As a child my family's menu consisted of two choices: take it or

Host: The evening wind brushed through the narrow alley, carrying the smell of fried food and old wood from the nearby market stalls. A flickering neon sign hummed above a tiny diner, where the metal door creaked each time someone entered. Inside, the air was thick with grease, coffee, and the tired laughter of late-night customers. Jack sat by the window, his jacket collar up, eyes reflecting the city lights like twin shards of steel. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, her hands trembling slightly as the steam rose between them.

Host: The clock above the counter ticked — slow, heavy, deliberate — as if reminding them that time, like everything else tonight, came with only two options: take it or leave it.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Buddy Hackett once said, ‘As a child my family's menu consisted of two choices: take it or leave it.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, like memory wrapped in melancholy.

Jeeny: “It sounds funny, but there’s something deeper there — about acceptance, about how we learn to live with what we’re given.”

Jack: (smirking) “Or maybe it’s about control, Jeeny. About how little we actually have. That’s the joke — life’s a menu written by someone else, and you’re lucky if you even get a seat at the table.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking under him, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee cup. The fluorescent light above him buzzed faintly, outlining his tired face in harsh white glow.

Jeeny: “You always sound like the world owes you something. Maybe it’s not about control, Jack. Maybe it’s about gratitude. That even if you had only two choices, there was still something to eat, something to hold onto.”

Jack: “Gratitude?” (He laughed bitterly.) “Tell that to the kid who grows up in a war zone, Jeeny. Or to the worker who breaks his back every day and still can’t afford to feed his family. Gratitude doesn’t fill an empty stomach.”

Jeeny: “No, but bitterness doesn’t either.”

Host: The words hung heavy, slicing through the noise of the diner. Outside, a car horn echoed, followed by the distant hum of the train tracks beyond the street.

Jack: “You’re missing the point. Hackett’s line — it’s not about grace. It’s about resignation. His family had no choice, Jeeny. None of us do. You take what you’re given — or you starve. That’s the reality.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people have always found ways to change the menu, haven’t they? My grandmother used to say, ‘We didn’t have much, but we made it enough.’ Isn’t that the human spirit — to turn scarcity into art, pain into story?”

Jack: “Stories don’t change hunger.”

Jeeny: “But they change the hungry.”

Host: A pause followed — long, quiet, filled with the distant clatter of dishes and the hiss of the coffee machine. The waitress, an older woman with tired eyes, passed by, refilling their cups without a word. The steam curled upward, like ghosts rising from forgotten supper tables.

Jack: “You talk like everyone has the luxury to dream. But sometimes, Jeeny, the world doesn’t give you dreams. It gives you survival. That’s what Hackett was saying — you get what you get, and you make peace with that.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why I disagree. Because peace isn’t found in accepting the bare minimum — it’s in believing you deserve more. Think of those who refused the ‘menu’ — Rosa Parks, for instance. She was told to accept her seat at the back of the bus. ‘Take it or leave it,’ they said. But she didn’t. She left it — and changed everything.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The air between them thickened. The neon outside flickered — red, then white, then red again — casting shifting colors across their faces.

Jack: “Sure. And for every Rosa Parks, there are millions who couldn’t afford to fight. Because fighting doesn’t always change the system. Sometimes, it just gets you crushed.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even when crushed, resistance leaves a mark. That mark becomes history. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Maybe. But history doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Neither does surrender.”

Host: Silence again. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lifted his cup, and for the first time, Jeeny noticed the faint scar across his knuckle — an old factory injury, perhaps, or something older. His eyes flicked toward the window, where a boy — maybe ten, maybe twelve — was wiping the fog from the glass outside, peering in with curious eyes.

Jeeny: “You see him?” (She gestured toward the boy.) “That child probably doesn’t have much either. But look at his eyes — curious, not defeated. That’s what Hackett meant, I think. Even if you only get two choices, how you see them — that’s what defines you.”

Jack: “You think optimism can feed him?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it can keep him from giving up before he finds a way to feed himself.”

Host: The rain started, sudden and soft, tapping against the glass like a hesitant heartbeat. The boy outside ran under a shop awning, clutching a small plastic bag to his chest.

Jack: “You’re an idealist, Jeeny. You think people can change what they’re served. But most of us — we’re just trying to stay seated.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the tragedy — not that we have so little, but that we forget we can stand up.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “Stand up and do what, exactly? You can’t rewrite the menu when you don’t own the kitchen.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can cook something new with what you have.”

Host: Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and for a moment, Jack said nothing. The rain outside grew heavier, the sound a steady rhythm against the window. It felt like time had slowed — like the world itself was listening.

Jack: (quietly) “When I was a kid, my mother worked three jobs. Sometimes all we had was stale bread and canned beans. And she’d say the same thing every night — ‘Take it or leave it.’ I thought it meant we were stuck. That’s why I left home — I couldn’t stand the taste of that phrase.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think… maybe she was just tired. Maybe she meant, ‘This is all I can give.’”

Host: The words came out low, almost a whisper, like a confession escaping from somewhere long locked away. The neon flickered once more, then went dark.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack? It wasn’t resignation. It was love. Love doesn’t always look generous — sometimes it looks like a hard table and two choices.”

Jack: “And you still call that freedom?”

Jeeny: “Not freedom — but dignity. The dignity to give, even when there’s almost nothing left.”

Host: The rain softened. A faint glow emerged from the streetlight outside, washing the diner window in pale amber. The boy had gone. The tables were emptying, and the waitress began wiping down the counter, humming some old song about home.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in pain, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where the truth hides.”

Jack: “So you think Hackett’s line was about love, not limitation?”

Jeeny: “About both. About the irony that sometimes, when life offers only two choices, the act of taking one — even grudgingly — is an act of faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In the next meal. The next chance. The belief that one day, you might be the one writing the menu.”

Host: Jack looked down, eyes tracing the faint swirl of steam above his cup. A small, tired smile crept across his lips. He nodded, slowly.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real joke — that life’s a lousy restaurant, but we still show up.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And sometimes, the company makes the food taste better.”

Host: They sat there, the sound of the rain turning into a gentle whisper. The lights dimmed, and the last customers left. Outside, the street glistened — a thin mirror of the city’s lights stretching toward the unknown.

Host: As they rose to leave, Jack slipped a few bills under the cup. The waitress nodded her thanks, and for a brief moment, all three — Jack, Jeeny, and the woman behind the counter — shared the quiet understanding of those who had, at one time or another, faced life’s short menu.

Host: The door opened with a low creak. The cold air met them. The rain had stopped.

Host: And though nothing had changed, everything somehow felt lighter — as if even “take it or leave it” had begun to sound like a kind of prayer.