Big companies are like marching bands. Even if half the band is

Host: The warehouse was vast and hollow, filled with echoes that refused to die. Pale fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering slightly, casting an unsteady glow over the room. Through the massive windows, the skyline pulsed — corporate towers standing like cold sentinels beneath a smog-streaked night.

Jack stood beside a dusty conference table, littered with empty coffee cups, scattered reports, and the ghost of ambition. His suit jacket hung over a chair, his tie loosened, his grey eyes fixed on the city below — the empire of glass and pretense.

Jeeny entered quietly, carrying two mugs of coffee. She wore no makeup, no formality — just the calm defiance of someone who had long seen through the world’s disguises.

Host: The air smelled of burnt coffee and fluorescent exhaustion. Outside, a billboard flickered: “Innovation Lives Here.” The irony was not lost on them.

Jeeny: (placing a mug beside him) “Douglas Coupland once said, ‘Big companies are like marching bands. Even if half the band is playing random notes, it still sounds kind of like music. The concealment of failure is built into them.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “And the rest of the band just pretends it’s jazz.”

Jeeny: (sitting down) “Exactly. Dissonance disguised as design.”

Host: A distant siren echoed, then faded. Inside, the room seemed frozen in perpetual twilight — that space between productivity and burnout where all illusions are born.

Jack: “He’s not wrong. I’ve spent half my life watching executives celebrate mediocrity with PowerPoints and catered lunches. If enough people fail together, it starts to look like success.”

Jeeny: “It’s the genius of camouflage. The larger the system, the easier it is to hide incompetence behind motion.”

Jack: “Or behind words — synergy, optimization, agile transformation. All noise. Corporate poetry for people afraid of silence.”

Host: He took a slow sip of his coffee, grimacing as though tasting his own cynicism.

Jeeny: “Still, that’s why they survive. Big companies are organisms of illusion. They’re built to absorb error, disguise it, and march forward. Like an army with no war — just choreography.”

Jack: “Choreography, yes. Everyone moving in rhythm, even if the song’s rotten.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t deny the comfort it gives. People crave structure. Even if the music’s false, it feels safe to march.”

Host: The lights flickered again. Jack turned toward her, his face illuminated in harsh contrast — half shadow, half confession.

Jack: “Safe is the enemy of meaning. People join these bands because they want applause, not purpose.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they just want to belong, Jack. Not everyone’s built to solo.”

Jack: “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? A world full of musicians too afraid to play alone.”

Host: The silence between them stretched — not empty, but alive, vibrating with truth.

Jeeny: “You sound like you left the band long ago.”

Jack: (smirking) “I was kicked out. Too many wrong notes.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe too many honest ones.”

Host: Her words softened him, though only slightly. He looked back at the city, at the rows of office windows still glowing late into the night — little boxes of obedience, each filled with the hum of corporate ghosts typing their justifications into spreadsheets.

Jack: “You know what I hate most? The performance. Everyone pretending the system works, even when it’s rotting. The façade is the product.”

Jeeny: “And the audience claps because they paid for the ticket.”

Jack: “Because they’re in the show too.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not deception, it’s collaboration. The concealment of failure isn’t a flaw, it’s a pact.”

Host: Her eyes caught the flickering light, dark and luminous all at once — eyes that had seen too much compromise to believe in easy villains.

Jack: “You sound almost forgiving.”

Jeeny: “Not forgiving — understanding. Even a broken system is made of people. And people are fragile creatures, desperate for rhythm. Failure terrifies them more than lies.”

Jack: “So they dance to noise.”

Jeeny: “And call it music.”

Host: Outside, a gust of wind howled against the glass, rattling it like a warning. The city below shimmered — alive but hollow.

Jack: “You think Coupland meant that as criticism or prophecy?”

Jeeny: “Both. He saw the world shifting — individuality dissolving into process. We stopped inventing things and started managing them. The dream of creation replaced by the dream of efficiency.”

Jack: “Efficiency — the modern religion.”

Jeeny: “And its god? The quarterly report.”

Host: Jack laughed — a low, bitter sound that echoed through the empty space.

Jack: “You know, I once thought I’d build something meaningful. Then I realized meaning doesn’t scale.”

Jeeny: “No. But illusion does. That’s why marching bands never die — they just change uniforms.”

Host: The wind eased. The hum of the city became the new rhythm, soft and insistent. Jack’s eyes softened as he looked at her — not with defeat, but weary recognition.

Jack: “So what’s the alternative? Play your own tune and starve?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or build a smaller band. One that knows it’s offbeat — but honest about it.”

Jack: “A rebellion of rhythm.”

Jeeny: “A symphony of sincerity.”

Host: The fluorescent light above them buzzed, then dimmed, bathing the room in a kind of twilight truth.

Jack: “You really believe honesty can compete with the machinery of illusion?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can outlast it. Machines rust. Sincerity endures.”

Host: She stood and walked toward the window, the city reflecting in her eyes like constellations of glass and regret.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny, Jack? The same system that conceals failure also conceals brilliance. The difference is who keeps playing after the show ends.”

Jack: “And who finally puts down the instrument.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Exactly. Not all silence is surrender. Sometimes, it’s evolution.”

Host: The camera lingered on them — two silhouettes framed by skyscrapers that gleamed like monuments to ambition. The city’s noise swelled — a symphony of horns, lights, and human striving — a modern marching band where no one dared stop playing.

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe Coupland wasn’t condemning the band at all. Maybe he was warning us to listen closer — to tell the difference between music and noise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if the band never stops, how will we ever know when the song has ended?”

Host: The wind fell silent. The last light flickered out. In the distance, the city’s hum became faint — a lullaby of illusion.

Host: And as the night deepened, Coupland’s truth shimmered beneath it all —
that the concealment of failure is not just the flaw of systems,
but the comfort of humanity itself.

Because sometimes, it’s easier to march in tune with lies —
than face the quiet terror of playing honestly alone.