Have you noticed that the meanest, shrillest, least compassionate

Host:
The night had the texture of asphalt and argument. The city below was still half-awake — sirens bleeding, billboards glaring, voices rising from bars and corners where people debated everything and changed nothing. Through a rain-smeared window, a flicker of blue television light bounced across the walls of a narrow apartment, its hum mingling with the faint hiss of street tires and the relentless ticking of a cheap wall clock.

Inside, Jack stood near the window, the glow from the TV outlining the sharp lines of his face. He looked tense, angular — a man carrying too much awareness and not enough hope. Jeeny sat on the couch, a blanket around her shoulders, the remote control limp in her hand, her expression shadowed by disbelief and quiet fury.

On the screen, a replay of a news debate flickered — polished suits, smug smiles, and words that cut deeper than truth ever could. On the coffee table, beside two untouched mugs of tea, lay a scrap of paper with a quote scrawled on it, underlined twice:

“Have you noticed that the meanest, shrillest, least compassionate and most heartless people who are well off and have all the medical coverage they'll ever need are seemingly sickened beyond cure by the notion that someone who literally cannot afford health care is somehow beneath contempt and must be vilified and humiliated?” – Richard Belzer

Jeeny:
(quietly, but with an edge)
Belzer didn’t pull punches, did he? He saw right through it — the cruelty disguised as principle.

Jack:
(without turning from the window)
Yeah. The way the powerful always find poetry in their privilege.

Host:
The television light flickered again, a talking head’s laughter filling the silence. Jack’s jaw tightened, his reflection faint against the window — blurred by rain, fractured by neon.

Jeeny:
(leans forward, voice sharper now)
What breaks me is how normal it’s become. People sneer at the poor like it’s entertainment. “Why should my taxes pay for their medicine?” As if empathy has a price tag.

Jack:
(turns slowly, voice low, bitter)
It’s not empathy they lack — it’s imagination. They can’t picture a world where luck didn’t favor them. They think health, wealth, stability — those are virtues, not accidents.

Jeeny:
And the rest — the ones who fall, who can’t afford to live without choosing what to lose — they’re treated like they deserve it.

Jack:
(sitting down, his voice calmer but heavier)
Because it’s easier to believe in moral failure than systemic failure. Blame the sick person, not the sickness.

Host:
The rain hit the window harder now, blurring the outside world. The city’s lights turned into streaks of color — red, white, and broken gold. Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the flickering blue glow.

Jeeny:
You think Belzer was angry when he said that?

Jack:
No. I think he was disappointed. Anger burns fast. Disappointment lingers — it corrodes slower.

Jeeny:
(nods)
He was a comedian, right? That’s what makes it sting. Only the funniest people seem to understand tragedy the best.

Jack:
(half-smile)
Because comedy’s just tragedy wearing makeup. You can’t make people laugh unless you’ve seen how they cry.

Host:
The TV cut to commercial — smiling faces, luxury cars, pills that promised happiness in pastel colors. Jack muted it. The room sank into silence, except for the heartbeat of rain.

Jeeny:
You know what I hate? The way people pretend the system’s fair. “If you work hard enough…” (she scoffs softly) As if hospitals take determination instead of dollars.

Jack:
(leans back, sighing)
Yeah. They say, “No one owes you anything.” But that’s not how society’s supposed to work. Civilization is the idea that we owe each other something.

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Exactly. Otherwise, we’re just a collection of strangers hoarding luck.

Host:
She pulled the blanket tighter, her voice trembling slightly — not from cold, but from the weight of what she meant. Jack watched her, his expression softening.

Jack:
It’s strange, isn’t it? The ones who have everything preach independence. The ones with nothing understand interdependence.

Jeeny:
Because they’ve had to. When life keeps knocking you down, you learn how to catch other people before they hit the floor.

Jack:
(a faint smile)
That’s compassion. The art of remembering that pain doesn’t need to belong to you to matter.

Host:
The rain eased, becoming a soft drizzle, the sound like a sigh against the window. Jeeny reached over and turned off the television. The room went dim except for the streetlight bleeding through the glass — a dull amber glow that softened their edges.

Jeeny:
Sometimes I think people like Belzer carried the world’s sadness so the rest of us could see it without turning away.

Jack:
(nodding slowly)
Yeah. The jester’s burden — telling the truth dressed as laughter.

Jeeny:
He wasn’t wrong though. It’s not just about healthcare. It’s about how easily we dehumanize. How we create hierarchies of worth.

Jack:
(sighs)
And how comfort makes cowards.

Host:
A long silence. The sound of a car splashing through a puddle outside echoed faintly, then faded. The clock ticked on.

Jeeny:
You know, I used to think cruelty came from hatred. But now I think it comes from fear.

Jack:
Fear of losing what little control you think you have. Fear that compassion might make you vulnerable.

Jeeny:
(softly, almost whispering)
Or remind you that you’re not as self-made as you pretend to be.

Jack:
(half-smile, eyes distant)
Exactly. Gratitude terrifies people who’ve never gone without.

Host:
He looked out the window again. The streetlight caught the curve of his face, the reflection of a man thinking not about policy or politics — but about humanity.

Jeeny:
If people really saw each other — stripped of money, status, pride — they’d realize we’re all just one unlucky day away from each other’s pain.

Jack:
(nods slowly)
Belzer saw that. He wasn’t just angry at the rich — he was heartbroken for the poor.

Jeeny:
And he said it out loud, which is braver than it sounds.

Jack:
Yeah. Because empathy doesn’t trend well.

Host:
The rain stopped entirely. The night was still now — heavy, clean, listening.

Jeeny:
(after a pause)
Do you think it’ll ever change?

Jack:
(looks at her, voice low but sure)
Maybe not all at once. But every time someone refuses to look away, it does.

Jeeny:
(smiles faintly)
Then maybe that’s where it starts. With seeing.

Jack:
And refusing to call mercy a weakness.

Host:
The clock ticked on. Outside, the streets gleamed, and the world — though bruised — seemed to breathe a little softer.

They sat in that dim room for a while longer, no longer talking, no longer needing to. The quote on the table caught the last flicker of light from the streetlamp.

And in that quiet, the words seemed to hum like a benediction — not angry, but enduring:

That empathy isn’t a luxury.
That compassion is the measure of civilization.
And that the truest sickness is forgetting that others can suffer, too.

Host (closing):
Outside, the city’s pulse began again — soft, endless, human.
And inside, two people sat in the stillness —
not healed,
but remembering what it meant to care.