Even when I was an engineer, I was a comic on my job. At birthday

Host: The factory floor hummed with the tired rhythm of a Monday evening — the metallic heartbeat of machines, the low thrum of fluorescent lights, and the smell of oil, steel, and worn-out dreams. The windows were fogged from winter air; outside, the sky hung gray and silent.

In one corner, Jack leaned against a workbench, his hands marked with grease and calluses, a quiet man among whirring machines. Jeeny, wearing a faded company jacket, sat across from him with a thermos of coffee, her eyes bright despite the hour.

Pinned to the wall beside them was an old company bulletin board — covered in yellowed notices, a few birthday photos, and a handwritten quote:

“Even when I was an engineer, I was a comic on my job. At birthday and holiday parties, I was the one scheduling and emceeing. If you work on your gift, and you're good, it will shine through.” — Loni Love

Jeeny: “I love that quote. Loni Love was an engineer before she was a comedian. She didn’t wait for permission to shine. She just… made space for her gift wherever she was.”

Host: The machines hummed behind her like restless thoughts. Jack exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air.

Jack: “Yeah, but not everyone’s gift gets a spotlight, Jeeny. Some of us have to stick to the grind. Bills don’t care about talent.”

Jeeny: “That’s not what she meant, Jack. She wasn’t talking about fame — she was talking about authenticity. You can be in the dullest place in the world and still bring color to it. You just have to keep being you.”

Jack: (smirking) “Being me doesn’t pay overtime. Look around. You think these guys care if I’ve got a hidden gift? We’re all just trying to get through another shift without losing a finger.”

Jeeny: “You say that like surviving is enough. But it’s not. Loni didn’t quit her engineering job because she hated it — she grew beyond it. She worked her nine-to-five, then stayed up all night writing jokes. That’s not luck, Jack. That’s discipline disguised as hope.”

Host: Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. He wiped his hands on a rag and watched the conveyor belt move — piece after piece, identical, mechanical, endless.

Jack: “You ever get tired of hearing that? ‘Follow your passion, chase your dream.’ It sounds like something people say when they’ve already made it. Some of us can’t afford to gamble everything for a dream that might not feed us.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t afford not to, either. If you bury your gift under fear long enough, it stops breathing.”

Jack: “You think she didn’t have fear? You think Loni Love didn’t look around her cubicle one day and wonder if she was throwing away her career for a punchline? She took the same risk you’re too scared to take.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had sharpened — not in anger, but in fire. The light overhead flickered as if listening.

Jeeny: “Jack, I’ve heard you talk when you’re fixing machines. The way you explain things — it’s like you’re teaching life through bolts and circuits. That’s your gift. You make complexity sound human. You think that’s nothing? You think that’s not shining?”

Jack: “That’s just me talking, Jeeny. I’m not trying to shine.”

Jeeny: “Maybe shining isn’t something you try to do. Maybe it’s something you can’t help.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The machines slowed as the shift ended. Workers shuffled out, voices low, jackets zipped. The factory grew quieter, its great steel lungs sighing to sleep.

Jack: “You know, I used to draw. Back in college. Blueprints, designs, portraits — whatever I could. But then life started handing me bills instead of canvases.”

Jeeny: “And you stopped?”

Jack: “Yeah. I told myself I’d go back to it someday. That ‘someday’ just kept moving.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy of waiting for perfect timing. It never comes. You work on your gift in the cracks of life — like Loni did. During lunch breaks, between shifts, after hours. You don’t wait for light; you make it.”

Host: Jack stared at her, something flickering behind the gray of his eyes — memory, regret, maybe both.

Jack: “You think it’s that simple? Just keep doing what you love until someone notices?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s harder. You do it even when no one notices.”

Host: The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The factory lights dimmed to half-power, bathing the space in a soft, melancholic glow.

Jack: “When I first got this job, they had me draw the floor plan for a new assembly line. My supervisor used that design for years — never told anyone I made it. He got promoted for it.”

Jeeny: “That must’ve hurt.”

Jack: “It did. But I didn’t stop drawing that night. I came back here after hours and designed a whole new layout — for no one but myself. It made me feel like I hadn’t vanished completely.”

Jeeny: “That’s your gift shining through, Jack. Even in a place built to erase individuality.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it was just stubbornness.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Host: A small laugh escaped her, like a spark in the dark. Jack couldn’t help but smile — a rare, quiet one that softened his whole face.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was in high school, I used to sing at church. Nothing big — just little solos. But when I got older, I stopped. My mom said singing wasn’t practical. ‘Find something stable,’ she said. So I did. I got this job. And every day since, I’ve missed the sound of my own voice.”

Jack: “Why’d you stop?”

Jeeny: “Because I thought gifts were only valid if they made money. Turns out, they’re valid because they make meaning.”

Host: The clock above them ticked past midnight. Somewhere in the dark, a lone machine still whirred — a stubborn echo refusing to rest.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about escaping this place. Maybe it’s about carrying something beautiful inside it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The gift isn’t the escape — it’s the endurance.”

Jack: “So you think if I just keep drawing… it’ll matter?”

Jeeny: “It already does. The moment you do something that feels true, it matters. You’re shaping something invisible into something real.”

Host: Outside, the first snow began to fall, dusting the factory roof like sugar over stone. Jack picked up a small piece of chalk from the workbench and, without thinking, began sketching on the concrete floor — lines, curves, geometry, and motion. Jeeny watched, smiling softly.

Jeeny: “See? You’re shining.”

Jack: (laughing) “It’s chalk, Jeeny. It’ll wash away in the morning.”

Jeeny: “Then draw again tomorrow.”

Host: He looked at her — and in that moment, the tired engineer and the quiet singer weren’t factory workers anymore. They were creators, dreamers in exile, keeping their small flames alive against the machinery of the world.

Jack: “You think we’ll ever get out of here?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe the real escape is when we stop waiting to be discovered.”

Host: The lights clicked off. Only the moonlight through the factory windows remained, silver and forgiving. The chalk lines on the floor gleamed faintly — fragile, temporary, but full of intention.

Jeeny zipped her coat, turned toward the door, and whispered —

Jeeny: “If you work on your gift, and you’re good, it will shine through. Even here.”

Host: Jack watched her leave, the door closing softly behind her. He looked back at the chalk sketches — the faint reflection of who he might still become.

And as the night settled into silence, a quiet truth lingered in the cold air: Every gift has its light. Some just take longer to find the dark worth shining through.