Hey everyone!
Here's an excerpt from Nola "Tripp" Trepagnier's latest adventure in "Scene One: Death of a Hollywood Wannabe". Good times.
You never know how you’re going to react the first time you see a dead body. I certainly didn't think I’d be such a wuss. But there I was, on my knees in the grass outside the Beverly Hills house. I tried to catch my breath after vomiting again. I drew the back of my shaking hand across my mouth.
“Ma’am, are you still there?” A voice from the Universe. Oh wait, it’s in my ear, seeping through my cheap headset. I followed the cord from my ears to my prepaid not-so-smart phone (Bluetooth capabilities cost extra). I wiped a few drops of what was left of my breakfast on my jeans and checked the screen. At some point I had dialed 911.
“Oh God. I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to be retching in your ear. That’s awful…” I could just picture the fun the entertainment shows could have with this:
We have the 911 call from the nobody actress who found the body in the Beverly Hills house. The actual sound of puking comes through! Hilarious!
“It’s ok ma’am. Help is on the way.” I collapsed back on my butt, head between my knees and closed my eyes. My head was spinning so fast, I barely registered the sun searing my exposed neck skin. After what seemed like a millennium, the world started to slow down. The leaf blower across the street stopped and I heard approaching sirens.
I lifted my head, squinting into the bright sun. Two Beverly Hills police cars pulled up with lights and sirens going. A Cedars Sinai ambulance screeched to a halt behind them. The gardener across the street stood mouth agape, hop-scotching a few seconds when he dropped his blower on his foot.
An officer sprang from one of the cars. She had her hand on her gun. She waddled at me and I crab walked backward as fast as possible.
We have the 911 call from the nobody actress who found the body in the Beverly Hills house. The actual sound of puking comes through! Hilarious!
“It’s ok ma’am. Help is on the way.” I collapsed back on my butt, head between my knees and closed my eyes. My head was spinning so fast, I barely registered the sun searing my exposed neck skin. After what seemed like a millennium, the world started to slow down. The leaf blower across the street stopped and I heard approaching sirens.
I lifted my head, squinting into the bright sun. Two Beverly Hills police cars pulled up with lights and sirens going. A Cedars Sinai ambulance screeched to a halt behind them. The gardener across the street stood mouth agape, hop-scotching a few seconds when he dropped his blower on his foot.
An officer sprang from one of the cars. She had her hand on her gun. She waddled at me and I crab walked backward as fast as possible.
Police Officer 1: Female, Hispanic, 5’3-5’5, should be able to move quickly and carry herself with confidence. Knowing how to shoot a gun a plus but not required.
Crap, even now I only think of people in casting terms. Maybe it was a reaction to seeing… My head started spinning again.
The officer was inches from my face.
“Did you call 911?” I nodded. She was almost pretty in a piggish kind of way. Could use a breath mint though. Not that I was any better.
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
I shrugged. “I ran out the second I saw…” things started spinning again.
“Stay here, no, go get checked out by the EMTs.” She mumbled something into the mic on her shoulder, turned, lifted her gun and headed for the house. She tured back in my direction, "And don't leave until you're told to!" At the door, a male officer met her. Two other officers disappeared around the back.
My name is Nola Trepagnier, “Tripp” to coworkers at my night -time day job. I was born and raised in New Orleans, the great city for which I was named. I’m a working actress, which pretty much means that I audition for whatever I can and if the gods will it, might actually get work once a year. Bills are paid by the other job as a for-hire video game tester. I’m 5’7 ½ inches tall, which sucks since the average leading man comes tucked into a 5’6” package. I’m 35 ¾ years old and holding, have strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, long legs and fish belly white skin. On a good day, I can squeeze my ass into a size 6 long pair of jeans. I also live with an ogre.
The cause of my current predicament is a former acting/production partner of mine, a nut job I ended up referring to as ‘Crazy M’. Melinda Curtis, wannabe actress and producer, and with whom I had a promising partnership going once upon a time. We actually were able to put together a not-too-shabby short. When we tried to take our projects to the next level is when things got all wonky. It was her bloody body on the floor in the house. At least I think it’s her.
The officer was inches from my face.
“Did you call 911?” I nodded. She was almost pretty in a piggish kind of way. Could use a breath mint though. Not that I was any better.
“Is there anyone else in the house?”
I shrugged. “I ran out the second I saw…” things started spinning again.
“Stay here, no, go get checked out by the EMTs.” She mumbled something into the mic on her shoulder, turned, lifted her gun and headed for the house. She tured back in my direction, "And don't leave until you're told to!" At the door, a male officer met her. Two other officers disappeared around the back.
My name is Nola Trepagnier, “Tripp” to coworkers at my night -time day job. I was born and raised in New Orleans, the great city for which I was named. I’m a working actress, which pretty much means that I audition for whatever I can and if the gods will it, might actually get work once a year. Bills are paid by the other job as a for-hire video game tester. I’m 5’7 ½ inches tall, which sucks since the average leading man comes tucked into a 5’6” package. I’m 35 ¾ years old and holding, have strawberry blond hair, blue eyes, long legs and fish belly white skin. On a good day, I can squeeze my ass into a size 6 long pair of jeans. I also live with an ogre.
The cause of my current predicament is a former acting/production partner of mine, a nut job I ended up referring to as ‘Crazy M’. Melinda Curtis, wannabe actress and producer, and with whom I had a promising partnership going once upon a time. We actually were able to put together a not-too-shabby short. When we tried to take our projects to the next level is when things got all wonky. It was her bloody body on the floor in the house. At least I think it’s her.
I looked up at the house. Years ago it might have been called a bungalow. It had a curved archway over the front door and ribbon shaped tiles on the roof. Once upon a time it may have been a soft terra cotta color, but now it was faded to a sick shrimp. A single driveway led up to the side entrance. The houses weren't mansions in this part of Beverly Hills, and this house was squeezed between two bigger ones. You could almost walk between a pair with your arms out stretched and touch them. There was an adjoining back yard shared by three or more dwellings that led back into a forest-like area. It was easy to tell which parcel of land belonged to Melinda from the longer blades of grass shooting up defiantly between the perfectly manicured others.
Currently, I was regaining my composure in the overgrown grass of the front lawn next to overgrown hedges emitting some sort of lemony scent.
I checked the clock on my phone. 2:12. I had an audition at 4:15. I had given Crazy M the benefit of an hour to regale me with whatever it was she wanted. I can still make it. Granted, it might not be the best performance, but seeing that the audition was for dish washing detergent with no spoken lines or 'sides', I figured I'd be okay.
Two paramedics scrambled out of the ambulance. They pulled out all sorts of medical looking stuff.
The ruckus was starting to cause a scene. I counted three, no four, almost identical bleached blond soccer mom slash trophy wives hanging around their ‘mommy rocket’ SUV things staring more than a little intently.There were also one Hispanic gardener with leaf blower, two Filipino maids peeking out from behind the blinds of the house directly across the street, and one ‘manny’ trying desperately to wrangle in a pair of rugrat twins.
My head started spinning again. I stumbled toward the ambulance. An EMT/Paramedic (I don’t know the difference) rushed to collect me.
EMT 1: Male, African American mid 20’s, glasses, confident. Able to instill comfort in others. Knowledge of emergency medicine a plus but not necessary.
The ruckus was starting to cause a scene. I counted three, no four, almost identical bleached blond soccer mom slash trophy wives hanging around their ‘mommy rocket’ SUV things staring more than a little intently.There were also one Hispanic gardener with leaf blower, two Filipino maids peeking out from behind the blinds of the house directly across the street, and one ‘manny’ trying desperately to wrangle in a pair of rugrat twins.
My head started spinning again. I stumbled toward the ambulance. An EMT/Paramedic (I don’t know the difference) rushed to collect me.
EMT 1: Male, African American mid 20’s, glasses, confident. Able to instill comfort in others. Knowledge of emergency medicine a plus but not necessary.
The other EMT/Paramedic shined a light in my eyes, while I spelled my name three times for the other one. Despite my insistence that I was fine, I was put through the ringer. Evidently vomiting is a sign of shock and it took some serious begging and pleading to convince him the puking in question was due to the ‘ick’ factor. I was also able to talk him out of shoving an IV in my arm and finally agreeing upon a juice box.
“Clear!” Came a shout from somewhere near the house.
“Clear!” was the reply. The two EMTs grabbed some gear and ran into the house.
Alone, and finally able to catch my breath I sucked my juice while sitting on the bumper of ambulance. I breathed in the burning sterile fumes, hoping they would cleanse the sticky iron scent of blood from my nostrils.
“Clear!” Came a shout from somewhere near the house.
“Clear!” was the reply. The two EMTs grabbed some gear and ran into the house.
Alone, and finally able to catch my breath I sucked my juice while sitting on the bumper of ambulance. I breathed in the burning sterile fumes, hoping they would cleanse the sticky iron scent of blood from my nostrils.
My phone buzzed in my hand. It startled me and I almost dropped it. I hadn't realized I'd been white-knuckling the thing. The screen showed MOM. I let call go to voicemail. There was no way in hell I was about to answer my mom's call now. I'm not sure how, but that woman could always zero in on me wherever I am and whatever I'm doing. I don't know if it is such an easy explanation as a mother's intuition, or something more sinister like a voodoo curse.
Whatever the case, the creepy ability of hers kept me from turning into a wiley youth daring to experiment with drugs and various sexual exploits. Unfortunately, it also kept me from visiting home just to enjoy the city. All I would have to do is touch down at the airport and my entire family would be there waiting for me. The last thing I needed now was my mother hearing my voice all shaky. I'd never hear the end of it. I slipped the phone into my pocket. Voices coming from the direction of the house caused me to look that way. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but the tone wasn't pleasant.
The phone buzzed one more time alerting me that a voice mail was received. I sighed, tucked the phone back in my pocket and watched the scene in front of me unfold.
I pulled my eyes from the house despite the ballet the uniforms were performing. The sky actually had a few rare clouds. Birds chirped, bugs annoyed, dogs pooped. Life went on. It didn’t seem right.
A plain dark blue car pulled over to the curb and parked. I know more than most that cop procedural shows were created by a bunch of writers sitting in a room and maybe, if they were lucky, had a police consultant for the first season. Usually not. Still, I was willing to bet that the two guys climbing out were detectives. One older guy, one younger, both in suits and ties.
A plain dark blue car pulled over to the curb and parked. I know more than most that cop procedural shows were created by a bunch of writers sitting in a room and maybe, if they were lucky, had a police consultant for the first season. Usually not. Still, I was willing to bet that the two guys climbing out were detectives. One older guy, one younger, both in suits and ties.
Detective 1: Male, Caucasian, mid to late 50’s. Somewhat overweight, walks with a slight limp. Bald head with a comb over required.
Detective 2…
Detective 2…
Detective 2… Now he was interesting. Good looking with an odd café au lait colored skin. He had the facial features that looked like a mix between white, Hispanic, Asian of all varieties, and something else I couldn’t quite place. His eyes were light, even from this distance, but his lashes were dark. Ethnically ambivalent is what they call it in The Industry. He walked with a straight back and easy stride. He’d look good in a uniform. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were an actor at some point. At least picking up a few extra bucks on his off days working as a background artist in various features. Must have own uniform.
