I believe that the Laws of Karma do not apply to show business

Host: The bar was dim, bathed in a weak amber glow from a string of old bulbs dangling like forgotten stars above chipped wooden tables. A slow jazz tune hummed from a dusty speaker, its notes curling lazily through the smoke-filled air. Outside, the city pulsed with its usual midnight energy — taxis flashing, lovers arguing, rain threatening but never falling. Jack sat hunched over a glass of whiskey, the ice melting into pale gold. Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a mug of cooling coffee, her eyes dark, reflecting both the room’s faint light and the fatigue of a long day.

Host: They’d just left a late-night screening — a new film about a famous actor who’d been exposed for everything from fraud to cruelty, yet still had a sold-out audience cheering his name. Chuck Lorre’s words lingered in the air between them like the smoke — cynical, sharp, and somehow true.

Jeeny: “You really believe that, Jack? That the laws of karma just… stop at the edge of a red carpet?”

Jack: chuckling softly, swirling his drink “I don’t believe they stop there, Jeeny. I believe they were never invited in. Show business isn’t a temple — it’s a marketplace. Karma’s too slow for the speed of ego and money.”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, watching the way the light caught the edge of his glass, the liquid shifting like a tiny, captive sunset.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying there’s no justice? No moral gravity holding people accountable? That the universe just lets the cruel become the celebrated?”

Jack: “Not lets — rewards them. The whole industry thrives on illusion. The ones who fake it best rise highest. You think it’s about talent or truth? It’s about narrative — who can control the story. Karma doesn’t write the script — PR does.”

Host: A flicker of neon from the sign outside washed their faces in pale blue, as if they sat under an indifferent sky.

Jeeny: “But you can’t tell me the universe doesn’t balance it somehow. Maybe not publicly, but internally. You can’t live that kind of lie forever without it breaking you. Haven’t you seen it? The ones who seem untouchable — they end up empty, addicted, haunted. Karma doesn’t always punish in public.”

Jack: “Haunted? Sure. But they still die rich. They still get applause, awards, biographies. People remember their work, not their wreckage. Look at Hollywood’s history — men like Weinstein, Spacey, Chaplin even. For every scandal, there’s a rerun of their ‘masterpieces.’ You think the universe really cares about the Oscars?”

Host: The bar door creaked open. A gust of cold wind slipped through, brushing against Jeeny’s hair, lifting it like a dark wave before settling again. The bartender nodded to a lone man in a trench coat who slipped into the shadows at the far end.

Jeeny: “It’s not about the Oscars, Jack. It’s about the soul. Karma doesn’t measure awards; it measures energy. What you put out — cruelty, love, deceit — it finds you. Maybe not this year, maybe not in headlines, but it finds you. You can’t outrun the mirror.”

Jack: leaning forward, his voice low, sardonic “You sound like a priest with a screenplay. But tell me, where was karma when Harvey Weinstein ruled half of Hollywood for three decades? Where was it when Marilyn Monroe begged for respect and was broken instead? If karma’s real, it’s got terrible timing.”

Jeeny: eyes narrowing slightly “Timing isn’t the point. The lesson is. Karma’s not punishment, Jack. It’s reflection. The world doesn’t exist to serve our sense of justice — it teaches us. Even in show business. Especially there. Look at those stories again — Weinstein, Monroe. Karma didn’t miss them. It revealed them.”

Host: The rain began outside — slow at first, like the hesitant opening of a confession. The sound wrapped around the bar, softening the air, making the space feel smaller, more intimate. Jack stared at his reflection in the glass, the rain’s movement distorting his features into something unfamiliar.

Jack: “So you think revelation is justice?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s all we get. And it’s enough. The curtain always falls, Jack. The show always ends. That’s karma — not in the applause, but in the silence afterward.”

Host: The music shifted — Coltrane now, slow saxophone bending like smoke. The rain outside grew heavier, streaking the window like the fingerprints of the unseen. Jack sighed, his voice softening, though the edge remained.

Jack: “I used to believe that, you know. When I was younger. That if you were good, good things would happen. That the world was some kind of moral equation.”

Jeeny: “What changed?”

Jack: “Reality. I’ve seen men crush others to climb and still get called ‘visionaries.’ I’ve seen actors who treat their crew like dirt win lifetime achievement awards. I’ve seen kindness buried and arrogance crowned. If there’s karma, it’s got bad management.”

Jeeny: gently, almost smiling “Or maybe you’re confusing karma with karma’s PR department. The universe doesn’t post its press releases, Jack. Maybe those same men you call lucky — maybe they can’t sleep. Maybe they drink to forget their reflection. Maybe their applause fades the second the lights go down.”

Host: Jack’s fingers drummed the table — steady, rhythmic, thoughtful. He looked up at her, eyes gray but gentler now.

Jack: “And you think that’s enough? Internal collapse? Private guilt as justice?”

Jeeny: “It’s not justice. It’s consequence. There’s a difference. Justice is human — we crave it, we dramatize it, we film it. Karma’s older. Quieter. It doesn’t care about spectacle. It just… echoes.”

Host: The word “echoes” hung between them — heavy, vibrating, true. The rain outside softened, as if listening.

Jack: “You talk like karma’s a scriptwriter, Jeeny. But if it is, it’s got a dark sense of humor. Look around — reality shows built on humiliation, fame that rewards manipulation. The world doesn’t punish liars; it puts them on billboards.”

Jeeny: “And yet people still cry at films. Still cheer for underdogs. Still believe in redemption. That’s karma too — not the punishment, but the longing for balance. Every story we tell — from tragedies to sitcoms — it’s our way of begging the universe to make sense again.”

Jack: “So art is a form of karma?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even the worst people leave behind truths they didn’t intend. Every performance, every story, is a confession. That’s why Chuck Lorre said what he said — because he knows the stage isn’t sacred. But the act of creating, of expressing… that’s where karma hides. In the parts we can’t fake.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had softened to almost a murmur, like a candle’s last flicker. Jack looked at her, the usual cynicism in his gaze giving way to something quieter — resignation, maybe even understanding.

Jack: “You always find light in the ashes, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “Someone has to. Otherwise we’re just spectators, applauding our own decay.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The bar seemed to exhale — the sound of dripping gutters, the low hum of the refrigerator, the clink of distant glassware. Jack set his drink down, untouched for minutes. He rubbed his thumb along the rim, deep in thought.

Jack: “Maybe karma doesn’t skip show business, Jeeny. Maybe it just uses a slower medium. Fame fades. Stories last. Maybe the real karma is that — one day — the lies get forgotten, but the truths they accidentally reveal… they stay.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every empire built on vanity ends up telling us something real about ourselves. That’s karma’s trick — it turns even corruption into a lesson.”

Host: Outside, the streetlights flickered in puddles, turning reflections of light into trembling fragments. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence now, the argument burned down to embers — the kind of silence that doesn’t end things, but seals them.

Host: In that quiet, the city seemed to listen — its own theater of souls, each under a different spotlight. Some basking. Some hiding. But all, inevitably, part of the same script.

Host: As they rose to leave, the door swung open to the cool night. Jack looked up, feeling the damp air touch his face.

Jack: “Maybe karma doesn’t apply to show business…” he said, almost to himself, “…but maybe show business is karma — for all of us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she replied softly, her eyes catching the faint shimmer of streetlight. “Because in the end, we all perform. And the truth always gets a standing ovation — even if it comes late.”

Host: And with that, they stepped into the wet, glittering night, two silhouettes disappearing into the grand illusion — the show still going on, the city still humming, and somewhere above them, the slow, invisible wheel of karma turning — steady, unseen, and sure.