I had a 'Cats' phase, where I did lots of overturned furniture

Host: The garage was a mess of old props, paint cans, and cardboard cutouts, the kind of beautiful chaos that only dreamers could love. A single string of fairy lights hung overhead, their faint glow reflecting off a dusty mirror with “Broadway or bust” scrawled across it in red lipstick. The air smelled of dust, fabric glue, and childhood ambition.

Host: It was past midnight, and rain tapped on the tin roof like applause from an invisible audience. Jack sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a bent microphone stand that had long lost its base. Across from him, Jeeny stood amid a pile of broken stools and old costumes, her hands covered in glitter.

Host: A faint fog rolled from the corner, spilling across the floor — the result of an old fog machine coughing itself back to life.

Jeeny: (laughing) “You know, Ben Platt once said he had a ‘Cats’ phase — with overturned furniture and trash cans. He even asked for a fog machine for his birthday.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “A fog machine? Sounds like commitment. Or insanity.”

Jeeny: “Both, probably. But isn’t that the best part of growing up? That moment when imagination feels bigger than embarrassment?”

Jack: “You call it imagination. I call it delusion. Dressing up in garbage and pretending to be a cat — that’s not art, that’s a cry for attention.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the world pays millions to see adults do exactly that on stage.”

Jack: (smirks) “Touché.”

Host: The fog thickened, swirling around them like ghosts of childhoods past. Jeeny perched on an overturned bucket, eyes bright, her hair illuminated by the faint glow of the lights.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what I love about it, though. That kind of uninhibited creation. Kids don’t build sets — they build worlds. They don’t perform — they believe.”

Jack: “Until reality shows up and ruins it.”

Jeeny: “Or refines it.”

Jack: “Refines? No. Reality sterilizes it. That wild, beautiful chaos of imagination — it doesn’t survive adulthood. You start worrying about rent, status, logic. You trade your fog machine for a paycheck.”

Host: His voice carried a quiet ache, like a note held too long. The rain outside grew heavier, its rhythm falling in sync with the low hum of the fog machine.

Jeeny: “You say that like growing up is a tragedy. Maybe it’s not about losing that chaos. Maybe it’s about learning when to let it loose again.”

Jack: “And when does that happen? Between tax forms and deadlines?”

Jeeny: “Maybe right here, right now. In a garage full of trash cans and broken lights. Look around you — this is what most people’s dreams look like halfway through: messy, half-built, ridiculous. But it’s still alive.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried the conviction of someone who still believed that creation, no matter how absurd, had its own dignity.

Jack: “You make it sound heroic. Like childhood isn’t something we outgrow, but something we outlive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t outgrow it — you bury it under responsibility until you forget it ever existed. Then, one day, a fog machine reminds you.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You’re really sentimental about smoke and glitter, aren’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. About the courage it takes to be ridiculous.”

Host: The fog machine hissed, filling the space until the lights were halos in the haze. It looked like a low-budget dream sequence — or maybe a memory.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you wanted to be a magician?”

Jack: “Yeah. Until I realized magic tricks don’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they don’t, but they pay something else — the debt of wonder. Every adult owes that to the child they used to be.”

Host: The rain slowed, becoming softer — like applause fading after a performance.

Jack: “You really think there’s value in pretending?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Pretending is how we practice believing. Every actor, every artist — even every entrepreneur — is pretending until someone else sees what they see.”

Jack: “So you’re saying the world belongs to the delusional?”

Jeeny: “No, to the devoted. The ones who ask for fog machines when everyone else asks for permission.”

Host: Her words hung in the fog, luminous and absurdly true. Jack looked down at his hands — once calloused from building things that didn’t last, now empty except for the bent microphone stand.

Jack: “You know, I used to perform too. A school talent show. I sang ‘Rocket Man.’ Forgot the lyrics halfway through. The crowd laughed. I never went back on stage again.”

Jeeny: “And you still remember that moment, don’t you?”

Jack: “Every time I walk into a room full of people.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s your fog machine. The fear that still makes you want to disappear and reappear somewhere you’re brave enough to try again.”

Host: Her words landed softly — not as comfort, but as challenge. Jack met her eyes, and in that gaze was a flicker of something almost forgotten: mischief.

Jack: “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? About imagination as… redemption.”

Jeeny: “Completely. Art redeems the ridiculous. And childhood was our first art form.”

Host: She stood, walking toward the fog machine, fiddling with the switch until it whirred louder, spilling out clouds that caught the light and painted the room in a dreamy blur.

Jeeny: “You see that? That’s what Ben Platt meant — it’s not about cats or chaos. It’s about the joy of making a world that doesn’t have to make sense.”

Jack: “And when the fog clears?”

Jeeny: “Then you see what’s real — and realize it’s better because of what you imagined.”

Host: The fog curled around their legs like smoke from an invisible stage. For a moment, they were both silhouettes — half adults, half children, both suspended in the golden haze of make-believe.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve all been chasing that first applause — the one that said it’s okay to be seen.”

Jeeny: “And maybe growing up doesn’t mean losing it. Maybe it means learning how to give it — to others, to yourself.”

Host: The rain stopped, the silence after almost sacred. The last puff of fog drifted upward, catching in the glow of the fairy lights before dissolving into nothingness.

Jack: “So what now? We rebuild the set?”

Jeeny: “No. We rebuild the courage.”

Host: He laughed — a sound that felt rusty and new at once. The mirror caught their reflections, dim and imperfect, but alive. Behind them, the faded lipstick letters — Broadway or bust — gleamed faintly in the mist.

Host: And in that quiet, whimsical chaos — between overturned furniture and old dreams — they found something truer than nostalgia: the simple, human beauty of still wanting to create.

Host: The fog machine gave one final sigh and fell silent. But the air — the room, the moment, the two of them — still shimmered, as if the world itself had remembered how to pretend again.