An economist is an expert who will know tomorrow why the things

Host: The conference hall had emptied hours ago, leaving only the hum of the vending machines and the faint echo of laughter from the hotel bar downstairs. The whiteboard still glowed faintly under the tired fluorescent light, smeared with half-erased graphs and forgotten equations. Coffee cups and ambition sat cold on every surface.

By the far window, Jack leaned against a chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, staring out at the glittering skyline — a city that measured time in profit and promises.
Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the desk, scrolling through her phone, her expression halfway between amusement and exhaustion.

Host: Outside, the wind moved through the glass towers like a whisper, carrying the soft hum of traffic and irony — the perfect soundtrack for disappointment with a sense of humor.

Jeeny: [grinning] “Well, your presentation went well — until the Q&A.”

Jack: [dryly] “I said the market would stabilize. They asked when. I said soon. That’s economist code for never.”

Jeeny: “You sounded confident.”

Jack: “Confidence is half the job. Arrogance is the other half.”

Jeeny: “Laurence J. Peter would be proud. You know what he said — ‘An economist is an expert who will know tomorrow why the things he predicted yesterday didn’t happen today.’”

Jack: [smirking] “He must’ve known my boss.”

Host: The lights buzzed, one flickering slightly — as if trying to laugh but too tired to commit.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why economics feels like fortune-telling with spreadsheets?”

Jack: “Because it is. We just wear suits instead of robes.”

Jeeny: “So you admit it — it’s educated guessing.”

Jack: [shrugs] “Guessing with graphs. We make uncertainty look mathematical.”

Jeeny: “And people still listen.”

Jack: “Because we give them what they crave — a narrative. Doesn’t matter if it’s wrong, as long as it’s reassuring.”

Jeeny: “So you’re selling comfort, not truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t get funding.”

Host: The city lights shimmered in the window’s reflection, their glow flickering against Jack’s face — a mirror of data turned into doubt.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? People blame economists when things go wrong, but they also beg them to explain why.”

Jack: “Yeah. We’re like modern priests. The economy crashes, and they want us to interpret the omen.”

Jeeny: “And what do you tell them?”

Jack: “That the gods are angry at the interest rates.”

Jeeny: [laughs] “You sound jaded.”

Jack: “No, I’m realistic. We measure chaos and call it analysis. But deep down, we all know — the world doesn’t move by logic. It moves by panic, greed, and hope.”

Host: The AC unit kicked on, filling the silence with a low hum — a mechanical sigh, the kind buildings make when they overhear truth.

Jeeny: “Still, isn’t that the beauty of it? Predicting the unpredictable?”

Jack: “No, that’s the madness of it. We pretend we can forecast behavior when people themselves don’t know what they’ll do next Tuesday.”

Jeeny: “But there’s a strange poetry to it, don’t you think? A profession built on the illusion of control.”

Jack: [chuckling] “You find poetry in failure.”

Jeeny: “Only when it’s consistent.”

Jack: “Then economics must be your favorite art form.”

Jeeny: “No, art admits it’s subjective. You people use confidence intervals like confession booths.”

Host: A paper rustled on the desk, a forgotten handout trembling slightly in the draft — “Projected Growth: 2025” printed in bold. The irony didn’t need explaining.

Jack: “You know what the real trick is? You predict something vague enough that whatever happens, you can claim partial credit.”

Jeeny: “Like, ‘We expect mild volatility within strong fundamentals’?”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s the economic equivalent of saying, ‘I sense change.’”

Jeeny: “So you’re not scientists.”

Jack: “We’re storytellers with spreadsheets.”

Jeeny: “And what story are you telling now?”

Jack: [sighs] “That the system will recover. That people will adapt. That history rhymes instead of repeats. The same bedtime story we’ve been telling since Adam Smith started talking about invisible hands.”

Jeeny: “Invisible hands, invisible truth — fitting.”

Host: The rain began tapping against the glass, soft and rhythmic, like the ticking of an unseen metronome.

Jeeny: “But don’t you ever feel guilty? Knowing millions hang on the words you half-believe?”

Jack: “Every day. But you can’t build policy on silence. People need forecasts — even false ones — to keep moving.”

Jeeny: “So the illusion keeps the world spinning.”

Jack: “Exactly. If people stopped believing the future could be predicted, they’d stop investing in it.”

Jeeny: “That’s both tragic and brilliant.”

Jack: “It’s human.”

Jeeny: [quietly] “You sound like you don’t trust your own field anymore.”

Jack: “I trust data. I just don’t trust what people do with it.”

Host: A lightning flash illuminated the window for a heartbeat — the city outside lit like a map of consequences.

Jeeny: “You know, Peter’s quote wasn’t just a joke. It was a warning — that expertise without humility becomes arrogance.”

Jack: “And arrogance is the engine of collapse.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “But humility doesn’t sell. Markets run on confidence — not confession.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’re all complicit. Believers and prophets alike.”

Jack: [smiles sadly] “A shared delusion called civilization.”

Host: The clock on the wall blinked midnight, its green numbers glowing like an accusation.

Jeeny: “So tell me, Jack. If you could stop predicting and just… live — would you?”

Jack: “You mean stop guessing the future and start existing in the present?”

Jeeny: “Yeah.”

Jack: [after a long pause] “I think that’s the hardest forecast of all — to believe in now.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the one prediction worth getting wrong.”

Jack: [chuckling softly] “You’re dangerous when you make sense.”

Jeeny: “Only because you spend your life explaining nonsense.”

Host: The rain softened, the city beyond their window now a blur of gold and motion, breathing again, indifferent to theories.

Jack: “You know, maybe Peter was right — economists always know too late. But maybe that’s not failure. Maybe it’s proof that the world is still wilder than our equations.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what keeps it beautiful.”

Jack: [smiles faintly] “Unpredictability as grace.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving only the glow from the city — a constellation of ambition, error, and persistence.

Because as Laurence J. Peter said,
“An economist is an expert who will know tomorrow why the things he predicted yesterday didn’t happen today.”

And as Jack and Jeeny stood in that quiet, rain-soaked room,
they realized that certainty was never the point —
the beauty was in the trying,
the humility in the not knowing,
and the humanity in admitting both.

Host: The rain stopped, the glass cleared,
and the city outside kept breathing — imperfect, alive, unforecastable.