It was sophomore year, American Literature class. Teacher: Patrick Billings. Unit: Poetry. It was then that I flipped to the page that held the photograph of a famous poet named Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I wasn’t expecting to see anything but a typically-dull textbook page, but what was staring back at me left me entirely speechless, thoughtfully assessing and reassessing. Finally, I spoke.
“Evelyn,” I said. “Look. He looks just like Mr. Rehfedlt.”
Evelyn, who sat beside me, hadn’t yet opened her textbook. While she did so, I once again analyzed the face of Mr. Longfellow. Their features were identical. Right down to the expression on his face- that was Rehfeldt. The only noticeable difference was Longfellow’s sideburns and hair that fell to his chin.
“Oh my god!” Evelyn exclaimed giddily. “You’re right! It looks exactly like him!”
I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture, confidence now brimming with her approval. I wasn’t simply imagining things.
I asked a myriad of other students- thirteen, to be exact- all of whom agreed with my proposal. And these were not half-hearted agreements- they were animated “Oh my god!”s accompanied with many “That’s so weird!”s.
So I finally got around to showing the photo to Mr. Rehfedlt, and asked him if he saw a resemblance. He replied on the negatory. I asked him if he was serious. After all, fourteen people- not including me- had decided that they were very similar in appearance. He restated his answer.
Dejected, I made my way elsewhere. On the way elsewhere, I spawned a theory.
Why would he say no? It was obvious that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Brian Rehfedlt looked eerily alike, so why would he so vehemently deny it? One reason came to mind. Rehfedlt didn’t just look like Longfellow; he was Longfellow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, using his genius poetical abilities, had built a time machine sometime shortly after the death of his wife, Frances, in 1861. She died after her dress caught fire. Hopelessly forlorn, he found a lowlife bum to impersonate him for the rest of his life, so he wouldn’t be missed. As the story goes, Longfellow’s severe facial burns acquired from trying to save his wife prevented him from shaving, which is why he sported a large beard. However, the truth is that the bum had a huge beard, which obstructed enough of his face so he could pass as Longfellow. So after replacing himself, Longfellow stepped into his time machine and traveled to the year 2003, where he then cut his hair, shaved his sideburns, and became employed as a history teacher at Clark High School.
He chose to become a history teacher, it was apparent, so nobody would make a connection between the English-junkie Longfellow and this new history-buff Rehfeldt. He can only pass as a history buff because he was actually there.
What he didn’t count on was an attentive sophomore to stumble across an un-bearded, young photograph of him in her American Literature textbook. So, when faced directly with the evidence, he denied it.
When I asked to take his picture to accompany this article, he didn’t refuse. See, that would be too suspicious, like refusing to take a lie-detector test. So instead he made sure the angle of my photograph wasn’t similar enough to the picture to incriminate him. Whenever I got the almost-perfect angle, he would break out in laughter, ruining the picture.
Sneaky, but not sneaky enough. Soon enough I’ll catch you, Longfellow.
“Evelyn,” I said. “Look. He looks just like Mr. Rehfedlt.”
Evelyn, who sat beside me, hadn’t yet opened her textbook. While she did so, I once again analyzed the face of Mr. Longfellow. Their features were identical. Right down to the expression on his face- that was Rehfeldt. The only noticeable difference was Longfellow’s sideburns and hair that fell to his chin.
“Oh my god!” Evelyn exclaimed giddily. “You’re right! It looks exactly like him!”
I whipped out my cell phone and snapped a picture, confidence now brimming with her approval. I wasn’t simply imagining things.
I asked a myriad of other students- thirteen, to be exact- all of whom agreed with my proposal. And these were not half-hearted agreements- they were animated “Oh my god!”s accompanied with many “That’s so weird!”s.
So I finally got around to showing the photo to Mr. Rehfedlt, and asked him if he saw a resemblance. He replied on the negatory. I asked him if he was serious. After all, fourteen people- not including me- had decided that they were very similar in appearance. He restated his answer.
Dejected, I made my way elsewhere. On the way elsewhere, I spawned a theory.
Why would he say no? It was obvious that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Brian Rehfedlt looked eerily alike, so why would he so vehemently deny it? One reason came to mind. Rehfedlt didn’t just look like Longfellow; he was Longfellow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, using his genius poetical abilities, had built a time machine sometime shortly after the death of his wife, Frances, in 1861. She died after her dress caught fire. Hopelessly forlorn, he found a lowlife bum to impersonate him for the rest of his life, so he wouldn’t be missed. As the story goes, Longfellow’s severe facial burns acquired from trying to save his wife prevented him from shaving, which is why he sported a large beard. However, the truth is that the bum had a huge beard, which obstructed enough of his face so he could pass as Longfellow. So after replacing himself, Longfellow stepped into his time machine and traveled to the year 2003, where he then cut his hair, shaved his sideburns, and became employed as a history teacher at Clark High School.
He chose to become a history teacher, it was apparent, so nobody would make a connection between the English-junkie Longfellow and this new history-buff Rehfeldt. He can only pass as a history buff because he was actually there.
What he didn’t count on was an attentive sophomore to stumble across an un-bearded, young photograph of him in her American Literature textbook. So, when faced directly with the evidence, he denied it.
When I asked to take his picture to accompany this article, he didn’t refuse. See, that would be too suspicious, like refusing to take a lie-detector test. So instead he made sure the angle of my photograph wasn’t similar enough to the picture to incriminate him. Whenever I got the almost-perfect angle, he would break out in laughter, ruining the picture.
Sneaky, but not sneaky enough. Soon enough I’ll catch you, Longfellow.
This is great. I want this in the paper too.
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