Arnesto Modesto: The World's Most Ineffectual Time Traveler

by Darren Johnson

  But no, he had made a promise. Damn that kid.

  He ran inside the store where a few employees were preparing to close up for the night.

  “Are you looking for anything in particular?” asked an associate, hoping to expedite Arnesto’s last-minute shopping experience.

  “Bolt cutters? My, uh, friend got drunk… long story,” Arnesto said.

  “Aisle fifteen.”

  He ran down the aisle, grabbed the bolt cutters, and headed toward the register, keeping an eye out for anything else that might help. He stopped briefly in front of some boxes of blue shoe covers, like the ones they wear in an operating room, but decided they were all too big for Violet’s tiny feet. Besides, the purchase might make him look even more suspicious.

  As he pulled out his wallet, he realized he had made a mistake he swore he’d never make: he was short on cash. Actually, he had enough for one of the smaller bolt cutters, like the 12-inch or 14-inch, but he had grabbed the 24-inch model. As the cashier watched him consider grabbing a smaller model, Arnesto spied the ATM by the wall near the counter. If the police ever investigated bolt cutter purchases occurring right before Violet Gordon was freed, they would find Arnesto in an instant if he used his debit card. However, they probably wouldn’t go so far as to check ATM logs that occurred right before a cash-based bolt cutters purchase.

  Arnesto held up his index finger, giving the cashier the “be right back” symbol and withdrew a bunch of cash from the ATM. Then after paying, he left and made the return drive back to the dead end.

  He felt even more conspicuous skulking around with the large bolt cutters, but the neighborhood was as quiet as it had been before, and he returned to the shed without incident.

  “Violet, it’s me. I’m back,” he said as he slipped inside. Her tarp came off. “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah.”

  Opening his phone and laying it on its side gave him enough light to examine the cable holding her prisoner. It was no match for the bolt cutters. With just a little effort, Arnesto managed to cut through the cable outside the shackle.

  She was free.

  He grabbed and shut his phone in one smooth movement then joined her just inside the door. As they peered out of the shed, he whispered instructions. “I’ll help you over the fence, then we’ll sneak down to my car in that direction,” he said, pointing. “Are you ready?” He was not prepared for her response.

  “What about the others?”

  Arnesto felt like he was going to pass out. Before he could even ask her what she was talking about, she had scampered off to one of the tarps by the tire pile. Before he could reach her, she was already walking back to him with a two-year-old fast asleep in her arms.

  “Take Brenda,” she commanded, handing the baby to Arnesto. “She won’t wake up; they drug her every night. Tonya might put up a fight, though.”

  He followed her behind the rusted Chevy. She checked a couple tarps before finding Tonya.

  “Tonya, wake up, we have to go,” Violet said as she gently shook Tonya awake.

  The six-year-old stirred and rubbed her eyes. “Violet? How’d you get out? Where are we going?”

  “Come on, we’re going to the hospital, let’s go.”

  “I don’t wanna. Len will be mad,” Tonya said.

  “We have to leave. Now,” Violet said.

  “You’re trying to get rid of me because I’m his favorite wife.”

  Arnesto felt nauseous. He realized all three of the girls were wearing little white dresses. Len Cornett “married” each new girl he kidnapped. Only his favorite “wife” could call him Len, as Tonya just had. Arnesto looked at the back door. For a moment, he wanted somebody to come out. For the first time in his life, he wanted a confrontation. He was prepared to take the bolt cutters and swing them as hard as he could into the Cornetts’ skulls. Instead, he shook off the impulse and returned to reality.

  “Tonya, get up,” Violet said.

  “Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”

  “Go ahead. Nobody will hear you. Len and Ceola are at the hospital. That’s why we’re going. But I guess if you want to stay, that’s okay. Len will probably be angry that you were the only one who didn’t come. But at least you won’t get any lashes until he gets back.”

  “Okay, I’m coming,” Tonya said, getting to her feet. She must have earned the right to not be bound.

  “Anybody else?” Arnesto asked, suddenly realizing why he didn’t remember there being more than Violet. Violet had been rescued alone. Something must have happened to the other two girls. The media frenzy had decided to focus solely on the good news of Violet’s rescue, ignoring the fate of the others.

  “No, just us three,” Violet said, shaking her head. She took Brenda from Arnesto so he could carry Tonya.

  When they reached the fence, they put down the two youngest girls. Arnesto helped Violet over the fence, then handed her Brenda, then gently lowered Tonya over the side. Arnesto hopped over after them, then he and Violet once again picked up the others. They hugged the tree line as they crept back through the neighbor's yard to Arnesto’s car. There was no way they could carry the girls through the trees, especially with Violet being barefoot. Soon, all three girls were huddled together in the back seat as Arnesto drove off.

  “If it’s alright with you, I’ll drop you off at the emergency room, but then I have to leave,” Arnesto said looking in the rear view mirror. Violet looked at him in the mirror and nodded. Other than her first words to him, she never questioned him or his motives. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe she had long ago been beaten into submission. Or maybe she was simply exhausted. They all were.

  “Thank you,” she said a few moments later.

  When they got to the ER, Arnesto parked right out front, hoping there weren’t any security cameras recording. With the two littlest being carried, Violet followed Arnesto into the waiting room. He gently set down Tonya in an empty chair then turned to Violet.

  “You did amazing tonight,” he said, looking into her eyes one last time. He thought her eyes looked a little watery, but couldn’t be sure. “You’re going to be okay.” Then he yelled over his shoulder toward the desk. “Nurse!” When he saw a nurse get up and begin to hustle over, he yelled, “Be right back, there’s two more!” then ran out the exit to his car.

  He drove around the loop in front of the emergency room and looked in through the glass to see the first nurse crouched down examining Violet’s ankle while two more nurses ran over to assist. Then he drove off.

  Too Much Power

  Massachusetts

  Friday, July 16, 1999

  8:08 p.m.

  “You’re talking about changing the presidency of the United States.” Pete was incredulous.

  Arnesto drew back and swung. He hit his blue ball with the right amount of power, but his aim was a tiny bit off and it hit the edge of a rectangular block in the middle of the path. “Damn it! Don’t talk during my backswing. And I’m talking about doing what’s right. Are you going to hit, or what?”

  Pete put his red ball in the right dimple of the thrice-dimpled rubber mat at the start of the hole. His form wasn’t quite as clean, but he easily bypassed the block, leaving his ball inches from the hole. “Who’s to say what’s right?” he asked. “Wait, is any of this going to matter? You didn’t come back east just to hang out one last time before Y2K wipes out all of civilization, did you?”

  “Y2K is fine, people fix most of the problems in time. Nah, I came back to slash JFK Jr.’s plane tires.”

  “Did you not like his so-called cameo on Seinfeld, or…?”

  Arnesto snickered. “Trying to save lives.”

  “I see. Speaking of, I didn’t hear anything about Columbine. I assume congratulations are in order?”

  “All I had was a yearbook photo,” Arnesto beamed. “All I remembered, besides the date, was the would-be murderers making finger guns in their class picture. Thankfully, it was enough to intervene.”

  “
Excellent! How’s Carlos?”

  Arnesto sighed. “Another reason I was eager to get away. Baby Carlos is colicky… again. He has a birthmark behind his right shoulder that he didn’t have before. I was so hoping he wouldn’t have colic this time around, but no, he keeps that and gets a birthmark. I swear I can hear him screaming from here. Oh, well, he’s Katrina’s problem right now.”

  Pete shook his head. “I’m a little surprised you became a family man, I mean, at such a young age,” Pete said.

  “Katrina is a couple years older, she wanted kids, I couldn’t say no.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t have much choice. But that was in your previous life, right? I mean, this time around, you didn’t have to have children again so young.”

  “Yeah, I did. They’re my kids. I had to recreate them as exactly as possible. I can’t imagine not having Melissa and Carlos,” Arnesto said, smiling. “Oh, and Preston, but he comes later.”

  “I never thought about it that way, but right, that makes sense. Still, what about all the diapers and crying and lack of sleep and stuff?”

  Arnesto’s smile faded. “Yeah, it sucks. Again. I won’t lie, children are not much fun at first. But they get better after the first, oh, twenty years or so.”

  A break in the dialog gave Pete a chance to absorb everything Arnesto had told him. Arnesto finally broke the silence.

  “The essence of the game is to hit the ball closer and closer to the hole. But if you mess up your first shot on a volcano hole, that’s it. You’re fucked. Game over.” They took turns moving around the base of the volcano, each hitting the ball ever so slightly too soft or too hard or too much to one side.

  While in agreement, Pete couldn’t resist the urge to passive aggressively taunt his friend. “It’s part of the game.”

  “It’s bullshit! Give me a six!”

  The next hole was the loop-de-loop, where one has to cream the ball to get it through the waist-high, red, metal loop. Pete hit the ball a little too softly, causing it to bounce against the hard metal surface creating a wonderful cacophony of loud clanks before rolling back to the start. His next shot made it through but then rolled into a corner. Pete used his putter to move the ball out, but it rolled right back. “So, the election?”

  “Sorry for the spoiler,” Arnesto said, looking around for potential eavesdroppers, “but while Gore wins the popular vote, he loses the electoral vote. Bush becomes president.”

  “Well, that’s too bad, but that’s the process.” Pete’s ball was in Arnesto’s way, so he tapped it in for par.

  “There’s more. Do you know what a hanging chad is?” Pete shook his head, so Arnesto explained all about how Florida’s votes were tabulated by archaic, punch-card-based machines prone to counting errors. He had a nice second rebound off the wall, but his third shot rimmed out of the hole. “Argh! Give me four,” he said, finishing the hole.

  “So Gore should have won?” Pete’s ball hit the trap door at the top of the ramp inside the castle as it closed, sending his ball all the way back out. “Oops.”

  “I’m not sure. Some sources say Bush still would have won, but it’s impossible to be certain. It’s close, very close. There are other shenanigans as well. Factor those in, maybe Gore was supposed to win.” After Pete’s second shot made it into the castle, Arnesto hit a perfectly timed shot, but it was a little too hard and bounced back out of the pit, causing it to also roll all the way back. “Jesus!”

  “Okay, so you warn people in time, maybe they actually listen to you and fix the system. You save Florida some embarrassment, but Bush wins anyway. Are you happy?” Pete asked as he wrote down a couple threes on the scorecard after they finished the hole.

  “Here’s the thing.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “When it’s all said and done, George W. is not regarded as one of our finest presidents. The economy tanks, yes, partly due to the dot-com bubble bursting, but he certainly doesn’t help. He creates a huge deficit, unemployment shoots up, and he invades Iraq.”

  “We go back to Iraq? The Bush family must really hate those guys,” Pete said.

  “There’s more. There’s going to be a terrorist attack on American soil. It’s rumored that Bush ignores certain warnings and—”

  “Wait, can’t you do something about the attack?” He was frozen in place after moving his ball away from the wall, awaiting Arnesto’s response. He looked as scared as someone might when they’ve received such grave news.

  “Yes, in fact, I already have a plan,” Arnesto said, assuring Pete who resumed his shot. “Should be an easy one, too.”

  “What’s easy about it?”

  “Well, for one thing, I know exactly when it is. It was nice of them to name the event after the date. For another, the bad guys aren’t exactly hidden…”

  “Okay, but if Gore gets elected, the attack might happen on a different day.”

  “True, but Gore might not ignore the warnings,” Arnesto said, picking up both balls out of the hole and handing the red one to Pete. Their scores remained close with some back and forth over the last few holes. “I could still try to warn them besides.”

  “Unless the terrorists decide to go with a different attack than the one you’re expecting. That sounds like quite a gamble,” Pete said.

  “Many more U.S. soldiers are going to die if Bush gets elected. And even if I prevent the attack, they may try again later,” Arnesto sighed.

  “You know, Arnesto, there was a time when I envied your ability. That time has long since passed. No offense.”

  “None taken. It can be kind of fun. Sometimes.”

  “So what happens after Bush?”

  “Bush gets reelected in another close election.”

  “That tends to happen with wartime presidents. Okay, so the people do like the guy.”

  “He helps plunge us into another recession,” Arnesto said.

  “Jeez. So we’re screwed.”

  “Well, the next guy helps us recover quite a bit.” Arnesto refrained from spoiling any more than was necessary. “Though his weak stance on curtailing surveillance isn’t going to help me any.” Thanks, Obama.

  “So you could help Gore get elected, but maybe he messes up, then Bush runs and wins after that, and makes things even worse, and… you could keep going forever.”

  “Exactly. Where do you draw the line? Oh, man, we’re at the stupid hanging log thing.” Arnesto pushed the log hanging vertically over the hole. He hated the log since it caused many otherwise decent shots to get knocked away, another violation of the essence of mini golf.

  “Okay, how about — and this is just my opinion, mind you — unless a Bush or a Kennedy or someone comes along and literally starts World War III, you let the people vote and deal with the consequences? Gore still has to lose many states on his own. That doesn’t mean you still can’t try to save the soldiers who’ll die under Bush’s leadership. Plus, on a personal level, you maintain a higher level of future predictability.”

  “Okay,” Arnesto said.

  "'Okay’?! That’s it? That was easy.” Pete prepared to putt, but then stopped. “Wait a minute. You already decided this, didn’t you.”

  “Sorry, old friend. I pretty much came to the same conclusion a few minutes ago, but I still wanted to hear what you had to say. I appreciate your input. With regards to the election, I am going to... do nothing. Too many unknowns, too many variables, too much playing God.”

  ***

  A year later, the election unfolded close to how Arnesto remembered it: Florida still managed to make a complete mockery of the voting process, and there was still recount after recount. However, this time, they were in Gore’s favor. First, Gore won by 382 votes, then he led by 1,204 votes, then 1,966 votes. Arnesto had no idea what he had done to cause this change, but he didn’t completely mind it either.

  However, just when it looked like Vice President Gore was going to be President-elect Gore, a shipment of more than eighteen thousand absentee ballots that h
eavily favored Bush was discovered, leading to still more motions and lawsuits. Despite the ballots having arrived after the deadline, Florida Governor (and Bush’s brother) Jeb Bush signed an executive order stating the votes would count. Though the order was immediately challenged, Florida chose to add these ballots to the tally, giving Bush a final lead of more than three thousand votes and the presidency.

  Safety in Numbers

  San Francisco, California

  Sunday, September 9, 2001

  2:30 a.m.

  Arnesto parked his car and opened his laptop. He looked for unsecured wireless connections, and found the same three networks he had found there a week earlier. Once his computer connected to the first network on the list, he created a new Hotmail account. He then opened up the text file he had been working on for years and copied the contents into the email. First came the list of recipients which he had acquired over the past many months. The list began with high-ranking members of the security team at Logan and Newark International Airports and included a smorgasbord of names from the FBI, CIA, the White House, the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, and others, twenty-nine names in all. Arnesto, initially concerned with having “too many cooks in the kitchen,” thought the call to action would be more likely heeded with a larger number of readers.

  Next came the subject and body of the email. The email detailed, as best as he could remember, events set to unfold just two days later. The information was incomplete, to be sure, but what could he do?

  He read the email over a few more times, but the words were so familiar to him now that it was difficult to be objective. It was the wee hours of the morning, and he was in a poorly lit neighborhood more than fifty miles from home. However, with the light from his laptop screen illuminating his face, he didn’t want to linger.