The Tarmac Shimmer
A fight in a greasy, 24-hour truck stop on the Trans-Canada Highway throws two teenage runaways together. Over bad coffee and the hum of diesel engines, they find a brief, fragile sanctuary in each other's company, knowing it's just a temporary stop on roads leading in opposite directions.
INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - NIGHT
SOUND of muffled SHOUTING, a chair scraping hard against linoleum
The place is an island of buzzing fluorescent light in a sea of blacktop darkness. Nearly empty. A few lone TRUCKERS hunched over coffee at the counter.
In a U-shaped booth, JAMES (17), quiet and frayed at the edges, watches as two burly TRUCKERS square off.
The WAITRESS (50s), her face a road map of long nights, wades into the middle of it, holding a coffee pot like a weapon.
WAITRESS
> Take it outside, boys! I just mopped this floor.
Her voice cuts through the noise. The two truckers, red-faced, untangle themselves. One gives the other a final, resentful glare before they both STOMP out.
The glass door SWINGS shut, its bell giving a weak, tired JINGLE.
TITLE: THE TARMAC SHIMMER
The diner settles.
SOUND of the fluorescent HUM, the GURGLE of the coffee machine, the distant RUMBLE of idling trucks.
James lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He uses a paper napkin to mop up coffee he spilled on the table during the commotion.
As he cleans, he looks up.
Across the booth from him, previously unnoticed, sits KONSTANTIN (17). Dark hair falls into his eyes. He's hunched over a tattered paperback.
Konstantin looks up from his book. His eyes—a pale, startling grey—meet James's. A flicker of shared annoyance.
KONSTANTIN
> Dinner and a show.
JAMES
> (gesturing to the brown puddle)
> The coffee's better than the entertainment.
A small, wry smile from Konstantin. He looks tired. Faint smudges under his eyes. His hoodie is a size too big for his lean frame. He looks like James feels: worn thin.
The Waitress returns to their booth.
WAITRESS
> Sorry about that, sweetie.
She places a fresh, steaming cup of coffee in front of James.
WAITRESS (CONT'D)
> You want anything else? Piece of pie? It's on me.
JAMES
> I'm fine, thanks.
His stomach BETRAYS him with a low GROWL.
Konstantin closes his book, the cover worn and creased. He glances up at the menu board above the counter.
KONSTANTIN
> We could split some fries. If you want.
The offer hangs in the air. An acknowledgment. James is surprised at his own eagerness.
JAMES
> Yeah. Okay. Fries sound good.
INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - LATER
A mountain of golden fries sits on a plate between them. A shared territory glistening under the harsh lights.
They eat slowly.
They talk. Not about where they're from or where they're going. They talk about the strange short stories in Konstantin's book. About the bad pop music seeping from the diner's radio. About the constellations you can see out here, away from the city lights.
Konstantin has a dry wit. James lets out a real laugh, a sound that feels rusty from disuse.
For a moment, the diner is a warm, safe bubble.
Konstantin dips a fry in ketchup. He breaks the unspoken rule.
KONSTANTIN
> So, east or west?
JAMES
> West. As far as it goes.
KONSTANTIN
> (nods)
> The ocean.
> I'm heading east. Got a cousin in Montreal. Or at least, I think I do.
The admission hangs there. Konstantin is running toward a question mark. James is running away from a period.
JAMES
> My dad always said, if you're going to run, make sure you're running *to* something, not just *from* something.
The words feel foreign in his own mouth.
KONSTANTIN
> Is that what you're doing?
His grey eyes are searching.
James looks past him, out the large plate-glass window. The parking lot is a sea of massive trucks, their running lights like a man-made constellation. Beyond them, the highway is a dark, endless ribbon.
JAMES
> (quietly)
> I'm running to the place where I don't have to be his son anymore.
Konstantin doesn't say anything. He just pushes the plate of fries, what's left of them, closer to James's side of the table.
The gesture is enough. It's everything.
INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - HOURS LATER
The fries are gone. They nurse cold cups of coffee.
An EASTBOUND TRUCKER (60s) at the counter stands up, stretching with a groan. He glances over at their booth, his eyes landing on Konstantin.
EASTBOUND TRUCKER
> Heading east, kid? Got room in my cab. Be in Halifax by tomorrow night.
The bubble pops.
The real world, with its timetables and destinations, rushes in.
Konstantin looks at the trucker. Then at James. The indecision on his face is agonizing. A safe ride. A straight shot. The smart thing to do.
He slides out of the booth.
KONSTANTIN
> (to the trucker)
> Yeah. Yeah, okay.
He grabs his worn backpack from the seat. He hesitates, looking down at James. The diner lights reflect in his pale eyes, making them look like polished stones.
KONSTANTIN (CONT'D)
> Well. This is me.
James's throat is tight.
JAMES
> Be safe.
Konstantin gives a single, sharp nod. He turns and follows the trucker.
James watches him go.
The glass door JINGLES.
Konstantin is a slim figure swallowed by the night.
James sits alone in the booth.
CLOSE ON the plate. A few cold, greasy fries and a smear of ketchup. A reminder of the brief, shared warmth.
ANGLE ON James, looking out the window.
His reflection stares back, superimposed over the vast, lonely darkness of the highway. The endless ribbon waits.
SOUND of muffled SHOUTING, a chair scraping hard against linoleum
The place is an island of buzzing fluorescent light in a sea of blacktop darkness. Nearly empty. A few lone TRUCKERS hunched over coffee at the counter.
In a U-shaped booth, JAMES (17), quiet and frayed at the edges, watches as two burly TRUCKERS square off.
The WAITRESS (50s), her face a road map of long nights, wades into the middle of it, holding a coffee pot like a weapon.
WAITRESS
> Take it outside, boys! I just mopped this floor.
Her voice cuts through the noise. The two truckers, red-faced, untangle themselves. One gives the other a final, resentful glare before they both STOMP out.
The glass door SWINGS shut, its bell giving a weak, tired JINGLE.
TITLE: THE TARMAC SHIMMER
The diner settles.
SOUND of the fluorescent HUM, the GURGLE of the coffee machine, the distant RUMBLE of idling trucks.
James lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He uses a paper napkin to mop up coffee he spilled on the table during the commotion.
As he cleans, he looks up.
Across the booth from him, previously unnoticed, sits KONSTANTIN (17). Dark hair falls into his eyes. He's hunched over a tattered paperback.
Konstantin looks up from his book. His eyes—a pale, startling grey—meet James's. A flicker of shared annoyance.
KONSTANTIN
> Dinner and a show.
JAMES
> (gesturing to the brown puddle)
> The coffee's better than the entertainment.
A small, wry smile from Konstantin. He looks tired. Faint smudges under his eyes. His hoodie is a size too big for his lean frame. He looks like James feels: worn thin.
The Waitress returns to their booth.
WAITRESS
> Sorry about that, sweetie.
She places a fresh, steaming cup of coffee in front of James.
WAITRESS (CONT'D)
> You want anything else? Piece of pie? It's on me.
JAMES
> I'm fine, thanks.
His stomach BETRAYS him with a low GROWL.
Konstantin closes his book, the cover worn and creased. He glances up at the menu board above the counter.
KONSTANTIN
> We could split some fries. If you want.
The offer hangs in the air. An acknowledgment. James is surprised at his own eagerness.
JAMES
> Yeah. Okay. Fries sound good.
INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - LATER
A mountain of golden fries sits on a plate between them. A shared territory glistening under the harsh lights.
They eat slowly.
They talk. Not about where they're from or where they're going. They talk about the strange short stories in Konstantin's book. About the bad pop music seeping from the diner's radio. About the constellations you can see out here, away from the city lights.
Konstantin has a dry wit. James lets out a real laugh, a sound that feels rusty from disuse.
For a moment, the diner is a warm, safe bubble.
Konstantin dips a fry in ketchup. He breaks the unspoken rule.
KONSTANTIN
> So, east or west?
JAMES
> West. As far as it goes.
KONSTANTIN
> (nods)
> The ocean.
> I'm heading east. Got a cousin in Montreal. Or at least, I think I do.
The admission hangs there. Konstantin is running toward a question mark. James is running away from a period.
JAMES
> My dad always said, if you're going to run, make sure you're running *to* something, not just *from* something.
The words feel foreign in his own mouth.
KONSTANTIN
> Is that what you're doing?
His grey eyes are searching.
James looks past him, out the large plate-glass window. The parking lot is a sea of massive trucks, their running lights like a man-made constellation. Beyond them, the highway is a dark, endless ribbon.
JAMES
> (quietly)
> I'm running to the place where I don't have to be his son anymore.
Konstantin doesn't say anything. He just pushes the plate of fries, what's left of them, closer to James's side of the table.
The gesture is enough. It's everything.
INT. TRUCK STOP DINER - HOURS LATER
The fries are gone. They nurse cold cups of coffee.
An EASTBOUND TRUCKER (60s) at the counter stands up, stretching with a groan. He glances over at their booth, his eyes landing on Konstantin.
EASTBOUND TRUCKER
> Heading east, kid? Got room in my cab. Be in Halifax by tomorrow night.
The bubble pops.
The real world, with its timetables and destinations, rushes in.
Konstantin looks at the trucker. Then at James. The indecision on his face is agonizing. A safe ride. A straight shot. The smart thing to do.
He slides out of the booth.
KONSTANTIN
> (to the trucker)
> Yeah. Yeah, okay.
He grabs his worn backpack from the seat. He hesitates, looking down at James. The diner lights reflect in his pale eyes, making them look like polished stones.
KONSTANTIN (CONT'D)
> Well. This is me.
James's throat is tight.
JAMES
> Be safe.
Konstantin gives a single, sharp nod. He turns and follows the trucker.
James watches him go.
The glass door JINGLES.
Konstantin is a slim figure swallowed by the night.
James sits alone in the booth.
CLOSE ON the plate. A few cold, greasy fries and a smear of ketchup. A reminder of the brief, shared warmth.
ANGLE ON James, looking out the window.
His reflection stares back, superimposed over the vast, lonely darkness of the highway. The endless ribbon waits.