By W.R. Jones
I don’t have a job. I have a career. As one of America’s foremost fighter test pilots; just a sec … oh yeah, that’s only what I tell the ladies when I’ve been drinking. Ok, well I think being a senior janitor at the middle school is also vital to our national defense. Ok, the senior part is due to my age and not my janitorial skills, still.
I don’t even know why I bother with that fighter pilot line. It has never worked. But I read somewhere it is a matter of numbers; eventually someone will believe me and be impressed. The last time I used it the woman was apparently some sort of mathematician. After another failure I mentioned the number theory and asked her how big she thought that number might be. She asked me if I was at all familiar with the concept of infinity.
While painting this landscape a father and his young son came into the area to launch rockets. His son was much to young to get knowedgeable pleasure out of the process so this was mainly for daddy.
I remember my father trying my new red plastic model airplane one Christmas. They did not have remote control in those days. You controlled the flight (such as it was) with a handle connected to the airplane through two long strings. You and the plane would go round and round until you threw up and the plane went into the side of the family Buick. We never got that far. After an hour or so of getting his finger whacked by the propeller dad got the little engine started. Father (Orville) Jones then did the maiden flight. I watched in awe as the plane ascended in a lovely arc and wrapped the control strings around and around the power lines. The little red plane looked quite lovely hanging up there out of reach. I got a train the following Christmas.