Late night. A Serbian Orthodox church in Maryland. November winds rattle the trees. In a shadowed corner, near the entrance to the common areas and the kitchen, a lone Orthodox priest speaks with a figure in a coal black suit.
“You should come for a proper confession.”
The man in the black suit shrugs. “I’m not a proper Serb, Toma. But some confession is better than none, yes?”
The priest sighs. “Bozje pomozi nas. Go on.”
After crossing himself, the man in black begins: “It is November. I find myself participating in Lady K’s #NoirvemberChallenge. I know it’s not a sin in and of itself, but it’s encouraged improper thoughts about Marie Windsor. Especially in her dress from Narrow Margin. And Robert Mitchum, but that’s year round.”
“I’m not old Toma Draskovic. You can’t shock me with things like that. What else? What’s really burdening you?”
The man in black leaned against the chair. “I love noir. You know that. You’ve known it since I did that student project in high school with my classmate under the streetlamp. I love the storytelling. I love what it says. But this love isn’t enough. I can’t write noir. Not true noir.”
“And what’s true noir to you?”
“Black Gravel.” At the mention of the film’s name, the man and the priest looked off into the middle distance.
“It’s not that I don’t try. I do. But any time I sit down to write The Last Seduction I end up with Red Rock West. My heart yearns for pulpier stories. Ones with recurring characters. Ones where the system is against them, but they keep going. It’s like Mitchum said in Out of the Past when Jane Greer said she didn’t want to die. He said, “Neither do I, baby, but if I’m going to die, I’m going to die last.'”
“More in the Mosely and Paretsky vein.”
“Maybe weirder and pulpier than that. You know I like me some gill girls with guns.”
“And I’m sure. Mr Brereton appreciates your appreciation. And patronage.” The priest shakes his head. “Your problem? You’re still ruled by the imagined demands of others. Not Serbian enough. Not Venezuelan enough. Not noir enough. And you mistake those demands for the calling of your heart. You can’t live for others.”
The man in black raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me this, Toma?”
“Yes! You can’t help the hungry if you starve yourself to death in the process. You need to keep yourself fed.” The priest sighed. “But if it’s required, here.” He placed one hand on the man in black’s head, and made the sign of the cross with two fingers. “For your sins, I command you to light a candle to Sveti Petievich next time you watch To Live and Die in L.A. and write the gruff, hard-boiled, pulpy but weird noir that calls you. U ime Oca i Sina i Svetoga Duha. Idi u dupe na vašar Amin.”
Biomechanoid Blues 