Failure is an awful thing, and when I look at the common

Host: The night pressed heavily against the glass windows of a nearly empty bar, its neon sign flickering like a weary heartbeat in the rain. The air smelled faintly of whiskey, lemon, and the kind of loneliness that lingers after last call.

A single light above the counter cast long shadows across the bottles — liquid memories of celebration and regret. Jack sat there, sleeves rolled up, the sharp lines of his face carved deeper by fatigue and thought. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the bar, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, her eyes following the storm outside.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked with cruel precision — every second a quiet accusation of wasted time.

Jeeny: (softly) “Jon Taffer once said, ‘Failure is an awful thing, and when I look at the common denominator of failure, it seems to always be the same thing: excuses.’”

Host: Jack let out a dry laugh, the kind that tasted like old regret and bitter truth.

Jack: “Taffer, huh? The bar guy. Figures he’d see the world through broken bottles and bankrupt dreams. But he’s right — excuses are just polished lies we tell ourselves to stay comfortable.”

Jeeny: “Comfortable maybe, but not always dishonest. Sometimes excuses are just… defense mechanisms. Ways to survive disappointment until we’re strong enough to face it.”

Jack: “That’s a fancy way of saying denial.”

Jeeny: “Or healing.”

Host: The bartender, an older man with silver hair, wiped down the counter without looking up, pretending not to listen but clearly hearing every word. The rain outside hit harder now, like small hands drumming against glass.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I’ve seen people drown in excuses. I’ve seen businesses fail, marriages collapse, dreams rot — all because someone couldn’t admit they screwed up. You know what the first step to failure really is? Blame.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, blame is also the first step toward understanding. Sometimes you have to trace the cause before you can take responsibility.”

Jack: “No. You take responsibility first. The cause comes later. Otherwise, you’ll waste years pointing fingers — at others, at fate, at the weather — anything to avoid the mirror.”

Host: Jack’s voice had that sharp, gravelly edge, the tone of a man who had lived through collapse and carried its echo. Jeeny watched him quietly, her eyes soft but unflinching.

Jeeny: “You’re talking like someone who’s been there.”

Jack: (pausing) “Yeah. More than once.”

Host: He lifted his glass, staring into the amber liquid as if it could offer confession.

Jack: “I ran a small startup once — five years of sweat, debt, and caffeine. Then one deal fell through, another investor backed out, and it all burned down. I told myself the market was bad. The timing was wrong. The team wasn’t loyal enough. But the truth? I froze. I made excuses instead of choices.”

Jeeny: “And you learned from it.”

Jack: “After losing everything, yeah. Funny how pain’s a better teacher than success.”

Jeeny: “That’s because success rewards you. Failure rebuilds you.”

Host: The light flickered overhead, then steadied again. A car passed outside, its headlights sweeping briefly across their faces — revealing Jack’s weariness, Jeeny’s quiet fire.

Jeeny: “But Jack, not all excuses are poison. Sometimes they’re shields. When a person says, ‘I can’t do it,’ it’s often because they’re afraid they’ll confirm what the world already suspects — that they’re not enough.”

Jack: “Fear isn’t an excuse; it’s a test. You either face it or fail by default.”

Jeeny: “You talk like failure is a choice.”

Jack: “It is.”

Host: Jeeny’s brow furrowed slightly; she took a slow sip of her coffee, letting the steam rise between them like a curtain of thought.

Jeeny: “Tell that to the kid who grew up in poverty, Jack. Or the woman who worked twice as hard only to be overlooked. Are their failures just choices, too?”

Jack: “I didn’t say life was fair. But even in unfairness, you still choose your response. I’ve met men who lost everything and still got up the next morning. And I’ve met people handed gold who still managed to blame gravity when it slipped away.”

Jeeny: “So you’d measure everyone by how quickly they get up?”

Jack: “No. I’d measure them by whether they get up at all.”

Host: The rain softened, turning into a mist against the windows. The bartender turned off the TV; the room felt smaller, the silence thicker.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re angry at excuses, but I think what you’re really angry at is surrender.”

Jack: (smirking) “Maybe. Surrender dresses itself as reason. ‘I can’t because...’ — the most dangerous phrase in any language.”

Jeeny: “But, Jack, even surrender can be a kind of wisdom. There’s a difference between giving up and knowing when to stop fighting what’s already lost.”

Jack: “No. There’s quitting, and then there’s quitting with poetry. Dress it how you want, it’s still quitting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe to you. But to someone who’s broken, stopping isn’t quitting — it’s survival.”

Host: The thunder rolled far off, a deep sound that filled the spaces between their words. Jack’s fingers drummed against the bar, impatient, restless.

Jack: “You always find compassion in defeat, Jeeny. You’d probably tell a man who burned down his own house that the flames were trying to teach him something.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they were. Maybe the ashes are where he learns what truly mattered.”

Host: Jack’s laugh this time was softer, almost tired.

Jack: “You’d find poetry in disaster if the world ended tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “And you’d find logic in the ruins. That’s what makes us both necessary.”

Host: They shared a long look — the kind where disagreement turns into understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, Taffer’s quote isn’t just about failure. It’s about accountability. But accountability without empathy becomes cruelty — even toward yourself.”

Jack: “And empathy without accountability becomes indulgence. People rot inside comfort.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer’s balance — to forgive without excusing, to fail without surrendering.”

Jack: (quietly) “To own your scars, not hide behind them.”

Host: The words lingered between them, rich and heavy with truth. The rain had stopped. Outside, the streets glistened, mirrors of the night sky’s bruised beauty.

Jeeny: “You know, failure’s not awful, Jack. It’s honest. It strips away everything you thought you were and asks, ‘What now?’”

Jack: “Yeah. And excuses are the way we say, ‘Not yet.’”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the real courage isn’t in never failing. It’s in saying, ‘I did,’ and still walking forward.”

Jack: “Without the safety of an excuse.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The bartender placed two fresh glasses on the counter — one whiskey, one coffee — then disappeared into the back.

Jack raised his glass, the amber light trembling across his hand.

Jack: “Here’s to failure — the only honest teacher I ever had.”

Jeeny clinked her cup against his.

Jeeny: “And to the courage it takes to stop making excuses — even when it hurts.”

Host: The sound of their toast echoed softly through the empty bar, mingling with the last whisper of the storm.

Outside, the city gleamed under fresh rain — the streets alive again, washed clean of excuses, waiting for another try.

And in that fragile quiet, between whiskey and truth, two souls sat facing the thing most people fear but all must face:
the moment when the last excuse fades — and only the will to rise remains.