After adding trillions to the debt on big-government policies

Host: The morning light filtered weakly through the diner’s blinds, drawing slanted lines across the floor like bars of pale gold. The radio played softly in the background — static-filled news murmuring about another debt ceiling crisis, another election year, another promise recycled. The air was thick with the smell of bacon grease and burnt coffee, the kind that clings to your coat long after you’ve left.

Jack sat at the counter, flipping a paper open with one hand and holding his coffee with the other. The headline read something about “spending cuts” and “economic recovery.” Jeeny slid onto the stool next to him, her laptop bag slung over one shoulder, her expression sharp but tired — the look of someone who’d read too much bad news and wasn’t sure where the truth ended anymore.

Jeeny: “Mitch McConnell once said, ‘After adding trillions to the debt on big-government policies most Americans didn't ask for and which we couldn't afford, Democratic leaders say they need more money, which they intend to take from small business, even though small businesses create the majority of new jobs.’”

Host: Her voice was steady — the kind that sounds neutral but carries a quiet challenge beneath it. Jack folded the paper, the corner of his mouth curving into a wry smile.

Jack: “Ah. The eternal sermon. Blame the government, sanctify the entrepreneur, and let the numbers do the preaching.”

Jeeny: “You say that like cynicism’s a virtue.”

Jack: “No. Just a survival skill.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their mugs with mechanical grace. Jack nodded his thanks, eyes never leaving Jeeny’s. The sound of rain against the window punctuated the air like a metronome to their conversation.

Jeeny: “You don’t think he has a point? About debt? About small business getting crushed?”

Jack: “Oh, I think he has a script. Every politician does. ‘Small business’ — it’s the perfect moral mascot. Noble, hardworking, overtaxed. But what they really mean is small donors.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You’re saying it’s just rhetoric?”

Jack: “I’m saying it’s marketing. Every side sells outrage differently. The right sells fear of loss; the left sells guilt for inequality. Either way, someone’s paying — and it’s not the people writing the speeches.”

Host: Jeeny stirred her coffee, her spoon clinking softly against the cup — the small sound of patience wearing thin.

Jeeny: “So what’s your solution? Sit on the sidelines and complain about everyone else’s?”

Jack: “No. My solution is honesty. Admit the game’s rigged, then decide if you’re still willing to play.”

Jeeny: “But if no one plays, who changes the rules?”

Jack: “You assume the rules can be changed.”

Host: The rain intensified. Outside, traffic slowed, and pedestrians huddled under awnings, their movements reflected in the diner’s glass like ghostly repetitions.

Jeeny: “You sound like every disillusioned voter I’ve ever met.”

Jack: “That’s because I am one.”

Jeeny: “That’s convenient.”

Jack: “No, it’s experience.”

Host: Her eyes flashed — not in anger, but conviction. She leaned forward, her elbows on the counter, her voice lowering into that tone she used when her words turned to fire.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? I think people use cynicism as armor. It’s easier to mock politics than to admit you still care. You don’t like the debt? The corruption? The greed? Fine. But don’t pretend it’s unsolvable just because it’s ugly.”

Jack: (quietly) “You talk like faith fixes arithmetic.”

Jeeny: “No. But accountability does. Maybe that’s what McConnell forgot. You can’t lecture the country about debt while defending corporate loopholes. You can’t glorify small business while letting billion-dollar monopolies swallow them alive.”

Host: The light shifted, the clouds parting for a moment, flooding the diner in pale brightness. Jack turned toward the window, the reflection of the newspaper headlines flickering faintly across the glass.

Jack: “You think the problem’s greed. I think it’s scale. The system’s too big, too tangled. Every policy’s a compromise, every solution’s an infection in disguise.”

Jeeny: “So what, we just keep bleeding?”

Jack: “Until someone’s brave enough to cauterize.”

Jeeny: “And who’s that — you?”

Jack: “No. The next generation. The ones who still believe fairness isn’t fiction.”

Host: Jeeny studied him for a moment. There was something almost tender in the fatigue of his face — the quiet resignation of a man who’d seen too many cycles of promise and decay.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, that’s the thing about cynics — you all secretly believe in hope. Otherwise you wouldn’t sound so heartbroken.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Maybe. But heartbreak’s a better compass than blind loyalty.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather be bitter than fooled?”

Jack: “Better bitter than complicit.”

Host: The waitress slid the check onto the counter. The total was small, but the moment felt heavier. Outside, the rain began to slow, tapering into drizzle. Jeeny glanced at the check, then back at him.

Jeeny: “You know what I think McConnell’s quote misses? The human cost. He talks about trillions, policies, deficits — but behind all that are people who just want to work, who just want fairness. Politics always forgets that.”

Jack: “Because empathy doesn’t get votes.”

Jeeny: “No — but it gets change.”

Host: Her voice softened then, less fiery now, more like an echo of something lost but remembered.

Jeeny: “We can’t keep blaming the machine, Jack. At some point, we have to look at the operators.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And the passengers.”

Host: The rain stopped completely. The street outside shimmered under the soft glow of the streetlights, clean for a moment — like a stage reset before the next act.

Jeeny finished her coffee and stood, sliding a few bills under the check. Jack watched her, then followed her gaze to the window, where their reflections blurred together — two silhouettes caught between realism and belief.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe it’s not about sides anymore. Maybe the real revolution starts with smaller questions. Like who we trust. Who we help. Who we decide deserves better.”

Jack: “And maybe it ends when those questions cost us something.”

Host: She smiled faintly — the kind of smile that knew truth always demands payment.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s a bill worth paying.”

Host: She turned and walked toward the door. Jack watched her go, the bell chiming softly as she stepped into the damp evening air. He looked down at his reflection in the coffee, then at the folded newspaper beside it.

The headline still screamed about trillions. But for the first time, it felt small — like noise beneath a larger, quieter question: what do we owe each other?

Host: The light dimmed as the diner emptied. Jack sat a moment longer, listening to the hum of the city waking again after the storm. Then, slowly, he stood, dropped a few bills on the counter, and walked out — into a world still imperfect, but still his to answer.