And then, because he was Noah Buschel, he would feel guilty for feeling proud, and then amused at his own guilt, and then, finally, after all of that, he would fall asleep with the taste of terrible apple pie on his tongue and the sound of his father’s drums in his distant, forgiving memory.
On the last night of shooting, after the crew had wrapped and the diner was empty except for Noah and the night manager—a woman named Celia who’d worked there for thirty years and had seen everything—Noah sat alone in the vinyl booth. Celia brought him a slice of apple pie and a cup of black coffee. noah buschel
“A diner. Two old friends. One night. That’s it. No flashbacks, no gimmicks. Just… conversation.” And then, because he was Noah Buschel, he
He would feel proud.
Noah should have hung up. Instead, he heard himself say, “Who’s directing?” “A diner