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

Wait,” I said.
    We all looked at the half-empty sherry bottle.
    â€œWillis,” said Aaron.
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œWillis, old friend …”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    â€œWillis,” said Aaron. “I will now start this projection machine.”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œAnd you, Willis, will finish drinking whatever is in that bottle.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œAnd you, Sam?”
    â€œSir?” said I, saluting.
    â€œYou, Sam,” said Aaron, flicking the machine so a bright beam of light struck out into the quiet night theater and touched an emptiness that lay waiting for genius to paint incredible pictures on a white screen. “Sam, please shut and lock that heavy tin door.”
    I shut and locked the heavy tin door.
    Â 
    Well, the dragon danced at midnight film festivals all round the world. We tamed the Lion at Venice at the Venice Film Festival, we took first honors at the New York Film Festival and the Brasilia Special Prize at the World Film Competition. And not just with one film, no, with six! After The Dragon Danced there was the big smash international success of our The Dreadful Ones . There was Mr. Massacre and Onslaught , followed by The Name Is Horror and Wattle .
    With these, the names of Aaron Stolittz and Willis Hornbeck were honey on the lips of reviewers under every flag.
    How did we make five more smash hits in a row?
    The same way we made the first one.
    As we finished each film we grabbed Willis, rented the Samasuku Theater at twelve midnight, poured a bottle of the finest sherry down Willis’s throat, handed him the film, started the projector, and locked the door.
    By dawn our epic was slashed to ribbons, tossed like monster salad, gathered, respliced, glued fast with the epoxy of Willis Hornbeck’s subliminal genius, and ready for release to the waiting avant-garde theaters in Calcutta and Far Rockaway. To the end of my insignificant life I shall never forget those nights with Willis shambling among his whirring, shadow-flickering machines, floundering about from midnight until dawn filled the patio of the Samasuku Theater with a gold the pure color of money.
    So it went, film after film, beast after beast, while the pesos and rubles poured in, and one night Aaron and Willis grabbed their Academy Oscar for Experimental Film, and we all drove XKE Jags and lived happy ever after, yes?
    No.
    It was three glorious, fine, loving years high on the avant-garde hog. But …
    One afternoon when Aaron was chortling over his bank account, in walked Willis Hornbeck to stand facing the big picture window overlooking Hasurai Productions’ huge back lot. Willis shut his eyes and lamented in a quiet voice, beating his breast gently and tearing ever so tenderly at his own lapels: “I am an alcoholic. I drink. I am a terrible lush. I booze. Just name it. Rubbing alcohol? Sure. Mentholated spirits? Why not? Turpentine? Spar varnish? Hand it over. Nail-polish remover? Pure gargle. Rumdummy, mad fool, long-time-no-see-the-light-of-day Willis Hornbeck, but that’s all over. The Pledge! Give me the Pledge!”
    Aaron and I ran over and circled Willis, trying to get him to open his eyes.
    â€œWillis! What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing’s wrong. All’s right.” He opened his eyes. Tears dripped down his cheeks. He took our hands. “I hate to do this to you nice guys. But, last night …”
    â€œLast night?” bleated Aaron.
    â€œI joined Alcoholics Anonymous.”
    â€œYou what? ” screamed Aaron.
    â€œAlcoholics Anonymous. I joined.”
    â€œYou can’t do that to me!” Aaron jumped up and down. “Don’t you know you’re the heart, soul, lungs, and lights of Hasurai Productions?”
    â€œDon’t think I haven’t put it that way to myself,” said Willis simply.
    â€œAren’t you happy being a genius, Willie?” shrieked Aaron. “Fêted wherever you go?