The sirens and flashing lights swirled in Aaron’s head when the alarm woke him up on Tuesday morning.
“Rise and shine, San Francisco,” Bob Berwin’s voice came through KBSX radio, “another foggy, drizzly day in the Bay Area. Cheer up, folks … August is only eight weeks away.”
That decided him. Off to the garage after breakfast it would be and back to Havana, Cuba, March 1951. A lot better than Miami for winter, and why not?
“Good morning, Aaron,” Aunt Wilhelmina said from the dining room. Four servants were dishing Eggs Benedict, pastries, coffee, and prune juice to her. “Come sit by me.”
Aaron took his seat near her, ten feet away.
“But not quite so close – at the foot of the table will be fine. Jeeves, attend to Mr. Aardvark’s breakfast. Aaron, what have we on our agenda for today, a trip to the Museum of Modern Art, I recall?”
“Aunt Wilhelmina, I’m swamped with school work,” he said. He’d finished his History essay two days ago, but she didn’t know it. He always did well in History. Why not? He got to witness the past first-hand.
An hour later, he took the time machine to Havana ’51. But instead he landed in an Israeli kibbutz. They were doing the hava nagila … that damned time machine never got it right.
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