I don't need to drive. I have no business driving. I would never

Host: The night pressed down heavy and humid, a soft electric hum in the city air. Neon lights blinked lazily outside a 24-hour gas station, washing everything in flickering reds and blues. A broken sign buzzed overhead: “OPEN ALWAYS.” The parking lot shimmered with puddles from an earlier rain.

Jack leaned against a dented car, cigarette in hand, his grey eyes half-lost in thought. Jeeny stood across from him, sipping from a paper coffee cup, her hair tangled by the wind, her eyes alive with that mix of irony and warmth she carried everywhere she went.

Host: A few headlights passed in the distance — lonely, aimless — like thoughts looking for somewhere to park.

Jeeny: “Marilyn Manson once said, ‘I don’t need to drive. I have no business driving. I would never be able to find my keys.’”

Jack: (grinning) “That’s the most honest thing the man’s ever said.”

Jeeny: “You think he meant it literally?”

Jack: “With Manson? Everything literal’s metaphorical, and everything metaphorical’s confession.”

Host: The wind caught the edge of Jack’s coat, flapping it like an afterthought. He took another drag, then exhaled toward the moon — or maybe just toward the idea of it.

Jeeny: “You know what I think he meant? Control. Or the lack of it. He’s admitting he shouldn’t steer — not cars, not life, not anything.”

Jack: “You’re turning a joke into philosophy again.”

Jeeny: “Everything worth laughing at hides something worth crying about.”

Jack: (nodding) “Fair point. Maybe he’s saying self-awareness is safer than freedom. He knows he’d crash the minute he got behind the wheel.”

Host: The neon from the gas station sign painted their faces in alternating blue and pink. Behind them, an old radio crackled with a forgotten rock song.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what everyone does? Pretend they can drive when they can barely navigate themselves?”

Jack: “Exactly. Life’s one long highway filled with people who think they have somewhere to go but are just circling the block.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a retired cynic.”

Jack: “No, just a cautious passenger.”

Host: She laughed — the kind of laugh that could light up even a gas station at midnight.

Jeeny: “You’d rather ride shotgun forever?”

Jack: “Maybe. Let someone else take the wheel. I’ve spent half my life trying to steer things I don’t understand — jobs, people, fate — and all I did was skid on black ice.”

Jeeny: “So you’ve become Manson — self-disqualified from driving?”

Jack: “No. I just finally realized not everyone’s meant to hold the map.”

Host: A truck rolled by, splashing puddles, its tires whispering through the wet street. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and rain — both promise and residue.

Jeeny: “You know, I envy that kind of honesty. Most people would rather fake competence than admit they’d get lost.”

Jack: “That’s the curse of pride — everyone’s pretending to know the way, but all the signs are written in someone else’s language.”

Jeeny: “And if you admit you’re lost, the world treats you like you’re broken.”

Jack: “When really, being lost is just proof you’re still looking.”

Host: The fluorescent light from the convenience store flickered, then steadied — like a pulse finding rhythm again.

Jeeny: “You know, I’ve always hated driving. The control, the speed, the way every mistake feels fatal. Maybe that’s why I walk everywhere — it feels more human to move slow.”

Jack: “There’s wisdom in that. Nobody gets anywhere faster than time anyway.”

Jeeny: “And time never loses its keys.”

Jack: (smirking) “No, but it keeps taking ours.”

Host: Silence fell again — the kind that wasn’t awkward, just necessary. The world around them seemed suspended, every sound holding its breath.

Jeeny: “You think Manson’s quote is a cop-out or confession?”

Jack: “Both. He’s mocking himself before anyone else can. It’s protection — the armor of irony. Say the truth like a joke and nobody makes you bleed for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what humor really is, isn’t it? Truth in drag.”

Jack: “Exactly. And he’s a master of it. He admits his chaos — wears it like fashion. The rest of us hide ours and call it responsibility.”

Jeeny: “So what’s the better way to live — laughing at your dysfunction or pretending you’ve fixed it?”

Jack: “Depends which one keeps you from crashing.”

Host: The radio changed songs — something old and slow now, a melody that felt like memory. Jeeny looked at the sky, where the clouds had started to break, revealing thin strips of silver light.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people love him — Manson, I mean. Because he says what most people are afraid to admit: that the steering wheel terrifies them.”

Jack: “Or worse — that the car’s moving either way, with or without them.”

Jeeny: “So, what’s the answer then? Stop trying to drive?”

Jack: “No. Learn to ride in the chaos. Let the road take you somewhere unexpected.”

Jeeny: “That sounds dangerous.”

Jack: “So does living.”

Host: She smiled at that, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger — the motion slow, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You think you’d ever let go like that?”

Jack: “Maybe. If I trusted the driver.”

Jeeny: “And who’s that?”

Jack: “Fate, maybe. Or just whoever remembers where the keys are.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the station sign, making the word “OPEN” blink uncertainly. They both looked up, caught in its rhythm — flicker, pause, flicker.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something poetic about that — admitting you’re not built to steer. It’s humility disguised as madness.”

Jack: “Or freedom disguised as failure.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, sometimes.”

Host: The cigarette burned down between Jack’s fingers. He dropped it into the puddle, where it hissed and died in a small puff of smoke.

Jack: “You know, Manson might be the sanest man in the madhouse. He knows he shouldn’t drive — and that’s why he never crashes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we could all use that kind of wisdom.”

Jack: “Maybe wisdom’s just the courage to admit you’re not in control.”

Host: The lights dimmed one last time, their colors flickering like indecision. The world smelled of rain and asphalt and the quiet relief of confession.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… maybe life’s not about finding the keys. Maybe it’s about realizing you were never locked out.”

Jack: “That’s dangerously hopeful.”

Jeeny: “Hope’s the only thing worth driving toward.”

Host: The two of them laughed softly, their voices carrying into the empty lot — small sounds swallowed by the endless hum of the city.

Host: And as the night deepened, they stood together beneath the failing light — two figures who knew, at last, that maybe losing your keys wasn’t the problem.

Host: The problem was pretending you’d ever needed them to move forward in the first place.