“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 house, 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
