New Fic: One Noble Function: Washington D.C.
Title: One Noble Function: Washington D.C.
Author:Namaste
Summary House and Wilson on their final road trip. A stop in D.C., at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum for some musing on memories and truth. PG. 1,100 words in this chapter.
Excerpt: "That's crap." House's voice cut through the noise of the kids and the foggy haze of the past. "That is not your first memory."
"It was my first memory." Wilson stood in front of the lunar module, a slight smile on his face. He didn't seem to notice the school kids trying to squeeze past him and get closer to the railing and get a better view of it. "I was sitting in my father's lap and we watched Neil Armstrong climb down."
He took one hand off the metal barrier, as if he could reach across the open space and touch it.
"That's crap." House's voice cut through the noise of the kids and the foggy haze of the past. "That is not your first memory."
"Yes it is," Wilson said. "I should know."
"You were what, a year old?"
"About."
"Then you don't remember Apollo 11." House walked away from the display, swinging his cane out in front of him as a warning to any kid who tried to get too close.
"I remember it." Wilson followed him. A couple of boys crowded into the space he'd left behind. "Vividly."
"You've seen the footage of the landing so many times, you just think you remember it." House saw an empty seat on a bench across the hall and he headed for it. "All you're remembering is the exact same film that everyone has seen replayed since then."
Wilson stopped, looked up at the other displays in the central hall of the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum, airplanes and jets suspended from the ceiling and the sunshine streaming through the glass panels of the roof.
"No, I remember it," he insisted. "My brother got sick. My Mom was upset because she thought she'd miss the landing when she was cleaning him up. That part wasn't on the news."
"And how many times did your family tell that story?" House didn't wait for a reply. "You're picturing the things they told you that happened to them that night, and combining that with the news footage to create a false memory."
Wilson sighed, sat next to House. "Why do you always have to do this?"
House didn't have an answer for him. He looked away from Wilson, back across the room at the module -- a copy of the one he knew he'd seen that night.
He remembered it perfectly, both the version here and the one in his own memory. Dad was stationed at Pendleton then, and his commanding officer threw a party for all the families in his squad. They weren't supposed to bring any food, but Mom insisted on bringing her peach pie. Dad hadn't been happy about that she didn't follow the rules until he saw his C.O. taking a second slice.
When it took longer than expected for Armstrong and Aldrin to make it out of the capsule in that long summer twilight of California, the men gathered in the living room cracked jokes.
"You want a job done on time, you call in the Marines," the Captain said, "not the Navy or Air Force."
The Captain liked to brag about how NASA had come to his squad in the early 50s and tried to recruit him, but he'd stayed in the Corps. According to the C.O., it was his decision. He always talked about how the war in Korea was more important than some science fiction story the NASA boys kept claiming. John laughed at the story when the captain wasn't around.
All the jokes stopped and the room went silent when the capsule door finally opened. No one even seemed to be breathing.
Dad was the second in command, so he had the second-best seat in the room. He let Greg sit on the floor in front of him and as Greg shifted forward, he brushed against Dad's legs. They were shaking beneath the sharp creases of the pressed uniform. Dad leaned forward and put his hand on Greg's shoulder -- though it wasn't clear if Dad was steadying his own nerves or trying to stop Greg from fidgeting.
The picture on the TV flickered and faded, then turned brighter as Armstrong made his way down the ladder.
"Not everything is about the truth you know," Wilson said, interrupting House's thoughts and jogging them nearly fifty years forward to the museum floor. "Sometimes it's good just to have something happy to hang onto."
House glanced at Wilson, then back at the lunar module. Dad had brought him here, years after that landing, when Dad was assigned to the Pentagon and the module was first put on display. He'd put his hand on Greg's shoulder then too, and pointed out the narrow struts and thin protective shielding.
"They must have been some crazy sons of bitches," he'd said.
The school groups were thinning out now. It must be getting late in the afternoon. House could picture the yellow school buses lining up in front of the building, frustrated chaperones trying to count heads. Wilson got up, wandered a couple of steps away.
"My Dad always had a thing for Lindbergh," House said. He pointed with his cane to another part of the central lobby where the silver Spirit of St. Louis hung from the ceiling. "I think it was because Lindbergh didn't have to answer to anyone once he took off."
House pushed himself off the bench and walked toward the display.
"He needed so much fuel that they didn't even have room for a front-facing windshield, so Lindbergh couldn't see exactly where he was going," he looked back at Wilson. "That sounds like my Dad too."
House walked forward until he was directly under the plane, looking up at its fabric surface and the underside of the single wing. He heard Wilson's footsteps following him.
"It took more than 30 hours to fly to Paris, and the story was that Lindbergh started hallucinating over the middle of the Atlantic -- imagining he was having conversations with people who weren't there. Some part of his brain that was still registering what was happening in the real world would trigger those hallucinations to say something that brought him around every time it looked like he'd crash into the waves. He managed to pull up every time"
House finally looked back at Wilson. "Maybe you're right, and maybe it doesn't matter if something's true, if it gets you where you're going."
Then House pivoted on his heel, heading for the exit without a glance back at the plane or the module.
"Of course," House said, "on the other hand, if you're looking for someone to just give you happy platitudes and agree with you whenever you say something stupid, you picked the wrong person to spend the rest of your life with."
Author:Namaste
Summary House and Wilson on their final road trip. A stop in D.C., at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum for some musing on memories and truth. PG. 1,100 words in this chapter.
Excerpt: "That's crap." House's voice cut through the noise of the kids and the foggy haze of the past. "That is not your first memory."
"It was my first memory." Wilson stood in front of the lunar module, a slight smile on his face. He didn't seem to notice the school kids trying to squeeze past him and get closer to the railing and get a better view of it. "I was sitting in my father's lap and we watched Neil Armstrong climb down."
He took one hand off the metal barrier, as if he could reach across the open space and touch it.
"That's crap." House's voice cut through the noise of the kids and the foggy haze of the past. "That is not your first memory."
"Yes it is," Wilson said. "I should know."
"You were what, a year old?"
"About."
"Then you don't remember Apollo 11." House walked away from the display, swinging his cane out in front of him as a warning to any kid who tried to get too close.
"I remember it." Wilson followed him. A couple of boys crowded into the space he'd left behind. "Vividly."
"You've seen the footage of the landing so many times, you just think you remember it." House saw an empty seat on a bench across the hall and he headed for it. "All you're remembering is the exact same film that everyone has seen replayed since then."
Wilson stopped, looked up at the other displays in the central hall of the Smithsonian's Air and Space Museum, airplanes and jets suspended from the ceiling and the sunshine streaming through the glass panels of the roof.
"No, I remember it," he insisted. "My brother got sick. My Mom was upset because she thought she'd miss the landing when she was cleaning him up. That part wasn't on the news."
"And how many times did your family tell that story?" House didn't wait for a reply. "You're picturing the things they told you that happened to them that night, and combining that with the news footage to create a false memory."
Wilson sighed, sat next to House. "Why do you always have to do this?"
House didn't have an answer for him. He looked away from Wilson, back across the room at the module -- a copy of the one he knew he'd seen that night.
He remembered it perfectly, both the version here and the one in his own memory. Dad was stationed at Pendleton then, and his commanding officer threw a party for all the families in his squad. They weren't supposed to bring any food, but Mom insisted on bringing her peach pie. Dad hadn't been happy about that she didn't follow the rules until he saw his C.O. taking a second slice.
When it took longer than expected for Armstrong and Aldrin to make it out of the capsule in that long summer twilight of California, the men gathered in the living room cracked jokes.
"You want a job done on time, you call in the Marines," the Captain said, "not the Navy or Air Force."
The Captain liked to brag about how NASA had come to his squad in the early 50s and tried to recruit him, but he'd stayed in the Corps. According to the C.O., it was his decision. He always talked about how the war in Korea was more important than some science fiction story the NASA boys kept claiming. John laughed at the story when the captain wasn't around.
All the jokes stopped and the room went silent when the capsule door finally opened. No one even seemed to be breathing.
Dad was the second in command, so he had the second-best seat in the room. He let Greg sit on the floor in front of him and as Greg shifted forward, he brushed against Dad's legs. They were shaking beneath the sharp creases of the pressed uniform. Dad leaned forward and put his hand on Greg's shoulder -- though it wasn't clear if Dad was steadying his own nerves or trying to stop Greg from fidgeting.
The picture on the TV flickered and faded, then turned brighter as Armstrong made his way down the ladder.
"Not everything is about the truth you know," Wilson said, interrupting House's thoughts and jogging them nearly fifty years forward to the museum floor. "Sometimes it's good just to have something happy to hang onto."
House glanced at Wilson, then back at the lunar module. Dad had brought him here, years after that landing, when Dad was assigned to the Pentagon and the module was first put on display. He'd put his hand on Greg's shoulder then too, and pointed out the narrow struts and thin protective shielding.
"They must have been some crazy sons of bitches," he'd said.
The school groups were thinning out now. It must be getting late in the afternoon. House could picture the yellow school buses lining up in front of the building, frustrated chaperones trying to count heads. Wilson got up, wandered a couple of steps away.
"My Dad always had a thing for Lindbergh," House said. He pointed with his cane to another part of the central lobby where the silver Spirit of St. Louis hung from the ceiling. "I think it was because Lindbergh didn't have to answer to anyone once he took off."
House pushed himself off the bench and walked toward the display.
"He needed so much fuel that they didn't even have room for a front-facing windshield, so Lindbergh couldn't see exactly where he was going," he looked back at Wilson. "That sounds like my Dad too."
House walked forward until he was directly under the plane, looking up at its fabric surface and the underside of the single wing. He heard Wilson's footsteps following him.
"It took more than 30 hours to fly to Paris, and the story was that Lindbergh started hallucinating over the middle of the Atlantic -- imagining he was having conversations with people who weren't there. Some part of his brain that was still registering what was happening in the real world would trigger those hallucinations to say something that brought him around every time it looked like he'd crash into the waves. He managed to pull up every time"
House finally looked back at Wilson. "Maybe you're right, and maybe it doesn't matter if something's true, if it gets you where you're going."
Then House pivoted on his heel, heading for the exit without a glance back at the plane or the module.
"Of course," House said, "on the other hand, if you're looking for someone to just give you happy platitudes and agree with you whenever you say something stupid, you picked the wrong person to spend the rest of your life with."