Business opportunities are like buses, there's always another one

Host: The night was dense, the air thick with the smell of rain and gasoline. The city was quiet, except for the hissing of tires and the distant hum of a train pulling away. In a small 24-hour café tucked between a pawn shop and a bus depot, neon light flickered across the foggy window. Jack sat by it, his grey eyes tracing the movement of the buses that came and went like restless waves. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands cupped around a steaming mug, her hair damp, her eyes soft and glowing beneath the dim light.

The quote had been written on the chalkboard wall behind the counter — “Business opportunities are like buses, there’s always another one coming.” — Richard Branson.

Jack: “Another one coming,” he muttered, his voice low, a hint of mockery cutting through the steam. “That’s easy to say when you own the bus company.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s been left at the stop too many times.”

Host: A small smile curved her lips, though her eyes carried something tender, something worried. Outside, another bus passed, its headlights washing over the window, flickering across their faces like a heartbeat of fate.

Jack: “It’s not about being left, Jeeny. It’s about timing. In real life, you miss one chance, and sometimes that’s it. You can wait for another bus, sure—but maybe it’s going in the wrong direction, or maybe it’s already full.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s the one that finally takes you home.”

Host: The rain intensified, drumming softly on the roof. The sound filled the space between their words — a quiet tension, a music of doubt and hope.

Jack: “You make it sound so romantic. But in business — in life — romance doesn’t pay the bills. You think Steve Jobs got lucky catching the right bus? He built the damn thing himself.”

Jeeny: “But he also believed, Jack. Believed when everyone said he was crazy. He saw the next bus when no one else even saw the road.”

Host: She leaned forward, her voice soft but piercing. The neon glow caught the reflection of her eyes, making them look almost liquid — like they held the city lights themselves.

Jeeny: “That’s what Branson meant. There’s always another bus — if you have the faith to keep looking. If you stop, you’ll never see the next one.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t get you on board. Action does. And sometimes, no matter how hard you run, the doors close in your face.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it wasn’t your bus.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes distant. A memory seemed to move behind them — something lost, something that still ached.

Jack: “You ever missed something that you knew would never come again?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But that’s not the same as believing nothing else will.”

Jack: “Try telling that to the guy who lost his startup after the crash. To the woman who mortgaged her house chasing one big dream that never took off. You think they can just wait at the stop again, smiling?”

Jeeny: “Some did. And they built something better the next time. Walt Disney went bankrupt before Mickey Mouse ever existed. Henry Ford failed five times before his cars changed the world. Failure isn’t missing the bus — it’s refusing to wait for the next one.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not from uncertainty, but from fervor. The rain had turned to a mist, clinging to the glass. Jack watched it slide down in narrow trails, as if time itself were melting.

Jack: “You always find the moral angle, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I just refuse to believe life is as mechanical as your bus schedule.”

Jack: “It’s not mechanical. It’s mathematical. Every opportunity, every choice, every risk — it’s all probability. You increase your odds by acting, not by hoping. People talk about luck like it’s magic, but it’s just statistics with better timing.”

Jeeny: “And yet timing’s not something you can calculate. It’s something you feel. That’s the problem with your logic, Jack — you treat life like an equation when it’s a journey.”

Host: A pause. The light from the streetlamp flickered, casting long shadows across the table. Jack’s fingers tapped against his cup, a steady rhythm of doubt.

Jack: “So what do you suggest? Sit there, eyes closed, waiting for fate to pick the right bus?”

Jeeny: “No. But don’t curse the ones that pass you, either. Sometimes they’re not yours because something better’s coming. Sometimes the delay is the lesson.”

Jack: “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s still truth.”

Host: The tension crackled — like static before a storm. Outside, a bus slowed by the curb, its doors hissing open. The sound pulled both their eyes toward the window.

Jeeny: “Look at that. People still running, still hoping to catch it. That’s the difference between us, Jack. You stand and analyze the schedule. I run, even if I miss it.”

Jack: “And what if you fall?”

Jeeny: “Then I get up. That’s what makes the next bus worth catching.”

Host: The rain had stopped, leaving the street slick and glimmering under the lamplight. The smell of wet asphalt filled the air, sharp and real.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you believe in motion instead of perfection.”

Jack: “I used to. Until I realized some buses never come. You can wait, you can hope, you can pray — and still, nothing. The world doesn’t owe anyone another ride.”

Jeeny: “No. But it gives you the road. And as long as there’s a road, there’s a way to walk.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy and bright, like a lantern flickering in the fog. Jack looked at her for a long moment, the hardness in his eyes beginning to soften.

Jack: “You really think there’s always another chance?”

Jeeny: “Not always the same chance. But always a new one. Maybe smaller, maybe different — but still a chance. Maybe it’s not a bus, maybe it’s a bike, or a walk, or even a new road altogether.”

Jack: “You’re a dreamer.”

Jeeny: “And you’re tired.”

Host: Jack laughed, a small, rough sound that echoed faintly in the empty café. He leaned back, eyes on the ceiling, as if watching invisible routes forming in the air.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about waiting for the next bus — maybe it’s about not giving up on the idea of traveling at all.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The journey is what matters. The buses are just vehicles.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked, slow and steady, like a heartbeat returning to calm. The neon sign outside flickered, then stabilized, bathing them both in a faint blue glow.

Jack: “You know, Branson probably missed a few buses himself.”

Jeeny: “That’s why he started flying.”

Host: They both laughed — quiet, genuine, the kind of laughter that cleanses. Outside, another bus approached, its lights cutting through the mist, reflecting in their eyes.

Jeeny: “Look. Another one coming.”

Jack: “Yeah.” (He smiled, his voice barely above a whisper.) “Maybe this time, we both get on.”

Host: The bus doors opened, releasing a soft hiss like a sigh. The streetlights shimmered on the wet ground, and the city seemed to pause, holding its breath.

Jeeny rose, her silhouette framed against the window, her eyes alive with possibility. Jack stood, for the first time in a long while, not as a man waiting for something to arrive — but as someone ready to move.

And as they stepped into the night, the sound of the departing bus faded into the distance, leaving behind a single truth — that life, like the road, never really stops. It only turns the corner.