Fade to Black by Ron Renauld Page A

what?”
    “I don’t know. It just seems like you’d want to establish your own identity instead of having people call you Marilyn the Second or something like that.”
    “You know, you have a good point there. What name should I use when I become your model, hmmmm?”
    “Maybe it’s time we talked about that,” Joey prompted. “What do you say we go over to my studio? It’s just around the corner.”
    Marilyn smiled. “Do you mind if we have some dessert?”
    Joey struggled to keep the smile on his face. “No,” he said gallantly, “You can have anything you want.”
    He summoned over their waiter to go through the dessert menu, all the while trying to remember how much money he had on him. This was going to clean him out, but he hadn’t come along this far to be turned back from scoring on Marilyn over a few dollars. He’d just have to raid the till at the photo store tomorrow when he was lifting more film for the “photo session.”
    Clinging to his last straw hope that Marilyn didn’t know where Ship’s was located, Eric finally abandoned his post outside the coffee shop and strode hastily down Wilshire to Westwood Boulevard and stopped at the corner, trying to decide which way to go.
    He crossed the street, going south toward Santa Monica Boulevard. There were still a few long lines trailing around the theatres like human belts.
    Eric made a frantic pass along the lines, bobbing up and down as he scanned the ranks of theatregoers for a trace of Marilyn. Several times he waded into the swarm to pursue a blonde whose back was turned to him, only to turn the girl around and find himself apologizing to a stranger.
    He finally swam through one of the lines to the ticket booth, throwing himself up against the window and pleading into the vent, “Excuse me, but did you see a blonde girl, about my height, looking for somebody . . . she has big red lips and real blonde hair.”
    The girl inside looked at him, amused. “Well,” she said, “you’ve narrowed it down to half the population of Westwood and Hollywood. Keep trying.”
    “Well,” Eric offered, hopes rising, “she looks just like Marilyn Monroe.”
    “Don’t they all, though,” the ticket girl said. “Look, I can’t help you, friend, unless maybe you were looking to buy a ticket. They aren’t blonde, but they have a lot of personality.”
    The couple behind Eric laughed, and he pulled himself away from the kiosk and elbowed his way back out to the sidewalk.
    One of the fraternities on campus at UCLA was sponsoring a hayride, and a truck passed Eric by, with a few dozen people bouncing happily on the bales in the back bed. They leaned forward and waved at Eric. A few blew party favors that shot out at him like frogs tongues. Others showered him with confetti.
    Close to tears, Eric turned away from the truck and went back to the corner, crossing with the light and heading toward the Village proper.
    Halfway up the street, it struck him. That creep at the skate shop. Maybe she was with him. Yeah, the big hot shot with his spiffy clothes and all the right moves. She probably figured he’d show her a better time and forgot about their date. Or maybe she’d never planned on showing up in the first place. Just a cocktease. Something to tell her diary. “Hey, you should have seen the way I strung this jerk along today. What a fool! Mr. Gullible himself.”
    “Binford, you’re a fuck-up!” he told himself angrily, imitating Mr. Berger. Maybe they were all right. Aunt Stella, Mr. Berger, Richie, Horace, all of them. Of course they were right. It only made sense. He was always saving his best material, his best lines, just getting by on clichés and rough draft dialogue, waiting for that time when he’d come into his own and claim the fame due him. What a life. Always waiting for tomorrow. Always stuck with today.
    There was an empty soda can lying by the edge of the sidewalk. He kicked at it angrily, sending it into the street, missing a