A Script for The Last Service Station

by Eva Suluk

INT. TEAM VAN - NIGHT

SOUND of a droning heater, the hiss of tires on wet highway

The air is thick, humid. A soup of wet wool, sweat, and stale energy drinks. Twelve high school ROWERS, all broad-shouldered and exhausted, are crammed inside a Ford Transit van.

Outside, the Ontario highway is a black ribbon reflecting the headlights of oncoming trucks. Rain streaks across the windows, blurring the grey-green landscape.

JONAS (18, sensitive, coiled with a quiet tension) stares out the window, his forehead almost touching the cold glass. His reflection is pale, hollowed-out.

MIKO (18, sharp-witted, with a pragmatic edge) sits beside him, scrolling on his phone. The blue light illuminates the dark circles under his eyes.

<center>JONAS</center>

> Pass the chips?

> They’re stale.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I don’t care. Pass ‘em.

> Seriously, Jonas. They taste like cardboard that sat in a sauna. Just wait until we stop.

Jonas doesn’t wait. He reaches over the seat back, blindly snatching a crinkling silver bag of chips. Miko sighs, a long exhale that merges with the van’s hum.

Jonas crunches a chip. Miko was right. Stale. He chews anyway, staring at the bare, fuzzy treeline whipping past.

A VOICE (O.S.) from the back of the van.

<center>VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> You think Andrews’s gonna make us unload the trailer tonight?

>>(low)

> Andrews’s asleep.

Miko nods toward the front. COACH ANDREWS (50s) is slumped against the passenger window, mouth slightly open.

<center>ANOTHER VOICE (O.S.)</center>

> Ben’s driving, though. Ben’s a hardass.

> Ben just wants to go home and sleep. We’ll dump the boats in the yard and rig them tomorrow.

The conversation drifts. Jonas tunes it out. He presses his forehead against the glass. Condensation blooms around his skin.

Miko nudges him with an elbow.

> Stop brooding. You look like a tragic poet.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I’m not brooding. I’m cramping.

> Eat a banana. Potassium.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I ate the banana. Hours ago. It’s gone.

> Then suffer in silence, bow-boy.

A tight smile flickers across Jonas’s face.

<center>JONAS</center>

> You’re gonna miss this.

> The cramping? The smell of Sam’s feet? No. No, I will not.

<center>JONAS</center>

>>(quietly)

> The rhythm.

>>(beat)

> You know. The swing.

Miko pauses. He stops scrolling. He looks at his phone screen for a moment, then clicks it off. His face is plunged into shadow. He turns to Jonas, the sarcasm gone, replaced by a tired sincerity.

>>(softly)

> Yeah. Yeah, I’ll miss the swing.

The van lurches, slowing. The indicator starts to click.

SOUND: A slow, metronomic TICK-TOCK... TICK-TOCK...

EXT. HIGHWAY SERVICE STATION - NIGHT

The van pulls into a generic service station. A tall sign reads "ONroute." The parking lot is a vast expanse of wet tarmac, gleaming under the harsh orange glow of sodium-vapor lamps. Rain mists down.

BEN (19, the driver) leans back from the wheel.

> Pit stop! Fifteen minutes. If you’re not back, you’re walking.

INT. TEAM VAN - CONTINUOUS

The sliding door groans open.

SOUND: The hiss of rain on pavement rushes in, immediate and loud.

Cold air, smelling of wet asphalt and petrol, floods the van.

EXT. HIGHWAY SERVICE STATION - CONTINUOUS

Jonas stumbles out, his legs stiff. His sneakers soak through instantly on the pavement. He stretches, his spine cracking. Other rowers emerge, groaning, zipping jackets.

Jonas doesn’t head for the building. He walks away from the group, toward the edge of the parking lot where the orange light fades into the darkness of the woods.

The rain is a fine mist, clinging to his eyelashes. He zips his team jacket to his chin.

SOUND of footsteps crunching on gravel behind him.

He doesn’t turn. He knows the cadence. Miko steps up beside him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his track pants.

> You’re gonna get soaked.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I’m already wet. Boat spray. Sweat. Rain. What’s the difference?

Miko huffs, a cloud of white vapor escaping his lips.

> We did good today, J. That second 500? Where we walked through Western? That was... that was solid.

Jonas stares at a wire fence separating the lot from a dark, muddy field. A plastic bag is caught in the chain-link, flapping frantically.

<center>JONAS</center>

> We lost the sprint.

> We ran out of water. Another ten strokes, we would have had them.

<center>JONAS</center>

> But we didn’t.

> Doesn’t matter. It’s done. Stats are in the book.

Miko kicks a loose stone. It skitters across the blacktop and vanishes into a puddle with a small PLIP. He looks at Jonas, who is shivering slightly in just a hoodie.

<center>JONAS</center>

>>(heavy)

> I don’t know what I’m gonna do.

>>(beat)

> Without the training schedule. Without... you know, the guys. You.

Miko doesn’t look away. He doesn’t make a joke. He watches a transport truck rumble past on the highway, its trailer lights a long streak of red.

> You’ll work. You’ll train. You’ll find a single scull and you’ll get fast. Scary fast. You always row better when you don’t have to worry about matching someone else’s rhythm.

<center>JONAS</center>

> That’s not true.

> It is. You’re a control freak, Jonas. In a single, you’re the master and commander. You’ll love it.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I hate sculling. It’s lonely.

> It’s peaceful.

>>(beat)

> And hey. Montreal isn’t the moon. There’s trains. There’s... phones.

<center>JONAS</center>

> You’re terrible at texting.

> I’m excellent at texting. I just choose to be mysterious.

Jonas lets out a short, sharp laugh. It breaks something in his chest.

<center>JONAS</center>

> Mysterious. Right. Like when you didn’t tell us you lost your skeg until we were at the start line?

> That was a tactical omission! Panic is bad for performance.

They stand in silence. The orange light reflects in the puddles, making oil slicks look like rainbows.

SOUND: From the darkness beyond the fence, a chorus of SPRING PEEPERS rises. A wall of sound. Life.

<center>JONAS</center>

>>(muttering)

> Spring.

> What?

<center>JONAS</center>

> The frogs. Listen.

Miko tilts his head, listening.

> Loud little buggers.

<center>JONAS</center>

> Yeah.

Jonas takes a deep breath. The air is cold, sharp, clean behind the diesel fumes. It tastes like thaw.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I guess it’s starting.

> What is?

<center>JONAS</center>

> Everything else.

>>(yelling from across the lot)

> Let’s go! Move it, ladies!

Miko slaps Jonas on the back, a solid, friendly thump.

> Time to go. I’m buying you a donut. A stale one, to match the chips.

<center>JONAS</center>

> I hate you.

> Liar.

They turn and walk back toward the idling van, its windows already steaming up again.

INT. TEAM VAN - MOMENTS LATER

The oppressive warmth hits Jonas as he climbs in. He slides into his seat, the damp spot on the upholstery still there. He buckles his belt. The CLICK is final.

Miko drops into the seat next to him and tosses a wax paper bag into his lap.

> Honey cruller. Don’t say I never did nothing for you.

<center>JONAS</center>

> Anything. You never did *anything* for me. Grammar, engineer.

> Eat your donut.

The van groans into gear, pulling out of the lot and merging back onto the highway.

SOUND: The wiper blades slap back and forth, THWACK-HISS, THWACK-HISS.

Jonas takes a bite of the donut. It’s sweet, sugary, soft.

ANGLE ON the rain-streaked window. The orange lights of the service station shrink, then disappear, swallowed by the rain and the night.

CLOSE ON Jonas’s hands in his lap. Calloused, blistered, shaking slightly from fatigue. Strong hands.

The ache in his chest is still there, but it feels different. Less like a wall, more like ballast. Something to keep him steady.

He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, listening to the rhythm of the road.

FADE TO BLACK.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.