Tinseltown Riff by Shelly Frome Page B

top of a high peak, the words “Oh, the Places You’ll Go!” floating overhead. In his kiddie brain, his mother would only return once he reached the top. Every year since, the words inside the cover worked on him. And will you succeed? Yes! You will, indeed! 98 and ¾ percent guaranteed. And not a day had gone by when someone didn’t say, “How’s it going, Ben? What’re you up to? Gonna snatch that brass ring?”
    As for this nutty last chance, he had to take it on. Chuck the mind games, the I-damn-well-can but How-can-I-possibly? underneath. His little kid’s hang-up aside, there was no way he could let everybody down.
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    After the roll of the final credits and the cheerful, whistling applause, he was greeted by the trio of jobless cronies from the stomping ground at the Farmers Market.
    â€œHey, buddy boy,” said the loudest of the three, the one in the baggy pants with the perpetual grin. “What a goof. Can you imagine?”
    Ben wanted to say, “You bet,” but let it go.
    â€œSo,” said the one in the Lakers T-shirt, “how’s it going?”        
    The quieter one of the bunch sheepishly piped in with, “Yeah, Ben. What’re you up to? Gonna snatch that brass ring?”

 
    Chapter Eleven  
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    A few miles due east of Fairfax on Beverly Boulevard, Iris’ house stood like a cinder-block sentinel. Like Iris herself, it was tan and resilient, impervious to everything. Twenty years ago, in lieu of a front yard and conventional living room, Iris had the builder erect an outsized fitness room. As an afterthought, a narrow hallway was tacked on with a tiny kitchen to the right, a den to the left, and two bedrooms at the rear. The smaller bedroom, next to a sliver of driveway, was filled with Iris’ junk and a cot and presently provided Ben with temporary sleeping quarters. The larger room next to the bathroom, smack up against the constant traffic flow, served as Iris’ boudoir. Thus Iris’ idea of a heavenly retreat continued to sit on the noisiest corner lot in captivity.
    It was here that Ben made his final pit stop at a few minutes past eleven. He doused the headlights and backed up a few yards away from the front curb in case Iris was still up and at it. Knowing Iris, if she spotted the condition of the back bumper of the borrowed Prelude, she would be off and running at the mouth.
    So far so good. Iris’s abode and the neighbors’ houses, set back and hidden by thick foliage, were quiet and dark. No one out and about save for the hum and roar of the traffic as it simultaneously headed east and west at the crossroad.
    A click of the latch key and it was only fourteen strides across the padded floor, a short shoeless trek down the narrow hallway, a shift to the right and, at last, to bed.
    But, alas, no such luck. Less than two seconds after he squeezed the front door shut, Iris was on top of him.
    â€œWhoa,” said Ben, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, it’s just me.”
    Iris stood her ground in her terry-cloth shorty pajamas, rubbing her chopped ash-blond hair with a towel, training her beady eyes on him as if still unsure whether he was friend or foe.
    â€œOkay, Iris, I give. Did Leo run out on you after you’d pinned him for the umpteenth time? Or was it the other way around?”
    â€œKnock it off. How was the retro flick in the old cemetery?  Filling your head with retro rot while I’m left holding the bag?”
    â€œOkay, come on, come on. What is it?”
    â€œBesides the fact that June gave me a jingle, interrupting the action, telling me to keep an eye out and make sure you were squared away by Saturday? Out of my hair, that is, and everybody else’s.”
    â€œYes, besides that.”  
    â€œIt was the other calls, is what it was, and the stupid answering machine. So, okay, one interruption was good, namely