Tinseltown Riff Read Free

straight from the heart.”                                                                                    
    â€œThanks, just what I needed.”
    Crossing the street, he crammed the box in the trunk of the Prelude. Returning, he performed the same task with Aunt June’s luggage, leaned in and offered the customary perfunctory hug as she looked askance at her pendant watch.
    â€œAnd one last thing,” added June, “couldn’t help overhearing. They’ll be no reconciliations with Miss Gillian on my bed. No possibility of unlocked doors while I’m gone. I mean it, come on now, swear.”
    Two fingers held in the air and a couple of arm pats did the trick. Just as she was about to turn the ignition key, they both noticed that the faux Santa Ana had kicked up a notch, hot and dry as can be.
    â€œWell now,” said Aunt June, “gusts have been a little freaky today. Wonder what it means?”
    â€œJust the proverbial winds of change.”
    â€œChange—you said it.  Five days, kiddo, and counting. Your dangling days are done.”

   
    Chapter Two
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    Ben was increasingly aware of the Santa Ana as it rattled the jalousies of the hotel’s Catalina room. He was also aware of the trickles of sweat seeping into the collar of his button-down oxford.  Together both sensations would remain a constant till he proved he could pull this off.
    Pausing in hopes the air-conditioning would finally kick in with a reassuring whir, he scanned the sixty or so seated wanna-bes leaning forward in their rattan chairs.  He faked another easygoing smile and went on with his sketch of a classic movie plotline. The response was negligible.  No light in their eyes, no sign of rapt attention or even interest.
    Ben looked over to his far right at Gillian perched by the open window. After all, she was the facilitator, the one who got him into this. But pert, blasé Gillian held her  pose and gave him nothing. He was failing; she would toss him no bone, his prospects were nil.
    A sweet-faced lady in a lemon pants-suit raised her hand. She pointed out that according to the conference program, participants were to be offered insider tips-- Take-the - guess-out-of-success , the updated mismatched cops formula and so forth.
    Pushing harder, Ben nodded and suggested that classic films were a great guide no matter what the venue. At that point, the whole group grew restless.
    â€œLook,” the sweet-faced lady blurted out, “so far, till you showed up, we’ve been tossed the skinny on Girly Girls Take Paris and Slacker-nerds and the Prom Queen . So far, we’ve been reminded that in this economy uncertainty is poison and the letters RE are the ticket--revamp, revisit. So let’s move on to what’s trending with this recipe. Dangerous-but-fun, we’ve heard about. Cynical-with-a-heart. So what’s new? What’ve you got for us? Why are we here?”
    The spontaneous applause cut through the pervading indifference.  
    Ben signaled strongly to Gillian. But she remained frozen in her lime-sorbet camisole and matching Capri pants. The whoosh kept rattling the jalousies, fanning her bangs, the only part of her do that wasn’t lacquered down.
    The attendees began jostling each other, forming a solid block of unease, augmented by the fake Santa Ana and the glare off the mint walls.
    Sweet-face stood, pointed an accusatory finger straight at Ben and hollered out, “Where is the insider angle? Come on, let’s have it, if you please.”   
    Ben tossed the dry marker from hand to hand and thoughtlessly said, “Right. ‘You’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street. And you