Edna Vale Monologue

Edna Vale was a well known name, yet she lived close to my old way of life. The power lines crossed in front of the top rows of windows on the hilly streets and skinny kids with dirty hair played on flaking blue stone sidewalks that tilted at odd angles from years of neglect. Candy wrappers and butts were evident in the sparse patches of grass in front. At the right house, I found my way up worn stairs to where Edna kept an address. There were the dried smells of steaks from indeterminate times along the way. I knocked perfunctorily and was ready to accept defeat without further investigation, but the door opened and I saw a buxom, but youthful looking woman with a bouffant hairdo, looking like the picture on the dust jackets of her books. “May I help you?” she said. I wasn’t prepared. “Perhaps; I’m sorry to intrude,
I’ve dealt with some of your themes in my business; I’m a film agent,” I said. “Who are you?” Edna said. “Marcel Pinaud; you don’t know me, but you might know John Stedman, my boss. Do you remember ‘The Wicked
Never Sleep’?” I said. Edna lit up. “Of course! How is John?” she said. I could hear voices inside the room. “Why don’t you come in; we’d love to hear from you,” she said. I entered. There was a bittersweet incense smell and soft unidentifiable music. I walked inside- the living room? Actually, it was more like a tacky studio with a two-story ceiling, temporary room dividers and very dirty furniture and carpeting. "Bonjour tout le monde; c'est Marcel a la Hollywood," Edna trilled. "Bonjour," everyone chorused softly. "That's ok; I'm not that good with French," I lied. Edna made a pouting face, but didn't say anything. I sat down on a broken-down sofa loaded with people and accepted a drink- bourbon? There were people everywhere, doing their own things, but with attentive ears for their