Read Online One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury - Free Book Online

dwarfs and gazelles were exhausted and laughing out their final compliments, Aaron and I were set back down on our feet with: “The most tremendous avant-garde film in history!”
    â€œWe had high hopes,” said I.
    â€œThe most daring use of camera, editing, the jump-cut, and the multiple reverse story line I can remember!” everyone said at once.
    â€œPlanning pays off,” said Aaron modestly.
    â€œYou’re competing it in the Edinburgh Film Festival, of course?”
    â€œNo,” said Aaron, bewildered, “we—”
    â€œâ€”planned on it after we show at the Cannes Film Festival competition,” I cut in.
    A battalion of flash cameras went off and, like the tornado that dropped Dorothy in Oz, the crowd whirled on itself and went away, leaving behind a litter of cocktail parties promised, interviews set, and articles that must be written tomorrow, next week, next month—remember, remember!
    The patio stood silent. Water dripped from the half-dry mouth of a satyr cut in an old fountain against the theater wall. Aaron, after a long moment of staring at nothing, walked over and bathed his face with water.
    â€œThe projectionist!” he cried, suddenly remembering.
    We pounded upstairs and paused. This time we scratched at the tin door like two small, hungry white mice.
    After a long silence a faint voice mourned, “Go away. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it.”
    â€œDidn’t mean it? Hell, open up! All is forgiven.” said Aaron.
    â€œYou’re nuts,” the voice replied faintly. “Go away.”
    â€œNot without you, honey. We love you. Don’t we, Sam?”
    I nodded. “We love you.”
    â€œYou’re out of your mother-minds.”
    Feet scraped tin lids and rattling film.
    The door sprang open.
    The projectionist, a man in his mid-forties, eyes bloodshot, face a furious tint of boiled-crab red, stood swaying before us, palms out and open to receive the driven nails.
    â€œBeat me,” he whispered. “Kill me.”
    â€œKill you? You’re the greatest thing that ever happened to dog meat in the can!”
    Aaron darted in and planted a kiss on the man’s cheek. He fell back, beating the air as if attacked by wasps, spluttering.
    â€œI’ll fix it all back just the way it was,” he cried, bending to scrabble the strewn film snakes on the floor. “I’ll find the right pieces and …”
    â€œDon’t!” said Aaron. The man froze. “Don’t change a thing,” Aaron went on, more calmly. “Sam, take this down. You got a pencil? Now, you, what’s your name?”
    â€œWillis Hornbeck.”
    â€œWillis, Willie, give us the order. Which reels first, second, third, which reversed, upside down, backwards, the whole deal.”
    â€œYou mean …?” the man blinked, stupid with relief.
    â€œI mean we got to have your blueprint, the way you ran the greatest avant-garde film in history tonight.”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake.” Willis let out a hoarse, choking laugh, crouched among the tumbled reels, the insanely littered floor where his “art” lay waiting.
    â€œWillis, honey,” said Aaron. “You know what your title is going to be as of this hour of this fantastic night of creation?”
    â€œMud?” inquired Hornbeck, one eye shut.
    â€œAssociate producer of Hasurai Productions! Editor, cutter, director even—maybe. A ten-year contract! Escalations. Privileges. Stock buy-ins. Percentages. Okay now. Ready, Sam, with the pencil? Willis. What did you do? ”
    â€œI—” said Willis Hornbeck, “don’t remember.”
    Aaron laughed lightly. “ Sure you remember.”
    â€œI was drunk. Then I got scared sober. I’m sober now. I don’t remember.”
    Aaron and I gave each other a look of pure animal panic. Then I saw something else on the floor and picked it up.
    â€œHold on.