Governor Romney has a great business background. He is extremely

Host: The city skyline glowed beneath a pale haze, its towers shimmering like ghosts of ambition. Below, in a dim bar near the financial district, the clatter of glasses mixed with the low hum of conversation. The air smelled of bourbon, leather, and quiet competition.

Jack sat at the counter, suit jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened — a man who’d worked too long and still wasn’t sure for what. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands folded around a glass of red wine, her gaze steady but soft, watching him with the patience of someone who had seen him wrestle too many invisible wars.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that TV for twenty minutes. You even forgot to drink.”

Jack: “It’s Clint Eastwood, giving some old interview. He’s talking about Romney’s background — all the Harvard degrees, the business pedigree. The usual political résumé stuff.”

Jeeny: “Ah, the myth of the perfect man — built on paper, polished in institutions.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Education, credentials, discipline — they’re proof of effort.”

Jeeny: “Or proof of access.”

Host: The television’s blue light flickered across their faces, like an interrogation lamp in slow motion. Outside, rain had begun to fall, turning the windows into rippling mirrors of light.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. A man earns his place through work. Romney, Harvard, Eastwood — these guys didn’t stumble into their success. They studied, they built, they endured.”

Jeeny: “And yet, how many people just as capable never even get the chance to endure? Education isn’t always about effort. Sometimes it’s about inheritance — of money, of opportunity, of a name.”

Jack: “That sounds like envy.”

Jeeny: “No. It sounds like perspective. The system rewards those who already stand near the door. The rest of us just keep knocking.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, his movements slow and methodical, as though he’d heard this argument a hundred times before — ambition versus fairness, destiny versus access. The rain tapped a steady rhythm on the glass, like an uninvited metronome keeping time with their debate.

Jack: “You think credentials don’t matter? Tell that to a surgeon. Tell that to an architect. The world runs on proof of skill.”

Jeeny: “Proof, yes. But not perfection. Clint Eastwood was never Harvard-made. He was a self-taught storyteller. The man built his legacy through instinct and grit, not degrees.”

Jack: “You’re comparing art to enterprise. They’re different worlds.”

Jeeny: “Are they? Both depend on conviction. One just sells truth, the other sells power.”

Jack: “And maybe power’s the only way truth survives.”

Jeeny: “That’s the oldest lie in politics.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled in the distance, deep and deliberate. Jack’s reflection in the bar mirror looked older, more haunted — a man who still clung to the idea that success must be earned to be real.

Jeeny turned slightly, her eyes catching his.

Jeeny: “You admire men like Romney because they represent control — the idea that if you work hard enough, you can design your destiny like a Harvard business plan.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? It’s the dream. Hard work pays off. Discipline matters.”

Jeeny: “But what if the dream’s rigged? What if the race starts ten miles ahead for some? We call it meritocracy, but maybe it’s just the polite word for hierarchy.”

Jack: “So what — you’d rather we just stop trying? Blame the system and call it a day?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I want us to stop worshiping systems that only serve the few. To start defining success by the human cost it avoids, not just the profit it earns.”

Jack: “You’re talking ideals. I’m talking reality.”

Jeeny: “Reality is just the part of the dream the powerful get to narrate.”

Host: The bar had grown quieter. The TV muted itself into flickering images — Eastwood gesturing, Romney smiling, an old America believing once more in its polished sons. The air between them grew taut, filled with the weight of things neither could completely disprove.

Jack took a long drink, his voice low, roughened by memory.

Jack: “My father used to say that education was the great equalizer. He worked two jobs so I could go to college. Said that’s how you climb out of the hole. And I did. It wasn’t given — it was earned.”

Jeeny: “I don’t doubt that, Jack. But your father’s faith was built in a time when the ladder still touched the ground. These days, it’s pulled higher every year. Some of us don’t even see it anymore.”

Jack: “So you think all degrees are meaningless?”

Jeeny: “No. I think they’re incomplete. Intelligence isn’t always measured in classrooms. Eastwood didn’t need Harvard to understand character. He read people, not papers. That’s wisdom.”

Jack: “And yet, Harvard-trained minds design the systems that run the world.”

Jeeny: “And those same systems often forget the people they’re running over.”

Host: The rain intensified, a hard rhythm against the roof. For a moment, neither spoke. The bartender dimmed the lights. The bar became a pool of shadow and reflection, a quiet theatre for their argument.

Jeeny: “Don’t you ever wonder why we keep idolizing success we can’t touch? The Harvard man. The businessman. The perfect résumé. As if humanity is a brand we can franchise.”

Jack: “Because it’s proof that the system can work — that someone made it.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just one story out of millions. The exception, not the rule. It gives hope — but it also hides inequality behind applause.”

Jack: “Hope’s not a bad thing, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s dangerous when it becomes anesthesia.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his glass. Jeeny’s tone softened, as if she’d pulled him back from the edge.

Jeeny: “I’m not against ambition. I just think we confuse polish for depth. We worship the résumé and forget the person. Education can build the mind, but only struggle builds the soul.”

Jack: “And yet, without education, struggle just becomes survival.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer is both — intellect and empathy. The degree and the dirt under your fingernails.”

Jack: “You’re saying we need Harvard and Hollywood.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We need humanity — and that can live anywhere.”

Host: The storm began to break. A faint glow of streetlight filtered through the rain-smeared window, silver and trembling. Outside, a homeless man shuffled by, stopping to stare briefly at his own reflection in the glass before moving on.

Jeeny’s eyes followed him.

Jeeny: “That man out there could have been brilliant once. Maybe he still is. Maybe the world just didn’t give him a ladder.”

Jack: “Or maybe he refused to climb it.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he was never invited.”

Host: Jack said nothing. The truth had found him — not as accusation, but as memory. He looked again at the silent TV: Clint Eastwood’s calm, weathered face frozen mid-sentence, speaking about another man’s polished success.

Jack: “You know… Eastwood wasn’t praising just the degrees. He was admiring the discipline. The work ethic. The consistency.”

Jeeny: “And that’s fine. But imagine if we admired that same consistency in the single mother who works three jobs, or the janitor who keeps the lights on in those Harvard halls.”

Jack: “You’re right.” (he pauses, quietly) “Maybe we celebrate the wrong heroes.”

Host: The rain stopped. The air outside turned clear, washed, reflective. Jack’s eyes softened, the weight of pride giving way to something humbler.

Jeeny raised her glass, smiling faintly.

Jeeny: “To education — the kind that teaches us to see people, not pedigrees.”

Jack: (lifting his glass) “And to perseverance — the one test no degree can measure.”

Host: Their glasses met softly, the sound small but final, like a heartbeat closing a chapter.

Outside, the city shimmered — a thousand lights, some earned, some inherited — all flickering in the same restless sky.

And as they sat in that half-lit bar, surrounded by stories of success and failure, the truth lingered between them like a quiet revelation:

That greatness isn’t granted by institutions — it’s proven by integrity.

And sometimes, the brightest minds are the ones still sanding their own front doors, long after the applause has faded.