upward journey. It touched the wig, and the hair slipped slightly askew. A bang erupted outside the tent, and Washington’s hand dropped abruptly. He leapt from his chair, thrust the washing bowl into his orderly’s hands and dashed out of the tent without stopping for a coat. Behind him, the flap snapped in the wind.

A shocked silence descended inside the air ship, quickly replaced by a confused clamor as the audience absorbed what they had just seen. Hatfield swore.

“I thought I saw brown!”

“I didn’t see anything!”

“Of course you didn’t, because he never took it off!”

“I still say I saw brown!”

“Brown my foot! Red, I tell you, plain as the nose on my face! Old George’s got a carrot top!”

“Are you blind? Blond hair doesn’t look red. You only thought so because of the cold.”

“I know what I saw and I’m sticking to it!”

“Oh yeah? Would you put money on that?”

“For your information, I did, moron! I guess the killing’s ours now, hey, fellas?”

A plaintive voice rose over the rest. “Say, how about our money back?”

Disputes quickly forgotten, the rest of the crowd joined the cry. “Yes, we want our money back! Give us our money! We’ve had false information!”

So have I, thought Hatfield wearily. He twisted his mustache with a forefinger. The crowd looked threateningly close to becoming a mob.

“What shall we do, sir?” Karkoff asked. Hatfield thought his voice held an accusation.

“Turn around,” he managed to say. He mustered his courage and faced the hoard of angry customers.

“Now, folks,” he tried. His voice made no indent on the cacophony of noise, and the growl of the engines as the reverse-thrusters fired drowned him out. He cleared his throat and tried again.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he screamed above the roar. No reaction. Inspired, Hatfield reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of bills. “I have money!” he yelled, waving his fist above the crowd. Instantly the din settled down, and all eyes were upon him. Hatfield took a deep breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began again, still holding the cash tentatively aloft. “You will all get your money back. It’s in our guarantee. In the meantime, we will travel to Replay headquarters and see you all return safely to your homes. On behalf of the company and of our employees, I issue a sincere ap-”

Hatfield was interrupted by an urgent tapping on his shoulder. Irritated, he turned to see Gary, the research consultant, gesturing towards the steamy window. Hatfield looked, and of one accord, the crowd leaned forward. There, beneath the falling snow and darkening sky, the figure of George Washington was clearly visible as he mounted his horse. He grasped the reins, using one hand to dust the flecks of snow that feathered his coat and hat.

And beneath the hat?

That’s up to history.

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