Westport: A Short Story In Progress
I’ve been working on a short story for several months. It would be done now if only I committed myself to a few writing sessions a week, but alas I haven’t made the time. My work on Substack, my weekly podcast, and my new short film have all taken up a good amount of space and time in my mind (not to mention my day job). But I remain committed to this story all the same. I’m not sure how good it is, but something about it speaks to me and I feel compelled to keep breathing life into it. Perhaps if I share some of it on here and get your reaction I’ll find the tenacity required to finish it.
So enjoy an unfinished short story about a man at a crossroads in his life (in his mind if not in his reality):
WESTPORT
AN INCOMPLETE SHORT STORY BY TIM KAIL
He hurried alongside the train, weaving in and out of the crowd of commuters when he noticed a pair of open seats. He darted into the car and settled at the window, placing his backpack down on the seat next to him. Smiling and sighing, he was overcome with relief — he’d made it. Now all he had to do was sit back, look out the window, and watch as the tunnel opened to the city and the city opened to the suburbs. He was going to visit his mother for the weekend, the first time he’d taken the commuter rail from Grand Central to Old Saybrook, CT in several years. He fingered the ticket in his pocket, anxious to present it to the conductor and solidify his placement on the train. Only then would he feel truly calm. Traveling tended to activate the worst side of his imagination. The conductor telling him his ticket was no good. Sitting across from a pack of rowdy teenagers. An active shooter stepping off the platform and unloading a barrage of hellfire, ripping pedestrian’s torsos to shreds. A sick man with snot dribbling down his nose coughing on his neck. It was exhausting to live and think this way.
How many people, he wondered, just did things. No mental weight holding them down at every interaction or scenario encountered, no preparing for every contingency, instead just living one moment to the next and doing as they pleased. The doors slid shut and a voice crackled over the intercom announcing the stops along the route.
“Tickets please!”
He handed the conductor his ticket and the conductor slipped a seat check into a small metal slip on the back of the seat in front of him. He took a deep breath and sunk, one arm cradling his backpack. He’d only be spending Friday and Saturday at his mother’s before heading back home to the city, so he packed light — a couple pairs of socks, some underwear, comfortable tee-shirts, his MacBook, and chargers. He checked the battery life on his phone. 75%. Enough to get him to his mother’s but he’d have to be careful not to spend too much time perusing Blue Sky or playing Wordle. His phone’s charge port had stopped working years ago, so the only way he could charge it was by placing it on a fancy little disc his brother got him some birthday or holiday (he couldn’t remember). But the disc was charged via USB and the only USB port he had was in his MacBook. So the process of charging his phone was something of a chain-link mess, a concoction of wires and devices that worked in concert to accomplish a simple goal, but did so in a way that epitomized the anxious, visually stressful state that defined his very being.
How unromantic, how stupid, he thought, that it was even a consideration in his mind how to conserve the energy of his phone so as to ensure it would stay charged for the duration of his train ride. Men used to do battle in sandy, blood-soaked arenas. Now they fidgeted uneasily on trains, afraid someone was going to say or do anything at them.
Money would help solve problems like his phone, but he didn’t have money — not the sort that could make life easier anyway. Amtrak would’ve cost two hundred dollars or more, hence his spot on the MTA and eventual transfer in New Haven to Shoreline East, altogether about forty dollars. His wife made significantly more money than he did — she was a vet with her own practice in Westchester, and he was an adjunct professor and a writer. He’d had some success with his latest novella, but he’d come to accept he’d never experience a financial windfall through his writing. He’d have to teach and freelance edit to make ends meet, to contribute to the life he’d built with his wife in a way that made him feel useful and appreciated.
She would say, “Why are you pretending like we don’t have two incomes? You don’t need to struggle the way you are”.
He knew she was right, but he hated the idea of being dependent upon his wife. Not for some macho reason, he was happy for her success and it didn’t make him feel inadequate that she made more money than him. He wanted to not be dependent upon her because doing so would snatch away the freedom he retained in his imagination. Even though, in reality, he relied on her to pay the monthly maintenance while he handled smaller bills like streaming services, electricity, laundry, and EZ Pass, he did not frame himself in his consciousness as bound to her. This allowed his mind a comfortable latitude, an open field of thought and hope separate from the realities of her and her role in his life.
“This is the train to New Haven. The next station is Westport.”
What if I just got off at Westport? he thought. Left his backpack and phone and his life on the train. He could see it clearly, as if his soul had unpasted itself from his body, a transparent duplicate of him, and ambled easily toward the exit. He’d step out onto the platform and take a deep breath, the sort of breath you take after you’ve felt a cosmic shift in your reality, and the train would leave with his belongings. He’d keep his wallet just for the money, but everything else, his computer, his phone, his clothes, would all be gone and he’d have to start cobbling together a new life in Westport, a town he knew nothing about. Was it even a town?
He’d step off the platform and walk a backroad with tall trees on either side, dotted with houses only millionaires could afford. It would take an hour before he’d find civilization, a quaint village by the river with a main street with tall lamps and little shops. One store had a “Help Wanted” sign in the window. This is how he’d support his new life. He stepped inside and there was a woman in her fifties with long hair halfway between grey and blonde standing behind the cash register.
“I see you’re looking for help?” He asked, smiling and hopeful.
“Yes!” She replied. “Do you have a resumé?”
“Not on me, but I did work at a Game Stop for three years so I have retail experience.”
“That’s great, just fill out this application,” she said, riffling through some loose papers on the counter. She handed him the application with a pen.
“Thank you. May I fill it out now?”
“Certainly. Though, honestly, there’s not really a good spot to do it in here. Have you been to Donna’s?”
“No I haven’t. What’s Donna’s?” he asked.
“It’s the coffee shop right across the street. It’s not a busy time so I’m sure you’ll be able to find a seat there.”
“Thank you so much,” he said. When he saw her smile and bright eyes he felt like he was looking into a mirror. That’s how I feel right now. What a relief to have a pleasant exchange with a stranger, a short dialogue that moved at a nice pace and seemed entirely oriented around one person helping another.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
“I hope so!” she replied, and started gathering books into a pile.
He pushed open the entrance and a bell chimed. He suddenly noticed coffee-vapors in the air, gently tossed by the breeze from the other side of the street. He followed, and discovered a shop that looked vaguely British and fantastical, like the proprietor would be a fat, happy troll who sang while he worked.
