The Girl on the Train

You're not real.

Weren't your eyes green?

And your hair?

You weren't what I thought.

A real person would never

say that. That proves it.

You weren't what I thought.

Weren't your eyes green?

That proves it. A real person

would never say that.

I get to make it whatever

I want. That proves it.

A real person

would never say that.

The things is,

even after everything,

I wanted to believe.

Duct-taped to a chair,

inches from oblivion,

I still wanted to believe her.

It's a myth that we use

only five percent of our brains.

Ask anyone who's lost

even the smallest bit.

No, we use

pretty much all of it,

and usually

that's not enough.

We never catch the turtle who sits

on the turtle who sits on the...

Yeah.

It's turtles all the way down.

A lot to learn.

A moment too late.

Are you ready?

What did you have for breakfast

this morning, Mr. Herzman?

Who cares about that?

I'm just getting

sound levels.

Ham and eggs,

like every morning.

Okay.

The trains were hell.

But even hell has levels.

Some are in the middle

of the car,

and they're probably

not going to make it.

The heat from the bodies...

Their hell is worse.

But my father pushed me

to the edge.

There wasn't a window there,

but there were slats,

and through the slats sometimes

a breath of fresh air.

Heaven.

We stopped at a station

somewhere.

Standing still

is worse than moving,

even if you're moving

to something bad.

A bit of light

hit my eye,

so I squeezed closer

to the slat.

Then suddenly...

a beautiful face appears...

with innocent blue eyes.

An angel.

But I didn't believe

in angels,

even then when I was a boy,

certainly not in this place.

The Herzman story had been featured in a

local paper and was picked up nationally.

Before they knew it, they had a book

deal, and there was talk of a movie.

I thought it'd make

an interesting documentary.

History Channel?

That kind of thing?

Yeah.

Internet says

you make movies.

Normally.

I prefer fiction.

Why is that?

It's more believable.

I was late, as usual,

hustling to make the 9:40 to

Hudson where the Herzmans lived.

In the city,

you're always in a hurry.

Gotta get to that meeting,

business lunch, the ATM.

People are just obstacles,

inconveniences.

And every now and then, a face

you can't get out of your mind.

Who is this person,

and how did

our trajectories cross?

What histories does she bring, and what myths

might we create if only given the chance?

And you want to say something,

but you can't find the words.

You're just not that guy.

So she'll always be a face

among faces, a cipher.

You'll never talk on the phone,

recognize her scent.

You won't face each other

over a bistro table,

taste the Malbec, learn

each other's favorite color.

She is, in short,

every girl you'll never know,

never love.

Better never

to have seen her at all.

Now you understand

the ancient wisdom...

Rip out the offending eye.

Except I'd captured her

in my camera.

And like that,

she was gone.

I was getting some B-roll, and she

was just a face across the platform.

No reason to believe

you'd ever see her again.

There are physicists who believe

there are universes like ours...

but with one

or two things changed.

I thought maybe there was

a universe where we might meet.

I didn't think

it'd be this one.

Other universes?

Yeah.

That what you believe?

I find it comforting.

For simplicity's sake,

let's keep to this universe.

It was a little girl,

maybe five or six,

with pretty blonde curls.

She peered at me

through the slat,

a boy only a little

older than she.

What must she have thought

of this train...

and its strange cargo?

We looked at each other,

only inches away,

but it might have been

different continents.

Then she made

a quick motion,

and her small fingers

pushed through the slat.

She dropped something

into my palm,

and a moment later, as if the universe

had known that this moment had ended,

the train

started up again.

I looked down

at my hand,

and I saw

that she had given me...

the little gold cross

from around her neck.

There is always a moment

when your life changes,

though you may not

realize it at the time.

The words spoken,

the light falling across

someone's face in a certain way,

the moment you realize

you're in love or out of it.

History has turned on its axis,

and you will never be the same.

Right there.

Was she getting a speck out of

her eye or dabbing at a tear?

That touch, however small, turned

into flesh and blood for me...

A soul with a past,

a life with an arc.

A pretty girl on a train

is one thing,

a crying girl

a whole other matter.

I wasn't sure if it was

the same girl I'd seen before.

She looked different.

Are you okay?

Sorry. You just...

You seemed upset.

You know, trains

can make people sad.

It's like in all those

country-western songs.

- Country.

- Right.

There's always a train,

and there's always someone sad.

No. No one's called it country

and western in 30 years.

- Well...

- Your lens is showing.

It's my job.

If you're a private eye,

you suck at it.

Nothing surreptitious.

I'm shooting a documentary.

Is it on now?

Camera shy?

Who are those people who believe

a photograph captures your soul?

Aborigines.

Pretty sure they're wrong.

What's it about?

Your movie.

I guess you could say

it's a love story.

I thought documentaries

were nonfiction.

That would be

cynicism?

You think just because something

really happens, it isn't fiction?

I was pretty sure this wasn't your

average girl on the commuter line.

She give you

any personal details?

She had a way of turning

your questions around.

You thought you were talking about her, but

you were really just talking about yourself.

Why were you crying?

You tell me.

I get to make it

whatever I want?

Sure.

Okay.

Seven years ago, you met

a man on this very train.

You got to talking, but you never

exchanged more than first names.

He gets off at Poughkeepsie.

As he steps onto the platform, you realize

you should have gotten off with him.

He was the guy. He was your one

chance to escape the wheel.

But the train's already moving.

You've missed your chance.

So you spend weeks looking through

the Poughkeepsie directory,

but you've only got

his first name.

Which is?

Bob, unfortunately.

If only it were

Zebediah.

You call every one of the 373

Roberts, Bobs and Bobbys.

- I would never call a Bobby.

- With no luck.

But every day for seven years,

you buy your ticket,

you get on the train,

take it to Poughkeepsie,

and then you turn back

and head home alone.

Next stop will be Westport.

Westport Station in two minutes.

That is such a guy story.

Yeah?

I wouldn't spend that much time tracking

someone down if they murdered my mother.

So you're really

not gonna tell me?

You know, the difference

between trains and planes is,

on a train, if you don't like

the conversation,

you can change

your seat.

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