A consultant is someone who saves his client almost enough to pay

Host: The office was too bright for this late in the night. Fluorescent light spilled across the desks, illuminating papers, charts, and coffee cups that had long gone cold. Through the glass walls, the city glimmered — a grid of ambition, exhaustion, and false victories.

On the floor, the sound of keyboards had stopped, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning and the distant thunder of trains below.

Jack stood at the window, his jacket off, his tie loosened, a file in his hand. Jeeny sat across from him at a conference table, her laptop open, her face bathed in the pale glow of spreadsheets.

On the whiteboard, someone had written, in black marker, and then circled twice:
“A consultant is someone who saves his client almost enough to pay his fee.” — Arnold H. Glasow

Jeeny: “You ever think about how much truth there is in that line?”

Jack: “Every day, Jeeny. That’s the joke and the job.”

Host: His voice was low, dry, but not bitter — the tone of someone who had accepted the absurdity of his profession like a doctor accepts death.

Jeeny: “I don’t think it’s funny anymore. It’s… sad. We help companies pretend to change, when all we’re really doing is rearranging the furniture on a sinking ship.”

Jack: “That’s not true. We save businesses. We streamline. We analyze, optimize, strategize. We give them clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity? You mean excuses — >powerpoint-polished, ethically ambiguous excuses.”

Host: Jack turned, his gray eyes narrowed, but there was no anger — just the weariness of a man who’d heard the truth too many times and still couldn’t afford to believe it.

Jack: “You think you’re above it all, don’t you? That you’re here for justice, while the rest of us are here for the invoice. But tell me — when the client signs that check, do you refuse your cut?”

Jeeny: “No. But I at least remember what we’re supposed to be doing. Consulting used to mean advising, guiding, helping a business become better, not just profitable.”

Jack: “Better doesn’t pay, Jeeny. Results do. You want to make a difference? Join a nonprofit. You want to survive? Bill by the hour.”

Host: The storm outside flashed, a streak of lightning cutting across the glass, illuminating their faces — one hard, one haunted.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it. We’ve turned consulting into commerce, ethics into invoices. Every proposal we send is wrapped in language that hides the truth: we’re not here to save them — we’re here to sell the illusion that they’re being saved.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s all they want, Jeeny. Not salvation — just the illusion. Clients don’t pay for truth; they pay for certainty. They hire us because we pretend to know the answers when they can’t afford to admit they don’t.”

Host: Jeeny closed her laptop, the sound sharp in the silence.

Jeeny: “That’s not consulting, Jack. That’s theater.”

Jack: “Then we’re actors, Jeeny. And the stage is well-paid.”

Host: The air in the room shifted — not anger, but sadness, heavy and familiar, like fog that never lifts.

Jeeny: “You really believe this is all there is? That we can’t be honest, can’t be useful without charging for the illusion?”

Jack: “Honesty doesn’t scale. Integrity doesn’t get you renewals. The industry doesn’t reward what’s right, it rewards what sells.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the industry that’s broken, Jack. Maybe it’s us.”

Host: The thunder rolled, deep, distant, resonant. Rain began to fall, trickling down the windows like regret made visible.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’ve watched CEOs cry, factories close, workers laid off, all after some ‘transformation strategy’ I wrote. But if I didn’t, someone else would. That’s the truth. The machine doesn’t stop because one gear quits.”

Jeeny: “Then change the machine, Jack.”

Jack: “You don’t change a machine from the inside. You keep it running long enough to collect your fee.”

Host: A pause, heavy as the rain. Jeeny’s eyes filled, but her voice didn’t waver.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the fee isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the cost. The cost of your soul. You save your clients just enough to justify your price — but how much of you is left after every sale?”

Host: Jack sat down, his hand running over his face, the lines of fatigue visible even in the dim light.

Jack: “You want to know the truth, Jeeny? I used to believe in this job. I thought we could help people. That we could make the system smarter, fairer, more efficient. But every solution turned into a shortcut. Every win was just window dressing. So, yeah — maybe I save my clients just enough to earn my fee. But at least they’re still in business. And I’m still standing.”

Jeeny: “Standing, maybe. But for what?”

Host: The storm softened, the lights hummed, the city beyond the glass glowed — beautiful, corrupt, alive.

Jeeny: “You keep talking about survival, Jack. But what about purpose? What about legacy? The best consultants aren’t salesmen — they’re teachers. They leave their clients wiser than they found them. That’s what integrity looks like.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t pay for rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism, Jack. It just feeds the emptiness.”

Host: The rain slowed. The clock on the wall ticked, steady, unforgiving.

Jack reached for a pen, drew a line across a page of figures, and then wrote something at the bottom.

Jeeny watched, her eyes curious, her breathing shallow.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe we can’t save the world. But maybe we can start by charging a little less and meaning a little more.”

Jeeny: “Now that’s a consulting model I’d invest in.”

Host: They smiled, tired, real — the kind of smile that comes not from victory, but from awakening.

Outside, the storm broke, the city washed clean, lights shimmering in puddles like coins in a fountain.

And inside that office, under the glow of a dying lamp, two consultants finally understood that the right business isn’t about saving your client — it’s about saving your conscience before it costs too much to buy it back.