Everybody in America is angry about something.

Host: The sun had long since slipped behind the city skyline, leaving the streets bathed in a dull, metallic twilight. Neon signs flickered uncertainly, their light bouncing off the slick asphalt like broken promises. In a corner diner, the kind that never really closes but never feels open either, a faint hum of old jazz bled from a cracked speaker above the counter.

Jack sat at the window booth, his face half-lit by the glow of passing headlights, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea absently, watching the slow spiral of steam rise and fade. Her eyes, dark and alert, searched him quietly — the way someone looks at a flame they can’t decide to warm their hands by or extinguish.

Host: Outside, a distant siren wailed through the fog — one more cry in a city that never quite learns to sleep.

Jack: (with a rough sigh) “You ever notice how everyone’s just… mad these days? Doesn’t matter who you talk to. They’re all furious about something.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Anthony Braxton said that. ‘Everybody in America is angry about something.’ He wasn’t wrong.”

Jack: “No. He just didn’t say why.” (leans back) “Politics, money, religion, traffic, rent, the Wi-Fi being slow — it’s like anger’s the new small talk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not small talk. Maybe it’s grief that forgot its name.”

Host: Her voice was quiet but it cut through the hum of the diner like a soft blade. A neon “OPEN” sign blinked, its light washing their faces in alternating red and blue — like slow, rhythmic lightning.

Jack: “Grief?” (snorts) “You think people are that deep? No, Jeeny. It’s simpler. Everyone’s angry because everyone feels cheated. They were told this country would give them something — a dream, a fair shot, some kind of justice — and now they’re realizing it’s all just good marketing.”

Jeeny: “So you think anger’s just disappointment with better lighting?”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Jeeny: “But disappointment still comes from hope, doesn’t it? You don’t get angry about what you never believed in.”

Host: Jack looked at her then — really looked — as the weight of her words hung between them, like the low fog outside pressing against the glass.

Jack: “So what, you think all this rage means we still care?”

Jeeny: “In a way, yes. Anger means we still feel. It’s when people stop being angry that you should worry — that’s when they’ve gone numb.”

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. I look around and I don’t see passion. I see noise. Outrage without reason. Fury as fashion. You’ve seen the feeds — everyone’s shouting, no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “And yet you’re still scrolling.”

Jack: (chuckles dryly) “Touché.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups without asking. The steam rose again, twisting like a slow question in the dim air. Outside, a bus rumbled by, shaking the glass slightly — as if the city itself were restless.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Anger is the only emotion we’re still allowed to show. It’s safe. It’s public. Crying makes you weak, joy makes you naïve, but anger — anger makes you powerful.”

Jack: “That’s not power, that’s theater.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes the only way people are heard is when they shout.”

Jack: “And sometimes shouting drowns out everyone else trying to speak.”

Host: The neon light flickered again, casting a strobe of red across Jack’s face — his eyes like steel, cold but alive. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered in the glass — half real, half illusion.

Jack: “You know what scares me most? That anger’s become our national language. Doesn’t matter what side you’re on — left, right, rich, poor — everyone’s fluent.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only thing holding us together.”

Jack: (laughs) “Anger as unity? That’s bleak, even for you.”

Jeeny: “Think about it. When the pandemic hit, people were terrified. And what did fear become? Anger. When George Floyd was murdered — anger turned into movement. When people lost jobs, lost homes, lost faith — they got angry, because it was the only tool left.”

Jack: “And what did it build, Jeeny? Or did it just burn everything down?”

Host: The rain began to fall — soft at first, then harder — a slow percussion that matched the tension in their words. It drummed on the window, blurred the city lights into watercolor streaks.

Jeeny: “Sometimes destruction is the only honest architecture. You have to tear down the rotten walls before you can rebuild.”

Jack: “And what if people don’t rebuild? What if they just like the burning?”

Jeeny: “Then they were never angry for justice — only for revenge.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around the mug. His eyes, distant and pale, flickered with something like regret. He’d seen that kind of anger before — in protests, in riots, in boardrooms and bars. The kind that starts as pain and ends as habit.

Jack: “You think we can turn it off? Just… stop being angry?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe we can learn to listen to what it’s trying to say.”

Jack: “And what’s yours saying?”

Jeeny: “That I’m tired of pretending I’m not furious.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with rage, but with truth. The diners’ hum faded behind them — plates clinking, doors opening and closing, lives moving on — but her words stayed, heavier than sound.

Jack: “About what?”

Jeeny: “About everything. About how hard it is to be kind and still survive. About how the world tells women to smile through their pain. About how empathy feels like an outdated skill set. About how silence gets you crushed, and noise gets you canceled. I’m angry because the middle ground’s gone.”

Host: For a moment, Jack didn’t speak. The rain outside slowed, but inside, her confession echoed like thunder that refused to leave the horizon.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said softly. “Maybe anger’s just the sound of people trying to stay human in a machine.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you keep fighting it?”

Jack: “Because machines don’t feel. And I’m afraid that if I start feeding mine, I’ll forget how to stop.”

Jeeny: “That’s not anger, Jack. That’s fear.”

Host: Silence settled, not peaceful but dense — the kind that follows something too honest to answer. The clock above the counter ticked. Somewhere, a truck horn groaned in the distance.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? We’re sitting here talking about anger like it’s philosophy. But it’s everywhere — at work, in families, in the news, in ourselves. It’s like the country’s addicted to its own outrage.”

Jeeny: “Addicted because it feels alive. Anger is the one emotion that proves you still matter.”

Jack: “Or that you can’t move on.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both.”

Host: She smiled sadly, the steam from her tea curling upward, vanishing like everything unsaid. Jack’s gaze softened, his usual cynicism cracked open by something fragile and human.

Jack: “So what now? We just live angry forever?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, almost whispering. “We learn to turn anger into care. To see it not as fire, but as light. The same heat — just used differently.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The streetlights shimmered, their reflections dancing in shallow puddles. The city still buzzed — restless, angry, alive. But inside the diner, for a heartbeat, there was peace.

Jack: (half-smile) “You always make fury sound like poetry.”

Jeeny: “And you make peace sound impossible.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s why we keep talking.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — through the window, into the night. Two figures sitting by the glass, surrounded by the quiet hum of the world’s noise. In their faces, a mix of exhaustion and stubborn hope.

Because maybe Anthony Braxton was right — everybody in America is angry about something.
But tonight, for a fleeting moment, two people found a way to make that anger feel like a heartbeat — not a wound.