Everybody loved “the good old days” when things were always better and simpler, and he never failed to fulfill on their expectations.
He was the greatest reenactor. Victorian England, Wild West, Renaissance or Middle Ages, he could play them all in an eerily convincing way, almost as if he’d really been there.
He shook hands, posed for pictures and took their money with a courteous smile, never once breaking character until the last of them went home, their anachronistic dreams fulfilled.
The full moon was shining high as the black and chrome Harley left the empty fairgrounds. The man in mirror shades and snake-skin boots stopped to light a cigarette where the gravel road met the highway.
Watching the dancing smoke, he wondered about the willful ignorance these creatures had about their history. They fantasized about returning to a way of life that had never really existed and made it seem more real by calling it nostalgia.
He’d liced thru all those “good old days” himself, they mostly sucked, were harsh and unforgiving… but they still fantasized about them.
“–That’s Free will for you.” He thought, shaking his head. “–There’s never any guarantee they’ll use it to choose wisely.”
He flicked the cigarette, and drove away into the night.