i hope it's something quiet and minor and peaceful and slow.
"Was your father a flyer?" I asked him between forks of rosemary potatoes and plastic cups of ice water.
“No. He was stationed in India during the war, ammo dump.” He told me.
I nodded, poked at the leaves left on my plate.
He continued, “My uncle was out at Edwards after the war with all those hotshots up there. He was one of five guys who worked on Yeager’s plane. When the General wrote his book, he left him out, never knew why.”
“That’s a shame.” I told him, mouth full of spinach. He nodded.
“He kept the canopy from the X-1 after Yeager broke the sound barrier. They came to him years later and asked for it back, to make plaques and stuff outta’ it. He musta’ gave it to them because they did.”
“That’s too bad too.” I said.
He leaned in as if about to relay state secrets with a hush in some seedy underground bar. “The one in the Smithsonian? It’s a fake.” It must have sunk in and he must have seen it settle behind my eyes because he started laughing. I joined the crescendo and we both kicked back in our chairs and laughed like two devils steeling their eyes at a mass murder.