A man sidled up to me, martini held gingerly in his hand, marvelous martinis by the way, a stiff tincture of gin and something else, it eluded me. No matter. The man was looking at me now, forlorn. “Man,” he paused, looking me up and down, sadness kinked in his eyes, “Man, I was in the Air Force.” I nodded to his direction and assayed the room, made uncomfortable by his accurate stare. “ I flew B-27s to Barking Sands, you know, in Kauai. Beautiful place, on the ocean, by the Napali cost, beautiful, they put ex-combatants up for ninety-five dollars a month on a little strip of beach.” He paused, skewered an olive with a toothpick like it was a dying man bleeding on the hilt of a blade. He ate it languidly and started again. I nodded again though there was nothing to acknowledge, I was nervous. The man unnerved me. “But I moved back to Bishop, out near Saline Valley, worked out at the base there, then went to Twentynine Palms, worked in a covert little echelon of the Air Force, tested planes, tested jumping from high-high-up in the atmosphere. With Kittinger.” He looked at me, I nodded again. I knew who Kittinger was. “You know him, everybody does.” He took a long sip and blinked profusely. “I was with a man, in some experimental jet, up over New Mexico, going as fast as possibly. Wind and Sky did abide. We were unstoppable.” He looked down into his drink and swallowed hard. “Then the cabin lost pressure. And the cockpit snapped off. And my co-pilots visor flew back, caught the wind as we spiraled in a mad dash towards the ground.” He swallowed again. “The wind caught the visor, pulled his head clean off. Then I pulled my chute and got to the ground. Escaped with only minor ebullism.” Then he looked down in his drink once more. “It tore his f***ing head right off.” He started crying into his martini. “My lovely Ricky, tore his f***ing head right off.” I sidestepped away slowly. “Those green eyes, f***ing gone.” Thankfully Dane Cauvin came up to me, smartly dressed as always, and pulled me by the crook of my arm. “Don’t talk to him.” Dane said, dragging me outside towards a cozy little chimea stove. He lit a cigarillo with a jade lighter that was resting on a coffee table. We sat ourselves in the eames chairs around the stove and warmed our hands. Dane looked at me with frowning eyes. He puffed on his cigarillo. The chimea crackled, a halcyon flame alit within its earthen maw. I unbuttoned the button on my seersucker and sat down. “What was he saying” Dane asked, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Who?” I asked. I had a drink in my hand. I hadn’t realized. “The Pilot.” Dane said. “Oh, nothing much. Just some silly story.” I said, I laughed heartily, like a macaw. Dane looked at me again with eyes borne into the ether-----