I don't want to go on stage with anger. And that's why I worked

Host: The night hung heavy over the small theater, its marquee lights flickering like dying stars in the foggy air. Rain had just stopped, leaving the pavement slick, reflecting the neon blue of the sign above: The Old Lantern. Inside, the air was thick with dust, coffee, and the faint tune of a piano played somewhere in the back room. Jack sat at the edge of the stage, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand, his grey eyes staring into the darkness beyond the footlights. Jeeny sat beside him, her coat draped over her shoulders, her dark hair damp, her fingers intertwined as if holding a thought too fragile to speak.

Jeeny: “You ever feel like the stage changes you, Jack? Like it’s a mirror, showing not who you are, but what you still hide?”

Jack: “A mirror? No. It’s a mask. You put it on, you perform, you get paid, and you go home. It’s not therapy, Jeeny. It’s a job.”

Host: The sound of a loose cable hummed softly as the lights dimmed, leaving only the blue glow across their faces.

Jeeny: “Carlos Mencia once said, ‘I don’t want to go on stage with anger. That’s why I worked so hard to look within, to change myself, to evolve.’” She looked up, her eyes glimmering with the reflected light. “That’s what I mean, Jack. He saw that his art carried his soul, not just his words. If he stepped on stage with anger, that anger spread. If he healed, his audience did too.”

Jack: “That’s a beautiful illusion. But let’s be honest — anger is what makes truth sharp. You think Picasso wasn’t angry when he painted Guernica? You think Martin Luther King didn’t carry rage when he marched? Anger isn’t poison, Jeeny. It’s fuel.”

Host: The piano stopped. The silence that followed was like a pause in the film, the kind that lets you hear the heartbeat of the scene.

Jeeny: “Fuel, yes. But even fuel burns the engine if you let it run too long. There’s a difference between anger that awakens and anger that consumes. When Mencia said that, he wasn’t rejecting passion, he was rejecting bitterness. He didn’t want his art to be his revenge.”

Jack: “But revenge gets people to listen. Look at Lenny Bruce. His anger tore through the walls of hypocrisy. Or Richard Pryor — he used his rage against racism to shake an entire generation. You think if they had stopped to heal, they’d have made anyone laugh?”

Jeeny: “They didn’t stop to heal, Jack — they transformed it. Pryor’s pain wasn’t vomited onto his audience; it was sculpted into humor, truth, and humanity. That’s what evolution is — not numbing the anger, but refining it.”

Host: The rain began again, softly tapping against the windows. The stage lights flickered, casting their shadows long and uncertain across the empty seats.

Jack: “You talk about refinement like it’s some kind of alchemy. But people don’t change. Not really. We just learn to hide better. You can’t evolve out of your nature.”

Jeeny: “But what is nature, Jack? Is it the thing you feel, or the thing you choose? Gandhi was once filled with hatred. He wanted to fight with violence — until he didn’t. He changed. He looked inward and evolved. That’s not hiding — that’s awakening.”

Jack: “You always pick saints. Let’s talk about reality. You think the average man has the luxury to look inward? To ‘evolve’? He’s trying to survive. Anger keeps him alive — keeps him standing when the world knocks him down.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem. We call survival strength, but it’s just exhaustion in disguise. Evolution isn’t about luxury; it’s about responsibility. When we’re angry, we infect everyone around us. You think a comedian stepping on stage with hate doesn’t shape his audience’s hearts?”

Jack: “Maybe they need it. Maybe the audience wants someone to voice their rage, to scream what they can’t. That’s catharsis, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s contagion. Catharsis comes from understanding, not spreading fire. You don’t have to bleed on everyone to prove you’re wounded.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his hands curling around the glass, the amber liquid trembling with the weight of his thoughts. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes glowed with fervor, like a candle burning through dark fog.

Jack: “You think I don’t know what anger does? I’ve been there — on stage, off stage, everywhere. But when I used that anger, people finally heard me. They clapped. They said I was ‘real.’ Isn’t that what art’s supposed to be — real?”

Jeeny: “Real doesn’t mean raw. It means honest. You can be honest without being hurtful. There’s a moment when the pain stops being truth and starts being addiction. You start needing it to feel alive.”

Host: A train whistle echoed in the distance, faint and melancholic, cutting through the silence. The theater clock ticked like a metronome of their unspoken memories.

Jack: “Maybe I am addicted to it. Maybe I need that anger because it’s the only thing that still feels honest. Everything else — the smiles, the small talk, the ‘growth’ — it’s all performance.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just it, Jack. The performance isn’t the enemy. The mask can become a mirror, if you’re brave enough to look. You can’t stay angry forever — you’ll burn out. And when you do, what will you have left?”

Jack: “A quiet stage. Empty seats. Silence.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that silence is where evolution begins.”

Host: For a moment, the air stilled. The piano player returned, his fingers pressing a slow, melancholy tune that filled the space with memory. The rain softened to a mist, as if the world itself was listening.

Jack: “So you’re saying — if I let go of the anger, I’ll find something… deeper?”

Jeeny: “Not just deeper — freer. Anger is a cage that makes you think you’re flying. But when you let it go, you finally see how small it really was.”

Jack: “And what if that anger is all that’s kept me from falling apart?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to fall apart — so you can rebuild, not just perform. That’s what Mencia meant. To go on stage without anger is to stand as someone who’s faced himself, not hidden behind the mask.”

Host: The piano stopped again, but this time the silence felt alive — as if it had been earned. Jack’s eyes softened, the steel in them melting into something human, tired, but understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the stage isn’t where we show our anger. Maybe it’s where we show our evolution.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world has enough rage. What it needs now is transformation.”

Host: A single spotlight flickered on above them, casting a pale circle of light around their shadows. Outside, the rain stopped. The night air cleared, and the distant sound of the city rose again — soft, steady, alive.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe that’s the hardest kind of performance — to walk on stage without anger, without armor, and still be true.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the hardest, Jack. It’s the bravest.”

Host: And as the lights dimmed, they sat there — two souls in a theater long past midnight, surrounded by shadows, echoes, and the ghosts of words once spoken. The silence between them wasn’t empty — it was whole, like the moment after a storm when the world exhales, and for the first time, listens.