by Ray Bradbury
“Don’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?”
“Willis Hornbeck.”
“Willis, Willie, give us the order. Which reels first, second, third, which reversed, upside down, backwards, the whole deal.”
“You mean …?” the man blinked, stupid with relief.
“I mean we got to have your blueprint, the way you ran the greatest avant-garde film in history tonight.”
“Oh, 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.
“Willis, honey,” said Aaron. “You know what your title is going to be as of this hour of this fantastic night of creation?”
“Mud?” inquired Hornbeck, one eye shut.
“Associate 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?”
“I—” said Willis Hornbeck, “don’t remember.”
Aaron laughed lightly. “Sure you remember.”
“I 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.
“Hold on. Wait,” I said.
We all looked at the half-empty sherry bottle.
“Willis,” said Aaron.
“Yes, sir?”
“Willis, old friend …”
“Yes, sir?”
“Willis,” said Aaron. “I will now start this projection machine.”
“Yes?”
“And you, Willis, will finish drinking whatever is in that bottle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Sam?”
“Sir?” said I, saluting.
“You, 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.
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.
“Willis! What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’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 …”
“Last night?” bleated Aaron.
“I joined Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“You what?” screamed Aaron.
“Alcoholics Anonymous. I joined.”
“You 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?”
“Don’t think I haven’t put it that way to myself,” said Willis simply.
“Aren’t you happy being a genius, Willie?” shrieked Aaron. “Fêted wherever you go? Internationally famed? That ain’t enough, you got to be sober, too?”
“We’re all so famous now,” said Willis, “and loved and accepted, it has filled me up. I’m so full of fame there’s no room for drink.”
“Make room!” yelled Aaron. “Make room!”
“Ironic, huh?” said Willis. “Once I drank because I felt I was nobody. Now, if I quit, the whole studio falls down. I’m sorry.”
“You can’t break your contract!” I said.
Willis looked as if I had stabbed him.
“I wouldn’t dream of breaking my word. But where does it say in plain English in the contract I got to be a drunk to work for you?”
My tiny shoulders sagged. Aaron’s tiny shoulders sagged.
Willis finished gently.
“I’ll go on working for you, always. But you know, and I know, sober it won’t be the same.”
“Willis.” Aaron sank into a chair and, after a long and private agony, went on. “Just one night a year?”
“The Pledge, Mr. Stollitz. Not a drop, not once a year, even for dear and beloved friends.”
“Holy Moses,” said Aaron.
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re halfway across the Red Sea. And here come the waves.”
When we glanced up again, Willis Hornbeck was gone.
It was indeed the twilight of the gods. We had been turned back into mice. We sat awhile, squeaking gently. Then Aaron got up and circled the liquor cabinet. He put out his hand to touch it.
“Aaron,” I said. “You’re not going to …?”
“What?” said Aaron. “Cut and edit our next avant-garde epic, Sweet Beds of Revenge?” He seized and opened a bottle. He swigged. “All by myself? Yes!”
No.
The dead rocket fell out of the sky. The gods knew not only twilight but also that awful sleepless three o’clock in the morn when death improves on circumstance.
Aaron tried drinking. I tried drinking. Aaron’s brother-in-law tried drinking.
But, look, none of us had the euphoric muse which once walked with Willis Hornbeck. In none of us did the small worm of intuition stir when alcohol hit our blood. Bums sober, we were bums drunk. But Willis Hornbeck drunk was almost everything the critics claimed, a wildman who blind-wrestled creativity in a snake pit, who fought an inspired alligator in a crystal tank for all to see, and sublimely won.
Oh, sure, Aaron and I bulled our way through a few more film festivals. We sank all our profits in three more epics, but you smelled the change when the titles hit the screen. Hasurai Films folded. We sold our whole package to educational TV.
Willis Hornbeck? He lives in a Monterey Park tract h
ouse, goes to Sunday school with his kids, and only occasionally is reminded of the maggot of genius buried in him when a critic from Glasgow or Paris strays by to chat for an hour, finds Willis a kindly but sober bore, and departs in haste.
Aaron and me? We got this little shoe-box studio thirty feet closer to that graveyard wall. We make little pictures and profits to match and still edit them in twenty-four reels and hit previews around greater California and Mexico, smash and grab. There are three hundred theaters within striking distance. That’s three hundred projectionists. So far, we have previewed our monsters in 120 of them. And still, on warm nights like tonight, we sweat and wait and pray for things like this to happen: The phone rings. Aaron answers and yells: “Quick! The Arcadia Barcelona Theater needs a preview. Jump!”
And down the stairs and past the graveyard we trot, our little arms full of film, always laughing, always running toward that future where somewhere another projectionist waits behind some locked projection-room door, bottle in hand, a look of unraveled genius in his red eye, a great blind worm in his soul waiting to be kissed awake.
“Wait!” I cry, as our car rockets down the freeway. “I left reel seven behind.”
“It’ll never be missed!” Aaron bangs the throttle. Over the roar he shouts, “Willis Hornbeck, Jr.! Oh, Willis Hornbeck the Second, wherever you are! Watch out! Sing it, Sam, to the tune of Someday I’ll Find You!”
THE NINETEENTH
It was getting on toward dusk as I drove down Motor Avenue one late afternoon and saw the old man walking on the far side of the road picking up lost golf balls.
I braked the car so fast I almost fell against the windshield.
I let the car stand in the middle of the street for another ten seconds (there were no cars following), and then I slowly backed up (still no cars), until I could peer over into the gully by the golf course wire screen and see the old man bend to pick up another ball and put it in a small bucket he was carrying.
No, I thought. Yes, I thought. No.
But I swerved over and parked the car and sat a moment trying to decide what to do, a mystery of tears in my eyes for no reason I could figure, and at last got out, let traffic pass, and crossed the street heading south in the gully as the old man headed north.
We finally came face to face about fifty paces from where I had entered the gully.
“Hi,” he said quietly, nodding.
“Hi,” I said.
“Nice night,” he said, glancing around at the turf and then down at his half-filled bucket of golf balls.
“Having luck?” I said.
“You can see.” He hefted the bucket.
“Darn good,” I said. “Can I help?”
“What?” he said, puzzled. “Look for more? Naw.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “It’ll be dark in another five minutes. We’d better find the darn things before it’s too late.”
“That’s true,” he said, regarding me curiously. “Why would you want to do that?”
“My dad used to come along here, years ago,” I said. “He always found something. His income was small and sometimes he sold the balls for extra spending money.”
“I’ll be,” said the old man. “I’m out here twice a week. Last week I sold enough balls and took my wife out to dinner.”
“I know,” I said.
“What?”
“I mean,” I said. “Let’s get going. There’s one down there. And another by the fence. I’ll get the one down there.”
I walked down and found the ball and brought it back and stood holding it while the old man examined my face.
“How come you’re crying?” he said.
“Am I?” I said. “Look at that. Must be the wildflowers. I’m allergic.”
“Do I know you?” he said abruptly.
“Maybe.” I told him my name.
“I’ll be darned.” He laughed quietly. “That’s my name, too, my last name. I don’t suppose we’re related.”
“I don’t suppose,” I said.
“Because I’d remember if we were. Related, that is. Or if we’d met before.”
Lord, I thought, so this is how it is. Alzheimer’s is one thing. Going away forever is another. With both you forget. Once you’ve passed over, I guess you don’t need your memory.
The old man was watching me think. It made him uncomfortable. He took the golf ball from me and put it in his bucket. “Thanks,” he said.
“There’s another one,” I said and ran down the slope and brought it back, wiping my eyes.
“You still come here often,” I said.
“Still? Why not?” he said.
“Oh, I was just wondering,” I said. “If I ever wanted to come hunting again, for the hell of it, if you were here it would make things easier.”
“It sure as hell would,” he agreed.
He studied my face again.
“Funny thing. I had a son once. Nice boy. But he went away. Never could figure where he went.”
I know, I thought. But he didn’t go away, you did. That’s how it must be, when you’re saying goodbye, people seem to go away, when all the while it’s you who are backing off, fading out, going and gone.
Now the sun was completely gone and we walked in half-darkness lit only by a single street-lamp across the way. I saw a last golf ball a few feet to the old man’s left and nodded. He stepped over and picked it up.
“Well, I guess that’s it,” he said.
He looked me in the face. “Where to?” he said.
I churned my thoughts and said, glancing ahead, “Isn’t there always a nineteenth hole on every course?”
The old man gazed ahead through the dark.
“Yeah. I mean, sure. There should be one up there.”
“Can I buy you a drink?” I said.
“Nice of you,” he said, his eyes clouded with uncertainty. “But I don’t think—”
“Just one,” I urged.
“It’s late,” he said. “I got to go.”
“Where?” I said.
That was the wrong question. His eyes clouded even more. He had to search around for a lame answer.
“Well,” he said. “You see,” he added. “I think …”
“No, don’t say. I hate being nosy.”
“It’s all right. Well. Got to be going.”
He reached out to take my hand and suddenly seized it and held it tight, staring into my eyes.
“We know each other,” he cried. “Don’t we?”
“Yes,” I said.
“But where from? How far back?” he said.
“A long way,” I said.
He wouldn’t let go of my hand, he clenched it tight as if he might fall.
“What did you say your name was?”
I said my name.
“Funny,” he said, and then lowered his voice. “That’s my name, too. Think. Us meeting here like this. And with the same name.”
“That’s the way it goes,” I said.
I tried to pry my hand free but it wouldn’t come. When I finally burst free I immediately shoved it back and took his hand in a similar vise.
“Next time,” I said. “The nineteenth hole?”
“The nineteenth,” he said. “You going to come back through here again?”
“Now that I know where you are. On certain nights. It’s a good walking and finding place.”
“Not many saps like me.” He looked around at the empty grass path behind him. “Gets kind of lonely.”
“I’ll try to come more often,” I said.
“You’re just saying that.”
“No. Honest to God.”
“Honest to God is a good promise.”
“The best.”
“Well.” Now it was his turn to pry his hand free and massage it to get the circulation back. “Here goes nothing.”
And he ambled off. About ten feet along the far path he saw a final ball and picked it up. He nodded and gave it a toss.
I caught it easi
ly and held it like a gift in my hand.
“The nineteenth,” he called quietly.
“Absolutely,” I called back.
And then he was gone in the darkness.
I stood there with tears running down my cheeks and felt the golf ball as I put it in my breast pocket.
I wonder, I thought, if it’ll be there in the morning?
BEASTS
Smith and Conway were almost finished with lunch when they somehow fell into a chat about innocence and evil.
“Ever been struck by lightning?” Smith asked.
“No,” said Conway.
“You know anyone ever was struck by lightning?” said Smith.
“No,” said Conway.
“They exist. A hundred thousand people get hit every year. A thousand or so die, their money fused in their pockets. Every man thinks he will never be hit by lightning. Each thinks himself a true Christian of multitudinous virtues.”
“What has this to do with what we were discussing?” Conway asked.
“This.” Smith lit a cigarette and peered into the flame. “You refuse to see the prevalence of evil in our world, so I use the lightning simile to prove otherwise.”
“What’s the use of my recognizing evil if you won’t accept good?”
“I do. But—” said Smith. “Until men know two things, the world will go merrily on to hell. First, we must see that in every good man lurks a reverse image of evil. Conversely, in every sinner, there is a marrow of good. Locking people into either category spells anarchy. Thinking a man good, we risk his duplicity. Thinking a man bad, we deny sanctuary. Most are sinner-saints. Schweitzer was a near-saint who bottled his imp or at least let it run on a leash. Hitler was Lucifer, but somewhere in him wasn’t there a child frantic for escape? But that child in Hitler’s burnt and gone. So slap on the label and bury his bones.”
“You’ve gone the long way,” said Conway. “Shorten it.”
“All right.” Smith laughed quietly. “You! Your facade is all stiff white wedding cake. Snow falls all year between your ears. Yet, beneath that whiteness, a dark heart beats, black hairs curl like watch springs. The Beast lives there. And until you can face it, one day it will unravel you.”
Conway laughed. “Hilarious!” he cried. “Oh, God! Funny!”
