I just make it my business to get along with people so I can have

Host: The evening light bled through the open windows of a small seaside diner. The sound of waves brushed gently against the shore, merging with the distant laughter of a few tourists scattered along the boardwalk. A neon sign flickered above the counter, its red glow trembling on the chrome surfaces like a heartbeat refusing to stop.
Jack sat near the window, his hands clasped around a half-empty cup of coffee, eyes cold and restless, as if searching for a reason to stay. Jeeny, across from him, leaned forward with that quiet curiosity she always carried — the kind that softened storms.

Jeeny: “You look like you’re about to argue with the ocean, Jack.”

Jack: smirking slightly “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just tired of pretending that getting along with everyone is some kind of holy mission.”

Host: Her eyebrows lifted, her fingers brushing a crumb from the table as if tidying the space before a storm.

Jeeny: “You mean you don’t believe in it? In just trying to get along — for the sake of a little peace, a little fun?”

Jack: “Betty White said that, didn’t she? ‘I just make it my business to get along with people so I can have fun.’ Sounds cute, but it’s naïve. Life’s not a sitcom. You can’t just ‘get along’ your way through betrayal, politics, greed.”

Jeeny: “So you think she was wrong?”

Jack: “I think she was lucky. Some people live in worlds where kindness isn’t currency — it’s a liability. Try ‘getting along’ in a boardroom full of vultures or in a war zone. You’ll end up devoured or dead.”

Host: The wind hissed against the windowpane, rattling the frames like an uninvited memory. Jeeny’s eyes shimmered in the flicker of neon, half sadness, half defiance.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly the point? To try anyway? Maybe Betty wasn’t being naïve — maybe she was wise enough to know that joy itself is a rebellion. You get along not because everyone deserves it, but because it keeps your spirit alive.”

Jack: “That’s a pretty slogan. But in the real world, it’s the ones who draw lines who survive. People walk all over the ‘get-along’ types.”

Jeeny: “And yet, who do people remember, Jack? The ones who built walls, or the ones who built bridges?”

Host: The silence hung for a moment, long enough for the sound of a distant jukebox to fill the air. The song was old — something from the sixties, soft, hopeful, carrying that strange mix of melancholy and youth.

Jack: “History remembers both. Look at Churchill — he didn’t ‘get along’; he stood firm, even arrogant. And he saved a nation. You think peace alone wins wars?”

Jeeny: “No. But love prevents them. Think of Nelson Mandela. He had every reason to hate — but he chose understanding. That was his revolution. Not power. Not revenge. Just getting along.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. The faint light caught the edges of his face, giving it a shadowed depth, like a statue cracked by time. He leaned back, exhaling smoke from a cigarette that burned like a thought too long held.

Jack: “Mandela was exceptional. Most people aren’t saints. You try that in an office, or in love — you get used, lied to, walked over.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t it better to be used for kindness than preserved by cruelty? You talk about survival — I talk about living. There’s a difference.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but the words carried a fire that could warm or burn. Jack’s eyes flicked up, the smoke curling between them like a curtain of doubt.

Jack: “So you’d rather lose every argument just to keep everyone smiling?”

Jeeny: “Not every argument. Just the ones that cost my peace. I’ve seen too many people win battles and lose themselves.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, light at first, then steady, tracing silver rivers down the glass. The air changed — softer, more honest. Jack’s fingers drummed against the table, restless.

Jack: “You really think getting along brings joy? Isn’t that just conforming? Pretending you’re okay with things you’re not?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s choosing which fights matter. It’s self-control, not surrender.”

Jack: “Sounds like a compromise with your own truth.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s learning that truth isn’t a weapon. It’s a bridge.”

Host: Her words lingered, and for a moment, Jack said nothing. He just stared at the raindrops, watching them collide and merge, forming small streams that ran toward the edges of the window — separate but together.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But maybe that’s what makes it worth it.”

Jack: “You really believe that people can just… get along? With all the cruelty, all the noise, all the lies?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But I believe that every time we try, we tilt the world a little closer to peace. Isn’t that something?”

Host: Jack’s laugh was low, almost tired, but it wasn’t cruel this time — more like a man admiring a hope he’d forgotten how to carry.

Jack: “You make it sound like fun.”

Jeeny: “It can be. That’s what Betty meant, I think. To find joy in connection — not perfection.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, a steady rhythm on the roof. The waitress passed by, refilling their cups, the steam rising, curling like unspoken thoughts.

Jack: “You know… there was this man I worked with years ago — cynical as hell. Hated everyone. He said people were only out for themselves. But one day, his wife died. And suddenly, everyone — the ones he mocked, the ones he ignored — showed up. Cooked meals, helped his kids, stayed with him. He cried when he realized he’d spent years avoiding the only thing that could’ve saved him.”

Jeeny: “And what was that?”

Jack: quietly “Getting along.”

Host: The words sat between them like a confession, heavy and light all at once. The rain softened. The neon sign outside flickered one last time, then stabilized — its red glow calm, unwavering.

Jeeny: “See, Jack? Maybe getting along isn’t about pretending. It’s about remembering that people are all we’ve got.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I just forgot how to have fun.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Then let’s start now.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, past the rain, up into the night sky where the lights of the boardwalk shimmered like tiny stars refusing to die.
Inside the diner, two figures sat across from each other — one learning how to believe, the other reminding him why it mattered.
And in that quiet place between cynicism and faith, between logic and laughter, they found something rare — a small, defiant kind of peace that, for a moment, felt like fun.