I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the

Host: The sunset had turned the river into molten gold, its surface trembling with soft ripples that caught the dying light. The air smelled of rain and rust, of iron bridges and wet earth. Jack stood by the railing, his hands in his coat pockets, eyes fixed on the horizon. Beside him, Jeeny leaned against the metal, her hair blown by the wind, her face calm, but her gaze distant. The evening had that kind of quiet that only happens when two people are thinking the same thing — but won’t yet say it.

Jeeny: “Walt Whitman said, ‘I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.’”

Jack: “Sounds like something a man says when he’s trying to forgive himself.”

Host: A train horn moaned in the distance, low and haunting. The bridge shuddered as it passed below. The light on Jack’s face flickered — half in shadow, half in fire.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what a man says when he finally understands himself. He’s not pretending to be pure or wicked — just human.”

Jack: “Human. That word you like to throw around when everything else fails. What does it even mean, Jeeny? Being human is just a convenient way to excuse contradictions. You love and you hate. You build and destroy. You pray and lie. It’s chaos wrapped in skin.”

Jeeny: “And yet that’s what makes it beautiful. We’re both the angel and the beast. Pretending we’re only one of them is the real lie.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of smoke from the city’s chimneys. Jack lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in the breeze before settling into a dull glow.

Jack: “So what are you saying — that morality’s just a balancing act? That it’s fine to be the worst, as long as you also have moments of being the best?”

Jeeny: “I’m saying that goodness without the capacity for darkness is not goodness — it’s innocence. And innocence isn’t virtue; it’s just ignorance.”

Jack: “You sound like Nietzsche.”

Jeeny: “And you sound afraid of being seen.”

Host: The words hung in the air like smoke. Jack exhaled, the smoke twisting, disappearing into the fading light. His jaw tightened — the kind of tension that came not from anger, but from recognition.

Jack: “You think I don’t see myself, Jeeny? I see too much. Every failure, every selfish act, every time I walked away when I should’ve stayed. You call that being human — I call it being a coward.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re halfway there. At least you see both sides of yourself. Most people never even look.”

Host: A silence followed, the kind that doesn’t feel empty, but full — like a storm gathering before it breaks.

Jack: “You know who reminds me of Whitman? Gandhi.”

Jeeny: “Gandhi?”

Jack: “Yeah. Everyone remembers the peace and the patience. But they forget he was also controlling, even cruel at times — to his wife, to himself. The man preached purity and lived in contradiction. Yet somehow, the world still calls him saint.”

Jeeny: “Because his contradictions didn’t erase his goodness — they proved it. If someone as flawed as Gandhi could still dedicate himself to compassion, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just hypocrisy dressed in robes. The same way politicians talk about integrity while taking bribes. We’re all trying to polish our masks while pretending it’s our face.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t the effort what counts? Isn’t trying to be better — even if we fall short — what separates us from what’s worst in us?”

Host: The river shimmered, reflecting a sky that was now a bruise of purple and blue. Birds crossed in a loose formation, their cries fading into the distance. The bridge lights flickered on, one by one, like quiet revelations.

Jack: “You ever notice, Jeeny, that the people who talk most about goodness are often the ones who’ve done the worst things?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they talk about it because they’re trying to understand it — to forgive themselves. Like Whitman. Like all of us.”

Jack: “Forgive themselves, or justify themselves?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes there’s no difference. Forgiveness is a kind of justification — it’s saying, ‘Yes, I was wrong, but I still deserve to keep walking.’”

Host: Jack flicked his cigarette into the river, watching it spiral like a falling star before it died in the current. His reflection wavered on the surface, fragmented by the ripples — two faces, one of light, one of shadow.

Jack: “You think you’re both as bad as the worst and as good as the best?”

Jeeny: “I know I am. I’ve been cruel when I thought I was being kind. I’ve lied to protect the truth. I’ve loved people I shouldn’t have, and turned away from those who needed me most. But I’ve also forgiven, and fought, and believed. Isn’t that the whole story?”

Jack: “Sounds like you’re giving yourself too much credit.”

Jeeny: “And you give yourself none. That’s your problem, Jack — you think guilt is honesty. It’s not. It’s just another mask.”

Host: A faint thunder rumbled far away. The sky darkened, but neither of them moved. The bridge lights shimmered against their faces, painting them in gold and shadow, two figures caught between what they had been and what they might still become.

Jack: “You really believe we’re as good as the best?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because even the best were as flawed as us. They just refused to be defined by their flaws. Look at Whitman himself — people called him immoral, vulgar, indecent. But he looked at humanity and saw himself in everyone — the sinner and the saint, the beggar and the poet. He didn’t divide them. He embraced them.”

Jack: “So you think acceptance is the cure?”

Jeeny: “Not the cure — the beginning. You can’t heal what you keep hating.”

Host: Jack turned, finally meeting her eyes. There was a flicker of vulnerability there — the kind that hides behind sarcasm for years until something breaks it open.

Jack: “What if the worst in me outweighs the best?”

Jeeny: “Then be grateful that you still know the difference. That means your best is still alive — even if it’s buried.”

Host: The river’s reflection trembled, broken by a sudden raindrop. One. Then another. The first drops of a new shower began to fall, soft, deliberate, as if the sky itself had joined their conversation.

Jack: “You really think redemption is that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not simple. It’s endless. Every day you decide which side of yourself you’ll feed. Some days you win. Some days you lose. But as long as you keep choosing, you’re still good enough.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder, soaking them, but neither sought shelter. Lightning flashed briefly across the river, turning their faces silver. Jeeny laughed softly, her hair plastered to her cheeks, her eyes bright.

Jack: “You’re insane.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But so was Whitman. And look what he left behind — a world that believes it can be both fallen and holy.”

Host: The storm gathered, but their voices rose above it — quiet, real, and human.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what scares me — that I might never be one or the other. Just stuck in between.”

Jeeny: “That’s where everyone lives, Jack — in between. The worst thing we can do is pretend we’re not both.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving the air clean, the river alive with reflected light. Jack’s eyes softened, the edge of his mouth curling into a faint smile — the kind that doesn’t erase pain but makes peace with it.

Jack: “So maybe Whitman wasn’t just forgiving himself. Maybe he was forgiving all of us.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The best and worst in us — all equally human, all equally divine.”

Host: The camera would pull back now, if there were one — two figures on a bridge, the world wet and glimmering around them, the river below carrying its eternal song. Above them, the clouds broke, and a faint light appeared — not sunrise, not yet, but a hint of something that promised it would come.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like a fraud.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you finally stopped trying to be pure.”

Host: The scene faded on the sound of rainwater dripping, the city humming, and two souls standing still, caught in that sacred balance between their darkness and their light — as bad as the worst, and, thank God, as good as the best.