One More for the Road by Ray Bradbury Page A

again.”
    Gomez backed into the bar. James Clayton stepped out of the sun.
    Inside was a long bar, not the longest bar in the world like that one in Tijuana where ninety men could share murders, bark laughs, order fusillades, and die but to wake, eyeing their strange selves in the flyspecked mirrors. No, it was merely a bar of some seventy feet, well polished, and laid out with long stacks of newspapers from other years. Above these, glass chimes of crystal hung upside down, and against the mirrors stood squadrons of liquor, of all colors, waiting like soldiers, while beyond, filling the room, stood two dozen white-clothed tables on which lay bright cutlery and a few candles, lit though it was noon. Behind the bar now, Gomez set out another assassin’s tequila, a slow or abrupt suicide, if the young man wished. The young man wished, staring at the empty tables and chairs, the shining silverware, the lit candles.
    â€œYou were expecting someone?”
    â€œI do expect,” said Gomez. “Someday they will come. God says. He has never lied.”
    â€œWhen was your last meal served? Excuse me,” said James Clayton.
    â€œThe menu will say.”
    Sipping his tequila, Clayton picked up a menu and read:
    â€œCinco de Mayo, my God, May 1932! That was the last dinner?”
    â€œJust so,” said Gomez. “After the funeral for this dead town, the last woman left. The women had waited for the last man to leave. With the men gone there was no profit in staying. The hotel rooms across the way are full of butterfly wings, dresses for late dinners or the opera. Do you see that place across the plaza with golden gods and goddesses on top? Gilt, of course, or they would have been taken. In that opera the night before departure, Carmen sang, rolling cigars on her knee. When the music died, the town followed.”
    â€œNo one left by sea?”
    â€œAh, no. The sandbar. There is a rail track behind the opera house. The last train left there in the night, with the singers singing on the porch of the observation car. I ran down the track after them, throwing confetti. I ran long after the porchful of half-fat beautiful ladies were lost in the jungle, then I sat on the rail and listened to the train vibrating the iron, my ear pressed down, tears running off my nose, estupido , but I stayed on. Late nights I still go to place my ear on the rail, shut my eyes, and listen, but the track is dumb. Just as stupid as ever, I come back to sit and drink and say to myself, mañana : yes. The arrival! And now, you.”
    â€œA poor arrival.”
    â€œYou will do for now.” Gomez leaned to touch one old, yellowed newspaper. “Señor, can you really know the year?”
    Clayton smiled at the newspaper. “1932!”
    â€œ1932! A better year. How can we know that other years exist? Do planes fill the sky? Do the roads fill with tourists? Do warships stand in the harbor? I see none. Does Hitler live? His name is not yet here. Is Mussolini evil? Here he seems good. Does the Depression stay? Look! It will die by Christmas! Mr. Hoover says! So each day I unfold another paper and reread 1932. Who says otherwise?”
    â€œNot I, Señor Gomez.”
    â€œLet us drink to that.”
    They drank the tequila and Clayton wiped his mouth.
    â€œDon’t you want me to tell you what’s happening out beyond today?”
    â€œNo, no. My newspapers stand ready. One a day. In ten years I will arrive in 1942. In sixteen years I will reach 1948, by then it cannot wound me. Friends bring these papers twice a year, I simply stack them on the bar, pour more tequila and read your Mr. Hoover.”
    â€œIs he still alive?” Clayton smiled.
    â€œToday he did something about foreign imports.”
    â€œShall I tell you what happened to him?”
    â€œI will not listen!”
    â€œI was joking.”
    â€œLet us drink to that.”
    They quietly drank their drinks.
    â€œI suppose you