As far as show business, it's the gratification of doing

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the city shimmering with reflected neon lights. In a small backstage café, tucked behind an old theater, the air still carried the faint smell of makeup, dust, and dreams. The curtains of the nearby stage were half drawn, revealing the dim light of the empty auditorium. A record player hummed softly, spinning a tune that once belonged to the seventies — melancholy, yet tender.

Jack sat at the bar, leaning against the counter, his jacket still wet from the rain. His grey eyes were fixed on the mirror behind the bottles, where his own reflection seemed like a stranger. Jeeny sat across from him, hands wrapped around a cup of steaming tea, watching the faint ripples form and fade on the surface.

Jeeny: “You know, Bobby Sherman once said, ‘As far as show business, it’s the gratification of doing something that pleases the fans.’”
She paused, her voice soft, almost lost beneath the murmur of the rain returning outside. “I think there’s something beautiful in that.”

Jack: (a smirk touching his lips) “Beautiful, maybe. But also dangerous. You start living for applause, and soon you forget who you are when the lights go out.”

Host: The bar’s neon sign flickered, casting brief shadows across their faces — blue, red, then gold. The rain beat against the window like a restless drumbeat.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the price of art, Jack. You give yourself to others — you let their joy define your success. Isn’t that the point of creation? To touch someone?”

Jack: “Or to be used by them. Look at the history of fame. Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley — they pleased their fans until the applause drowned them. Gratification can be a trap. It feeds the ego but starves the soul.”

Jeeny: (her eyes narrow, but her voice still gentle) “Or maybe it’s not the applause that’s the problem — it’s the emptiness behind it. The applause is just a mirror. It only echoes what you already feel inside.”

Host: A waiter passed, placing two new cups of coffee on the table. The steam rose between them like mist in a mountain valley — thin, fragile, and fleeting.

Jack: “You’re too romantic, Jeeny. The fans don’t care who you are — they care how you make them feel. It’s a transaction. You perform, they cheer. Everyone gets what they want, until one day they don’t.”

Jeeny: “You say that like human connection is a business deal. But think about it — when an artist stands on stage and thousands of people sing along, that’s not commerce. That’s communion. For a few minutes, they all believe in the same thing.”

Jack: “And then they go home and forget. They’ll scroll past your name on their feed the next day. Gratification is temporary, Jeeny. It’s the most fleeting drug there is.”

Host: Jack took a sip, his jaw tightening as the bitter taste of coffee hit his tongue. Outside, the streetlights bent under the weight of fog. The city was alive, but tired — like an actor after the final curtain call.

Jeeny: “Do you think artists should stop caring about their audience, then?”

Jack: “No. I think they should stop worshipping them. Do your work, yes. But don’t make your worth depend on the crowd. Picasso painted in poverty for years before the world even noticed. You think he did it for ‘gratification’? No — he did it because he had to.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the moment people recognized his art — the moment they felt what he felt — that’s when it became alive. A creation doesn’t breathe until it’s shared.”

Jack: (his voice rising) “That’s what they all say, but sharing isn’t the same as seeking approval. There’s a difference between expression and addiction. Some artists aren’t creating anymore; they’re just performing to be loved.”

Host: The sound of a distant train echoed, filling the silence that hung between them. Jeeny leaned forward, her hands clasped, her eyes burning with quiet fire.

Jeeny: “You talk about love like it’s a weakness. Maybe that’s your mistake, Jack. Maybe wanting to please isn’t about vanity — maybe it’s about belonging. About saying, ‘Here I am, and I hope you see me.’ Isn’t that what every human wants?”

Jack: “Belonging doesn’t have to mean begging for it. You can live a whole life without ever hearing applause. There’s dignity in silence, Jeeny. Some of the greatest acts of creation were done for no one at all. Think of Van Gogh — he sold one painting in his lifetime.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Yes. And he still painted the sky as if the universe was listening.”

Host: The lights from the theater next door dimmed as the last crew member locked the doors. The room grew darker, the only light now from the candle flickering between them — its flame dancing, shifting, whispering in the air.

Jeeny: “You think show business is about vanity. I think it’s about giving. People like Bobby Sherman weren’t wrong — there’s real gratification in knowing your art touches lives. When someone smiles because of you, that’s not ego. That’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace? Or dependency? You call it art; I call it performance. Everyone’s trying to please someone. Even you.”

Jeeny: “And you’re trying so hard not to please anyone that you’ve forgotten what joy looks like.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup. For a moment, his eyes softened, as if something deep inside had stirred — a memory, maybe, of a time he’d once cared about applause too.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… once, I used to play guitar in a small bar. Every Friday night. People clapped, bought me drinks, asked for songs. I told myself I didn’t care what they thought. But when they stopped coming — it hurt more than I expected.”

Jeeny: “Because you cared. Because you were human.”

Host: The room fell into silence again. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, the sound breaking like a wave against the glass. The air was thick with unspoken words.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe wanting to please people isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s... a kind of hunger — the same hunger that makes us love, or pray, or create.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about pleasing for approval. It’s about pleasing for connection. When an artist gives joy, they also heal themselves. It’s a circle.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “A circle. Yeah. Maybe that’s it. Maybe the applause isn’t the goal — it’s just the echo of something honest.”

Jeeny: “And honesty is the real art.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a gentle drizzle. The candle flame steadied, no longer flickering, as if it too had found its rhythm. Jack looked up at Jeeny and smiled — a small, unforced smile, the kind that belongs to peace rather than victory.

Jeeny: “So maybe Bobby Sherman was right after all. It’s not about fame. It’s about that moment — the one where someone’s heart lights up because of what you did.”

Jack: “Yeah. And maybe it’s not about losing yourself in the crowd. Maybe it’s about finding yourself in their joy.”

Host: Outside, the theater lights went out one by one, until only the streetlamps remained, casting long shadows over the wet pavement. The city breathed — a deep, tired, yet grateful breath. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the candle between them still burning, steady and bright, like a small heart that refused to fade.

Host: And for a moment, in that quiet little corner of the world, the gratification wasn’t for the fans — it was for themselves.