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"The One-Stop Express" is a quietly luminous slice-of-life narrative that demonstrates how the smallest departures from routine can become emotional landmarks. Set against the familiar backdrop of an office potluck and the pre–Thanksgiving lull, the piece transforms an ordinary afternoon into a moment of micro-revelation—proof that good writing does not require dramatic stakes so much as attentive observation and emotional honesty.

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The One-Stop Express

By Harry Arabian

The office potluck was supposed to be a lunch, but by ten the break room already resembled a Thanksgiving buffet assembled by people who hadn't coordinated a thing. Deviled eggs beside samosas. Pizza next to cranberry sauce. Someone had even plunked down a full Costco pumpkin pie, still in its box, as if daring someone to take the first slice.

By two in the afternoon, everyone was full, drowsy, and pretending to work. The managers announced an early end to the day—an unofficial tradition, like the potluck itself.

That’s when Dan leaned over the wall of his cubicle and said, “Hey. Quick train ride? Irvine to Tustin. Beer Hall. You’ll like it.”

It sounded harmless enough—simple, even. A fifteen-minute hop. And honestly, after a week of back-to-back deadlines and the familiar pre-holiday pressure simmering in my skull, the idea of getting out—even briefly—felt like a breath held too long finally releasing.

But when the three of us—Dan, John, and me—reached the platform, the announcer chimed: Next train is the EXPRESS SERVICE to Los Angeles.

Dan squinted at the sign. “Higher cost… express train to the Beer Hall,” he muttered, half to himself, half to justify the adventure.

I felt a quick, ridiculous spark of rebellion. One stop on an express train? Overspending for convenience and camaraderie? It felt like exactly the kind of tiny, impulsive choice I never let myself make. And for once, I didn’t overthink it.

The platform was crowded with people heading north—students lugging backpacks, families herding toddlers, folks already drifting into Thanksgiving mode. When the train pulled in, packed tight, we squeezed ourselves aboard, laughing at the absurdity of paying extra just to move one stop.

By the time we reached Tustin, our little trio felt like escapees from pre-holiday chaos.

Inside the Beer Hall, the lights were warm and amber, the bench seats inviting, and the chalkboard menu filled with local brews. A bartender with a handlebar mustache slid us a heavy pitcher of California IPA—the kind that smelled like pine trees and citrus rinds—his grin suggesting he'd poured countless pre-holiday escapes. A classic rock playlist hummed low under the chatter.

Soon we weren’t talking about deadlines or tech issues or the potluck catastrophe. Instead it was hiking trails, sore knees, winter plans, and which local teams were having the worst season (a fiercely competitive field). It was the kind of conversation that only happens among coworkers who like each other enough to forget they’re coworkers.

Somewhere in there, as the IPA warmed my chest and the noise of the room softened, I realized how badly I'd needed this tiny detour. Just a handful of hours reclaimed from the holiday churn.

An hour later the pitcher was empty, the sun was lowering, and it was time to scatter in our own directions.

“We’ll meet Friday,” John reminded. “Laguna Wilderness. Sunrise.”

Dan nodded with the satisfied grin of a man who had successfully engineered a small, perfect escape. “Black Friday hike. Best way to undo this week’s food crimes.”

The Beer Hall was only a few blocks from my place, so I waved goodbye and started the easy walk home, feeling the gentle glow of IPA and good company. Behind me, Dan and John headed back toward the station, ready to catch the next train south, return to their cars in Irvine, and drift back into the pre-holiday evening.

A tiny adventure, spontaneous and simple—yet it felt like the true start of Thanksgiving. A pitcher shared, a plan made, a moment carved out in the middle of everything.

And the promise of a long trail waiting for us in the Laguna hills come Friday morning.