Having yet another vote on refinery legislation that uses high

Host: The Capitol’s marble steps gleamed faintly beneath a gray morning sky. The air was heavy with humidity and exhaust, a strange blend of power and fatigue. Across the mall, the faint hum of the city stirred — horns, shoes, and the distant murmur of debate echoing in the air.

Jack and Jeeny stood outside the empty hearing room, its echo still alive with the voices of politicians long gone for the day. The table inside still smelled faintly of coffee and paper ink, its surface littered with briefs, reports, and the latest stack of “urgent” bills. Through the windows, the great flag outside stirred weakly in the humid wind — not in triumph, but in tired endurance.

Host: In this moment, the conversation between two souls — one burned out by realism, the other fueled by conviction — mirrored the storm outside the marble dome.

Jeeny: “Sherwood Boehlert once said, ‘Having yet another vote on refinery legislation that uses high oil prices as an excuse to weaken environmental protections and to give more legislative gifts to the oil industry is misguided in the extreme.’”
Her voice carried a sharp, frustrated rhythm. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How history keeps recycling its own greed and calling it policy.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s new.” He dropped his briefcase on the bench, loosening his tie. “Politics has always run on fuel — literal and moral. You just have to decide which burns faster.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when both run out?”

Jack: “Then the system finds another excuse. Fear, economy, jobs, ‘national interest.’ It’s a script so old it should be in a museum.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten what responsibility looks like.”

Jack: “No,” he said, his tone quiet, almost weary. “I sound like someone who’s watched idealism get suffocated by committee.”

Host: The light inside the room flickered, reflected off the metal plaques and the dull silver of microphones left idle. Outside, the wind carried a faint rumble of thunder, as if the sky, too, was restless.

Jeeny: “You know what’s misguided?” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Thinking that protecting the environment is optional — that the planet is a line item you can trade for political favor.”

Jack: “It’s not optional,” he countered. “It’s expensive. There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Expensive to whom? The oil companies? They’ve been subsidized since before you were born.”

Jack: “To the people, Jeeny. The ones who can’t afford gas, who can’t feed their kids when prices rise. You can’t sell environmentalism to a hungry voter.”

Jeeny: “So we keep selling them dependency instead? Tell me, Jack — when did survival become the excuse for surrender?”

Host: The storm broke outside, rain streaking across the tall windows in silver slants. The sound of it filled the room like applause for a truth no one wanted to hear.

Jack: “You make it sound simple — that we can just vote for virtue and watch the world heal.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the opposite — that every time we compromise, we kill a little piece of the future. You think this vote, this bill, this refinery — it’s just one thing. But it’s a thousand consequences waiting to unfold.”

Jack: “Consequences that don’t mean much when your lights are out or your car’s empty.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem — we keep acting like convenience is sacred. We destroy what sustains us to protect what entertains us.”

Jack: “You’re quoting poetry, not policy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poetry is what policy forgot.”

Host: A flash of lightning cut across the sky, briefly illuminating the seal of the United States carved above the chamber doors. The light made it shimmer for a heartbeat — a reminder that even symbols require weather to feel alive.

Jack: “You think Boehlert’s words still matter? That calling out corruption changes anything? These people know what they’re doing. They don’t need a moral lecture. They need votes.”

Jeeny: “And who gives them those votes, Jack? We do. We give them permission to betray the earth, one election at a time.”

Jack: “You think people vote for pollution? No. They vote for survival — for paychecks and promises.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what the oil industry counts on — desperation dressed up as democracy.”

Host: The tension between them hung thick, like the charged air before lightning strikes. The storm outside seemed to echo every syllable.

Jack: “Let me ask you something,” he said, turning to her. “If you were in there — if you were writing that bill — what would you do differently? Would you risk thousands of jobs for a headline about clean air?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said, without hesitation. “Because the air is the job, Jack. The planet is the payroll. There’s no economy on a dead earth.”

Jack: “Idealists always say that. Until someone loses their paycheck.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we teach people that their paycheck is tied to more than a pipeline. Maybe we build an economy that feeds instead of bleeds.”

Jack: “That’s not how power works.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s time we redefine power.”

Host: The thunder roared again, shaking the glass panes. The storm seemed to lean closer, listening, waiting. The room dimmed, shadows lengthening like the past itself.

Jack: “You really think people will trade short-term comfort for long-term vision? Look around. The future doesn’t vote.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s our job to speak for it. Every law we pass, every bill we write, is a voice — and we keep choosing to silence the only one that can’t speak for itself.”

Jack: “You’re talking about the planet like it’s a citizen.”

Jeeny: “It is. The first one. The oldest one. The one we’ve been taxing since the beginning.”

Jack: “You make guilt sound holy.”

Jeeny: “No. I make responsibility sound human.”

Host: The storm began to fade, leaving the scent of wet earth in the air — that faint, electric perfume of renewal. The rain slowed, its rhythm softening like breath after confession.

Jeeny: “You know, Boehlert wasn’t just angry about policy. He was warning us about the disease of justification. The way we take a crisis — like high oil prices — and use it as cover to do harm.”

Jack: “You think that’s unique to oil? Every generation does it. Every system finds its loophole.”

Jeeny: “But some loopholes swallow centuries. This one swallows the atmosphere.”

Jack: “You really think words can stop that?”

Jeeny: “No. But silence feeds it.”

Host: The last of the light slipped from the sky. Inside, the room glowed faintly with the reflection of city lights — red, blue, amber — the colors of a restless civilization refusing to sleep.

Jack gathered his papers, but didn’t move to leave. His expression had softened — not in defeat, but in the slow weight of realization.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “sometimes I think humanity’s just a refinery — burning everything it touches for the illusion of light.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we remember the difference between burning and shining.”

Jack: “And what if the world’s forgotten how?”

Jeeny: “Then we teach it again — one policy, one person, one act of courage at a time.”

Host: They stood, their silhouettes outlined by the dim glow of the corridor lights. Outside, the rain-soaked Capitol gleamed, reflecting the city like a mirror turned toward its conscience.

Jeeny walked to the window and pressed her hand against the glass, tracing the reflection of lightning as it flickered over the marble dome.

Jeeny: “You see that?” she whispered. “That’s what Boehlert meant — the light isn’t gone, Jack. It’s just waiting for someone brave enough to stop selling the sky.”

Jack: “And you think that someone’s out there?”

Jeeny: “I think they’re everywhere,” she said, turning to him. “They’re just too afraid to vote like it.”

Host: The storm had passed. The air was heavy but clean, and the faint sound of distant thunder lingered like a heartbeat.

And as they stepped out into the night, their reflections in the wet pavement merged with the Capitol’s — two ordinary figures beneath an extraordinary weight, carrying with them the quiet conviction that even a corrupt sky could be reclaimed.

Host: Because perhaps, as Sherwood Boehlert warned, the true crisis was never the price of oil,
but the price of conscience —
and the dangerous comfort of forgetting that every law written in greed
is written on the future’s skin.