I have had the view that cutting wages is not the path to

Host: The factory floor was quiet now — its machines asleep beneath the dim fluorescent light, its air still carrying the scent of oil and metal and the ghosts of work. Outside, the wind pushed softly against the old tin roof, whispering through the cracks like the echo of a day gone by. Jack stood near a rusted lathe, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets, eyes tracing the long, silent rows of workbenches. Jeeny walked beside him, her boots leaving faint prints in the dust.

Host: The shift had ended hours ago, but neither of them could bring themselves to leave. They had come to discuss something deeper than wages — something that pulsed beneath every pay slip and every contract.

Jack: “John Howard once said he never believed in lower wages. Never believed in them as a path to prosperity.”
Jeeny: “Strange, isn’t it? That someone who led an era of labor reform had to defend that belief at all.”
Jack: “Strange? No. Predictable. Everyone wants prosperity, but no one wants to pay for it.”

Host: Jack’s voice was gravel — the sound of someone who’d spent too many nights staring at spreadsheets and balance sheets until the numbers blurred into moral questions.

Jeeny: “So you think higher wages are bad for business?”
Jack: “I think unchecked wages are bad for survival. A company that can’t sustain its own payroll doesn’t lift anyone — it collapses. Prosperity means staying alive first.”
Jeeny: “And staying alive means shrinking dreams, is that it?”

Host: She stepped closer, her eyes fierce beneath the harsh industrial light, her shadow falling across a discarded wrench. The air between them tightened, heavy with old arguments.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, this isn’t poetry. When productivity drops and wages rise, something breaks. It’s math, not morality.”
Jeeny: “Math without morality builds pyramids out of people’s backs. You measure worth in efficiency; I measure it in dignity. The two aren’t the same.”
Jack: “Dignity doesn’t pay suppliers.”
Jeeny: “But it builds loyalty, purpose, and pride — and that does drive productivity, whether you admit it or not.”

Host: The lights flickered, casting long, trembling shadows along the walls. A piece of metal clinked to the floor in the distance — the sound of something small but true, falling into the silence.

Jeeny: “Remember Henry Ford? Everyone called him insane when he doubled his workers’ wages. But that decision made the assembly line more efficient, the product better, the market bigger. He understood something you forget — that prosperity starts at the bottom and works its way up.”
Jack: “Ford was building cars in a different world. That kind of move today would bankrupt half the industry.”
Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it would save it — if we remembered that people aren’t just costs to cut but forces to multiply.”

Host: Her words echoed faintly against the metal walls, each syllable bouncing like a hammer tapping the same stubborn truth. Jack turned away, running a hand along the cold edge of a worktable.

Jack: “You think I like cutting costs? I don’t. But you can’t ignore economics just because your heart hurts.”
Jeeny: “And you can’t ignore humanity just because your numbers do.”

Host: The air was dense now, humming with invisible tension — the kind that could break or bind, depending on which way the next word fell.

Jack: “John Howard wasn’t wrong. Lower wages aren’t prosperity. But neither are promises you can’t afford. The truth’s somewhere in the middle — uncomfortable, unfriendly, and unsentimental.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the truth that’s uncomfortable, Jack — maybe it’s us. We’ve built an economy that treats empathy like a luxury.”
Jack: “And built movements that treat profit like a crime.”
Jeeny: “Because sometimes profit is a crime — when it feeds off silence, when it forgets the faces behind the figures.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands were trembling now, not from anger but from something deeper — conviction wrapped in fatigue. Jack noticed, and for the first time, his voice softened.

Jack: “You think I don’t care, but I do. Every cut, every decision — it costs me, too. I see the families, the exhaustion. But if we keep everyone happy and the company fails, what do we have left?”
Jeeny: “Faith. Integrity. The kind of legacy that doesn’t vanish when the market shifts.”
Jack: “You can’t deposit integrity in a bank.”
Jeeny: “No, but you can build a future on it. That’s what prosperity really is — not profit today, but purpose tomorrow.”

Host: The factory lights hummed again, steady now, as though even the machinery had paused to listen. Outside, the wind began to rise, its low howl threading through the metal walls like a voice of reason neither could quite claim.

Jack: “You sound like one of those union pamphlets from the seventies.”
Jeeny: “And you sound like every executive who forgets why the unions existed.”
Jack: “Because the world changed.”
Jeeny: “No. Because greed didn’t.”

Host: The words hit him harder than she intended. For a moment, his shoulders sank, his eyes turning toward the flicker of a single lightbulb swaying overhead.

Jack: “You think John Howard had it easy saying that? ‘Never believed in lower wages.’ He said it because he saw what happens when people lose faith in fairness. He was defending balance — not idealism.”
Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve lost that balance. Maybe we’ve mistaken fear for pragmatism.”
Jack: “Fear keeps businesses alive.”
Jeeny: “So does courage.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that bends time and thins the distance between two people. Jack exhaled slowly, his breath fogging faintly in the cold.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’ve been cutting too deep, too often. Not just wages — but spirit.”
Jeeny: “It’s not too late to stop.”
Jack: “It’s never too late, is it?”
Jeeny: “Not if we remember who we’re building for.”

Host: The wind outside had turned into a gentle breeze, brushing softly against the factory walls, whispering like forgiveness. Jeeny walked to the control panel and switched on a row of lights. One by one, the machines flickered back to life, their dull steel glowing golden under the warmth of the lamps.

Jeeny: “Look at them, Jack. They’ll hum again tomorrow. People will come back. This place will breathe. But only if they believe it’s worth their effort — and that means believing in themselves.”
Jack: “You talk like hope is currency.”
Jeeny: “It is. It’s just undervalued.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, almost despite himself. The smile didn’t erase the fatigue, but it did something rarer — it restored a trace of human warmth to his face. He turned, looking across the vast, glowing expanse of the factory — not as a cost center, but as a living system of people, dreams, and effort.

Jack: “So maybe that’s the one thing that matters — not cutting wages, not raising them blindly, but keeping faith. In the people, in the process.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Because prosperity isn’t about paying less — it’s about valuing more.”

Host: Outside, the first light of dawn began to bloom over the city’s skyline, soft and gold, spilling through the cracks of the old roof. The machines hummed softly — steady, patient, alive. And in that quiet moment, between the echo of industry and the whisper of hope, it was clear: prosperity was never a number. It was a rhythm — one built on trust, fairness, and the shared heartbeat of human labor.