Hyperloop Jackie - #38
Hello Maiyah (and friends)!
Hope y’all are doing mighty fine on this late August hump day.
Before I get into the newsletter today, I’m aware that Hollywood has been flipped on its head last week. It’s the signal of a new era.
As the NY Times’ Ben Smith published recently:
WarnerMedia’s Mr. Kilar told me in an email that his cuts and reorganizations were aimed at pushing the company “from a wholesaling mind set to a retailing mind set” — that is, from the old studio hitmakers’ handshake deals with distributors to a techie’s focus on user-friendly streaming interfaces and subscriber retention.
That’s an unromantic vision that still rankles many in the industry.
“This is the difference between people who got into the movie business and people who are in the content business,” said Terry Press, the former president of CBS Films, whose division was eliminated in a merger with Viacom earlier this year.
At least on the bright side, Quarantunes passed $8M on August 17th, so that’s nice.
My days pass me by here in sleepy central Hollywood (the neighborhood, not the industry euphemism). And not in a drifting sense — my days are practically scheduled and I’m on top of things — but my inner extrovert has been itching for human contact.
If any of you want to hang out, get coffee, or whatever honestly, hit me up. I will talk about everything except work — since you all are working more hours nowadays.
I suggested last week that I’ll be doing a “silly fiction” every other publication. Feel free to provide feedback on my short story or this new format. Enjoy!
Hyperloop Jackie
896 words | 03min 35sec reading time
“Hello Sacramento! Welcome to Hyperloop Two,” said the robot recording.
The muzak mixes like butter with that new car smell. Cue the Bert Kaempfert music that every elevator desires.
My pod has windows, three rows of seats, four seats per row, two on each side with an aisle down the middle. A 2010’s 4K TCL flat screen is mounted at the front. Small bay lights cast onto the ceiling. How does one make transportation look infinitely modern yet look fictionally retro at the same time?
I’m still in a Mariana Trench of dread before this metal deathtrap speeds into non-existence. “Jackie, it’s like flying,” Mom said to me on a call before purchasing my ticket, “And you like flying.” “No I don’t,” I remember saying. Wait, these recline? Get the fuck out of here. Still negates the fact that I’m about to chuck myself out this window. If it opens. I hope. Cupholders? They thought of everything! I hope. I watched a Chinese man with a trucker hat slap his Slurpee into his cup holder. Or Japanese? Am I stereotyping? Do old Asian people – sorry, ‘senior citizens’ – typically wear trucker hats?
This other guy steps on board. A belt buckle the size of an orange, a face made of blue cheese, a nose like a swordfish, a – no. No. No no no no, stop. Don’t sit next to me. Please. I’m gently nodding to the fact I placed my bag here as if I’m saving it for my future girlfriend. The TCL screen bloops on. A woman, with airline attendant attire and a mahogany scarf tied around her neck, pulls a video call on me like a bank teller at a drive-thru. She’s cute.
“Ma’m, I’m sorry, but may you please place your bag under your seat? This passenger needs a place to sit.”
“Of course,” I spill through my teeth. The cheese man smiles and sits next to me, putting his bag underneath and immediately buckling his seat belt. It seemed almost habitual. Which is funny considering how new this all still is.
The scarf lady bloops back again. “Thank you everyone for choosing Hyperloop Two as your preferred transportation for today.” It wasn’t. “Before we take off, please watch our pre-trip safety demonstration. On both sides of the pod, you will see an emergency exit door. The person sitting closest to the door, window seat, will be responsible for helping attendants leave the pod in case of emergency.” What. “Please sit at all times. Moving about the cabin is only permitted when the light above you says it’s safe to do so.” She rambles on about other things. “We hope you enjoy your ride with us. It is currently a sunny 72 degrees in Las Vegas. We will arrive there in 22 minutes at 11:31 AM. Thank you.”
“Hey,” I ask the cheese man, “Can we switch seats?” “Why of course,” he replies with an unnecessary ‘why’.
Aisle seat. Perfect. We also switch bags, and although I’m no longer responsible for the lives of 12 people in this cabin, I’m still sweating like a dog.
“So what brings you on this trip,” the cheese man asks while clearly having sights that I’m on Twitter. Unless he’s blind. That’s a possibility. “Sorry to bother you, just making light conversation,” he said with a flirty fashion of the eye. No. Don’t do ‘light conversation’, dude. It’s 22 minutes. I know what you’re trying to do. You can hold your flirtatious urges for another girl. Unless he’s blind. Does that make me a bad person to think that? Maybe.
“Seeing Mom for the weekend,” I said. “That’s nice,” he replies, “I’m going back home from work. I live in LV and work in Sacramento.” Hold up. Two things: one, who calls Las Vegas ‘LV’, and second, this guy is paying $50 a day to travel to and from work? Everyday? $50, every day, for five days. $250 a week. 50 working weeks a year – shit, this dude must work Christmas judging by that suit. $250 times 52. Thirteen grand a year? He’s loaded. Right?
And in that split second, I questioned forfeiting my femme gayness to pay off my bourgeoisie debt to the University of Fuck All.
“That’s amazing,” I lied. “Thanks,” he says, “I bet a girl like you gets compliments all the time.” I replied something along the lines of, “Haha, stop it,” while metaphorically throwing up in my mouth. Nope. I’d rather slug away at paying debt for 20 years.
“You know,” he adds after sensing my creep detectors going off, “I heard about the Hyperloop One disaster in Mumbai this week. A pipe burst and the magnets derailed all 25 people into a skyscraper. 340 people died. Can you believe that?”
Who in the right mind would use the most macabre article headline as small chat with someone visibly scared as shit? You can see my knuckles becoming white on the armrests, pupils dilated to their max, toes curled to a crack-
Wait. Are we moving? I look at the speed on the TV. 732 miles per hour. I didn’t even notice. Maybe it will be alright.
I didn’t respond back to him. I just stayed in silence. And put in my AirPods. Tik Tok songs always seem to calm me down. Can this thing go any faster?
—
If you liked my short story, feel free to give critiques. Thanks!
Silly Sh*t
I write this newsletter on Sunday.
Guys, look at my fig tree. I think I’m watering it too much.
Finished Season 5 of Sopranos. It’s fucking crazy (in a good way).
A large pomegranate tree stands outside my window. You can watch the squirrels eat the seeds from my writing desk. It’s hot, so I leave my door open throughout the day. I learned recently how to chop cilantro. I met up with friends lately. One friend, {H}, offered me his copy of The Grapes of Wrath — is now a good time to read it? Why not. I got myself a little corkboard to pin papers. The long wall of my living room is full of notecards. I’m scouring the city for clandestine barbers. I helped my new roommate, {IB}, move in and he’s a cool dude. He drives back to Texas on Tuesday. As soon as the pandemic subsides in Los Angeles, he’ll return. Until then, I’ll be living alone. Like I said before — extrovert!
It feels like the summer before my college sophomore year, taking online Spanish classes on the couch of my off-campus apartment. There I was, learning the difference between the ‘tu’ and ‘usted’ forms with silent streets outside my window.
Keep writing, as they say.
Thanks for reading!
Best,
Don