Have you ever briefly noticed somebody on the street, at an airport, in a doctor’s waiting room, wherever, and fantasized about what they do for a living, how they live, if they’re happy or sick, why they’re wearing that unflattering outfit, what’s with all those piercings, or thousands of random idle thoughts that cross your mind? You start creating little scenarios. Do you ever have the urge to say something to them when they catch your eye and realize you’re watching them? Playwright Keith Bunin has taken that fictional situation and bumped it up to 11 in his 2019 rueful little tale, The Coast Starlight.
Six strangers on a train (the overnight 35-hour Amtrak that streamlines between Los Angeles and Seattle, along a run once called “the most beautiful scenic route in America”) board one by one at stations along the way. They tell us about who they see and what they wish they could say. “It I had only said…”, “Then I wanted to say…”, “If I could have said…”.
You soon realize that nobody is actually speaking to the person they are looking at. It’s all inside their heads. They desperately want to make connections but are too timid or fearful of the consequences to reach out. Would any of us actually open up to a total stranger?
At first, this heady dialogue sounds a bit twee and artificial. Everything’s stated in the past perfect conditional, like a memory play, which of course Coast is. Oftentimes the characters break the fourth wall and speak directly to us in mini monologues about their past or what they’re running from or to. But gradually all these poetic stylized ruminations get subsumed by the detailed performances, and we allow ourselves to be taken in. We begin to care.
The protagonist is T.J. (Robby Matlock, so mesmerizing last September as younger brother Meyer in Stages’ The Lehman Trilogy), a Navy medic about to be redeployed to Afghanistan. He is the center of everyone’s concern. Within minutes of the play, he tells us that he’s gone AWOL, stolen a credit card to pay for this trip, and is on the road to nowhere. He’ll go as far as Seattle, the last stop, and then, what? He doesn’t know. He’s running as fast as he can and can’t look back. But in looking forward all he sees is an abyss.
Jane (a sympathetic Sethe Nguyen), a professional cartoonist at a studio much like Disney’s, takes an immediate liking to this outwardly sad nervous soul. He notices her while she is sketching him, but doesn’t say anything to her, nor she to him. But they say plenty to each other in their “what-might-have-been” relationship. They draw each other out, revealing the reasons for each of their journeys north. Next to arrive is Noah (a solid Jeff Brown), a drifter and scarred veteran, who attempts to talk T.J. out of deserting. Finish your contract, he implores, don’t be a traitor to yourself or your men in the field. T.J. counters with excuses and will not be swayed…yet.
As what can only be called a breath of fresh air, as if the train compartment had its windows blown out, Liz rushes on board. In comic diva obliviousness and in graphic detail, she loudly talks on the phone to her girlfriend about her errant boyfriend and their disastrous stay at a couple’s retreat. She admits to trying to kill him by tossing him off a cliff. Chaney Moore adds much needed heat to this journey. Her brazen portrayal is just what this play demands.
Drunken Ed staggers on next, lumbering down the aisle and breathing out noxious fumes. John Raymond Barker plays him as the ultimate sad sack, hating his no-prospect job, annoying the passengers, and attacking Noah, until T.J. intervenes (in real time) and talks him down. He will pass out for most of the play.
Well-heeled lesbian Anna (Julie Fontenot) is the last passenger, eyes red from crying. Everyone notices her condition but only commiserates with her, like everybody else does, in their imagination. She has just cremated her homeless, heroin-addicted long lost brother and must break the news, or not, to her young children. Noticing T.J.’s emotional state, she offers her sleeper compartment to him so he can get some rest. In mutual fantasy, Jane and T.J. share an awkward kiss, but reality quickly intervenes as Seattle approaches.
Adroitly directed by Robin Robertson, Main Street’s production is as impressionistic as a dream. There’s no rhythmic train clack, no outside passing vistas, only six swiveling seats, some luggage, and a silver-blue backdrop that doubles as bar and sleeping bunk. Even the observation car with its panoramic night sky is imagined. The ensemble cast, though, is very present and mesh with fine synchronicity.
Bunin’s drama is gentle and profane at times, but his characters are truly wounded and hurting. Outwardly these fellow passengers are clueless, but inwardly they express genuine connection and concern with each other only during their fantasy scenarios.
Of all of them, T.J. certainly has the most to lose, or gain, but all are complicit – including TJ – in hesitating to extend a helping hand. One word from anyone might be enough to bring these disparate, desperate people together in healing. Take that chance. Say something out loud, say anything. You might not save anybody, but then again, a kind word could raise miracles.
The Coast Starlight continues through March 1 at 7:30 p.m. Thursdays through Saturdays, and 3 p.m. Sundays at Main Street Theater, 2540 Times Boulevard. For more information, call 713-524-6706. $40-$63.
This article appears in Private: Jan 1 – Dec 31, 2026.