Noah: Buschel

The call came on a Tuesday, which was appropriate because Tuesday was the most forgettable day of the week.

“You did something here,” she said.

Noah Buschel had spent twenty years as a screenwriter in Los Angeles, which is to say he had spent twenty years learning how to say no with a smile. No to the producer who wanted to add a car chase. No to the studio head who felt the lead should be more “likable.” No to the intern who brought him a soy latte when he’d asked for oat. He was good at no. He was so good at no that he sometimes forgot there was a yes buried somewhere beneath the sedimentary layers of his politeness. noah buschel

“Action,” Noah said, and his voice cracked on the second syllable.

Six months later, The Night Shift premiered at a small festival in Connecticut. It didn’t get bought. It didn’t get reviewed. It didn’t change the world. But one critic, writing for a blog that fourteen people read, called it “a quiet masterpiece about the things we don’t say.” The call came on a Tuesday, which was

“A diner. Two old friends. One night. That’s it. No flashbacks, no gimmicks. Just… conversation.”

“I hope so,” Noah said.

He wrote the script in eleven days. It was called The Night Shift . Two men, both in their fifties, both carrying the weight of decisions they’d made in their twenties. One had stayed in their hometown, married his high school sweetheart, watched her die of cancer. The other had left for New York, become a moderately successful photographer, and realized too late that success was just a slower way of failing. They sat in a vinyl booth. They ordered pie they didn’t eat. They talked about the girl they’d both loved, the road trip they’d never taken, the version of themselves they’d promised to become.