BERKMAN NOIR | December 2011

The sound of footsteps echoed through the last wisps of fog, and my eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light of the dreary scene: the stones in the alley grainy and worn, the place gave off a smell of despair: dismal and ancient. I pulled a pack of Luckies from my pocket, put one to my lips and lit up. The footsteps got louder, and a leggy blonde appeared around the corner of the empty building to my right. She looked scared, real scared--the kind of scared that comes from one too many wrong turns on the  freeway of life, and the growing realization that maybe the freeway of life isn’t so free after all. There were a lot of toll plazas on the freeway of life and they didn’t take easy pass. The bumps in the road didn’t help either. So, in short, it was a bumpy, expensive road, this life road thing. She’d seen a lot for a 24-year-old and she had learned a few things that they don’t teach in school. And they were all about that bumpy and expensive toll plaza-infested-road. Which we call life. 

When she saw me a light went on in her pretty head and she hurried toward me. “Are you . . . David Berkman?” She breathed in a voice that made a part of you stand up and take notice. 

 “I might be . . . at least, if the right person is asking,” I said. I wanted to play it cool, but that wasn’t my forte. I was more of a fast and dopey sort of guy back then and the Lucky was giving me a headache and making me slightly nauseous.

 “You think I might be the right person?” she breathed and let her beige coat fall open revealing a skimpy black dress with all the right parts missing. 

 “I . . . er . . . um . . . yeah . . . ” I said, all nonchalance. 

 She leaned in toward me, her long body curving toward mine as the negative space between us evaporated. She reached her hand toward me, lightly grazing my cheek. I could feel her hot breath in my mouth, which wasn’t helping my oxygen intake any, since she was breathing out mostly carbon dioxide, but I didn’t care. She plunged her tongue halfway down my throat and I thought of cigars, big cigars, and cucumbers and rockets, trains plunging into tunnels and then more metaphorical objects. And then the blackjack came down on my skull and the lights went out.