3-Hour Timeline of the Older Gentleman Sitting Next to You On the Amtrak Writing His Screenplay
It’s a long way to Carpinteria.
0 secs: He points at the empty seat beside you. His sunglasses are crooked. “This seat taken?” He asks. Before you can answer, he’s got his messenger bag into the overhead compartment.
30 secs: He pulls out his tray and opens his 2013 Lenovo Yoga. He gathers his bearings, glances at you, and realizes he’s still wearing his sunglasses inside the train car. He takes them off and puts them on his head, then laughs through his nose to himself at the silly mishap.
2 mins: He has pulled open a word document with his screenplay. It is not in screenplay format but it is in very large font. He edits the title page for five minutes.
7 mins: He jumps when the tone sounds. The conductor makes an announcement and he doesn’t listen.
20 mins: The conductor approaches. He looks up and says “oh — a vodka cranberry.” The conductor looks at him for a second.
20 mins and 14 secs: He produces a paper ticket from the pocket of his cargo shorts. He unfolds it three times and holds it out for the conductor. It is both wrinkled and pixelated. He is going to Santa Barbara.
33 mins: He’s written three pages. He gets up to use the bathroom at the end of the train car. He starts a line.
58 mins: He emerges, startles at the sight of the line. He hurries back to his seat and wobbles as the train turns.
58 mins and 25 secs: He turns to you and says “Just beat the traffic! Ha!”
1 hr and 15 mins: In his flurry of typing (35 wpm), his stomach growls. He looks around. He continues typing.
1 hr and 17 mins: His stomach growls again. He gets up. The train jostles and he tumbles into another man’s seat, accidentally putting his finger in the man’s ear. He apologizes with a curt, tight-lipped grin. He goes on his way out of the car and disappears.
You sneak a peek at his screenplay. You manage to read one page (Arial, 16 pt. font, double-spaced), involving a twenty-three-year-old named “Jetta” riding a mechanical bull at a “joint” called “The Sleeze.”
1 hr and 35 mins: He returns with a flat paper box. He sits down and resumes his typing position, putting the box directly on top of his keyboard. You know it is a pepperoni pizza.
1 hr 35 mins 10 secs: He opens a pepperoni pizza. He tucks a napkin into the collar of his shirt. He puts on the headphones that have been dangling around his neck (they came with his Lenovo) and plays some free jazz that is loud enough so that you can hear it too. Sometimes he makes little noises that he isn’t aware of.
1 hr and 45 mins: The pizza is gone.
2 hrs and 25 mins: The jazz is still going, and now he is chewing on the end of his glasses. He types using only his index fingers and sometimes his right pinkie. When you can sneak a glance, you can see now that Jetta has struck up a relationship with a hotheaded detective called “Russell Conway.” It is now clear to you that this screenplay is set in 1940s Milwaukee.
2 hrs and 26 mins: He stares at the page. The page stares back at him. The tone sounds. He jumps.
2 hrs and 27 mins: He chats loudly on his flip phone with someone called “Jay” for fifteen minutes. It’s a lot of wheezy laughter and talk of his son Mike.
2 hrs and 42 mins: He goes to the bathroom again. This time he returns with water on his shirt.
2 hrs and 45 mins: He has put his sunglasses back on for a quick nap. He snores and snaps awake at the sound of it. He is reinvigorated and gets back to his passion for the written word.
2 hrs and 50 mins: Now Jetta is on a train. He glances at you out of the very corner of his eye. You glance back at him and he immediately looks away. He mimes typing, thinking he’s tricked you.
2 hrs and 58 mins: He lets out a dramatic groan and drops his hands off either side of his laptop. He looks around. The battery is dead. You are surprised it has lasted this long. He looks at you. “Just as I was getting to the good part,” he says, ignoring the plug to his left. His eyes beg you to ask what he was writing.
2 hrs 58 mins 28 secs: He finally looks away. He sits back, puts on his sunglasses, and decides to sleep.
3 hrs and 5 mins: The tone sounds. Santa Barbara, two minutes. He shuts his Yoga and resets his tray. He stands, wobbly. He grabs his messenger bag from the overhead compartment. You catch his eye. He grins and nods. You smile back at him, and you don’t know why.
3 hrs and 6 mins: The train rolls to a stop. He follows the others off to the opposite end of the train. Just before he descends to the bottom level, he looks back at the train car and sighs wistfully to himself. He misses a step and catches himself. He plays it off like it didn’t happen.
Gillian Tanda was born and raised in Los Angeles and spends all her free time writing. In fact, sometimes she wishes she could do something else in her free time, but she literally can’t stop writing. This is not a joke. Find her on Instagram at @gill.ctt.
