I got very famous for a minute and then it just all went away

Host: The bar was nearly empty. It was one of those places that still smelled faintly of the seventies — wooden panels, dim bulbs, a jukebox that hadn’t worked right since before smartphones. Outside, the rain made the streets shine like glass, and the sign over the door — The Blue Kettle — flickered uncertainly in the wind.

At the back of the room, under the halo of a single yellow light, Jack sat with a half-empty glass of whiskey, his grey eyes locked on the slow swirl of the amber liquid. His face was sharp but tired, the kind of tired that goes beyond sleep. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, the steam rising like a fragile ghost between them.

The jukebox clicked and sputtered — and then, as if by accident or fate, a song began: “Overkill” by Colin Hay. The familiar voice, older now, rasped through the static, carrying with it both melancholy and grace.

When the song ended, Jeeny said softly, “Did you ever hear what he said in that interview once?”

Jack: “About fame?”

Jeeny nodded. “‘I got very famous for a minute, and then it just all went away… You’ve got to pick yourself up and dust yourself off and start again.’”

Jack: “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the story of everyone who’s ever flown too close to the lights.”

Jeeny: “You sound bitter.”

Jack: “No. Just realistic. The world doesn’t owe anyone permanence. One day you’re on top of the hill — next day, you’re the dirt sliding off it.”

Host: The bartender, an older man with a worn face and steady hands, wiped down the counter, listening without listening. The soft clink of glass punctuated their words like the rhythm of memory.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like loss is the only truth left.”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Fame, love, youth — they all fade. You spend your life building a name, and then one morning you wake up and realize the echo’s gone. What’s left then?”

Jeeny: “You start again.”

Jack looked at her sharply.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s human. That’s what Hay meant — not that you forget what you lost, but that you refuse to let it define the rest of your story.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming softly against the window. The faint neon reflected on the table, dividing their faces into patches of light and shadow.

Jack: “You ever notice how the world loves a comeback story — but never helps you make one?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the world doesn’t owe us redemption. We have to claim it ourselves.”

Jack: “Claim it?” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “You think you can just walk away from twenty years of failure and say, ‘I’m new again’? You think time forgives?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said quietly. “But it forgets. Eventually. And when it does, it gives you a clean page — if you’re brave enough to write again.”

Host: Jack leaned back, eyes narrowing. The whiskey glinted like fire in the dim light. He stared at it for a long time before speaking.

Jack: “Colin Hay was lucky. He got to start again with music. He found another voice — older, but honest. Most people just fade without a second act.”

Jeeny: “That’s not luck, Jack. That’s will. Do you think it didn’t hurt him — watching the crowds disappear, the band break, the name dissolve? He still showed up. Every night. Bar after bar. He played until the silence listened again.”

Jack: “And if the silence never listens?”

Jeeny: “Then you sing anyway.”

Host: The wind outside howled briefly through the narrow alley, shaking the sign over the door. The sound of the rain softened, as if pausing to hear them. Jeeny’s voice was low but steady.

Jeeny: “Do you know what the saddest thing in the world is?”

Jack: “You’re about to tell me.”

Jeeny: “It’s not falling. It’s refusing to get up because no one’s watching.”

Jack: “You talk like life’s a stage.”

Jeeny: “It is. But the audience isn’t the world, Jack. It’s you.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a moment — the truth in her words unsettling, almost cruel in its simplicity. He looked down at his hands, the lines on them like a map of things lost.

Jack: “I used to think the applause meant something — that it proved I mattered.”

Jeeny: “It does mean something. But it’s not proof. It’s reflection. You have to matter to yourself before the echoes ever reach back.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s never failed.”

Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “I fail every day. But I still show up. That’s all ‘starting again’ means. Not winning. Showing up.”

Host: The bartender passed by, refilling their glasses without asking. Outside, the rain thinned to a mist, and the city lights began to flicker brighter — like small acts of persistence against the dark.

Jack: “You ever think maybe some people just aren’t built for the second act?”

Jeeny: “Then they’re built for teaching others how to write theirs.”

Jack: “You believe in purpose that much?”

Jeeny: “I believe in motion. Even grief moves if you let it.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders slumped, his voice softer now — not angry, just tired.

Jack: “I’ve been moving so long, I don’t even know if I’m going forward anymore.”

Jeeny: “Forward isn’t a direction, Jack. It’s a decision.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple again.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Complex things only look that way when you’re standing still.”

Host: The jukebox clicked again, and the same song began to replay — but this time, quieter, as though it were singing from the past. Colin Hay’s voice wove through the air like an old friend:
“I can’t get to sleep... I think about the implications...”

Jack closed his eyes, listening. The melody hit something deep — not nostalgia, but recognition.

Jack: “You know... maybe that’s the real tragedy. Not that things end, but that we stop believing we can begin again.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s the real miracle — that we can.”

Host: She leaned forward, her eyes meeting his — steady, warm, unafraid.

Jeeny: “He said he picked himself up after twenty years, Jack. Twenty years. Imagine the courage that takes. Imagine waking up every day to silence, and still finding a way to sing.”

Jack: “You think I could do that?”

Jeeny: “I think you already are. You just don’t hear your own song yet.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped entirely. The air was still, washed clean. The lights from passing cars reflected in the wet street, painting it gold and red.

Jack looked toward the window. He smiled faintly — a tired, quiet kind of smile, like the first crack in a wall that had stood too long.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny? I think I used to hate the idea of starting over. Now I think it’s the only thing that keeps us alive.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every breath, every morning, every time we choose not to stay broken — that’s the encore.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “It always is.”

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights a little more. The song on the jukebox faded to silence. The two sat quietly, their reflections caught in the window — older, humbler, but still here.

Jack raised his glass slightly. “To second acts.”

Jeeny clinked her cup against it. “To courage that never sells tickets.”

Host: And as they drank, the world outside began again — quiet, uncelebrated, but alive.

Somewhere in that simple stillness, the truth of Colin Hay’s words found new breath:
That fame fades, time erases, but persistence — soft, unseen, human — keeps the music alive.

And in that bar, on that quiet rain-polished night, the encore was already playing.