I like to mind my business when it comes to other people's

Host: The sun was low, a bruised orange haze bleeding through the skyline of the city’s west side. A barbershop radio hummed old-school hip-hop, its bass thudding through the cracked tile floor. The air smelled of talc, sweat, and sharpened blades. In the corner, a fan creaked, spinning slow and tired, like it had seen too many fights break out to care anymore.

Jack leaned against the mirror, a half-lit cigarette dangling between his fingers, the smoke curling lazy halos above his head. Jeeny sat in the barber’s chair, her legs crossed, her eyes fixed on him — calm, yet carrying the kind of fire that burns without heat.

The streets outside were buzzing, a crowd gathering near the corner store — voices rising, phones out, everyone waiting for something to go down.

Jeeny: “You’re not gonna step in?”

Jack: “Step in? For what? That’s their drama. I’m not the referee of other people’s bad decisions.”

Jeeny: “You heard what Scarface said: ‘I like to mind my business when it comes to other people’s business, especially when it comes to beef.’ Sounds like you’ve made that your gospel.”

Jack: “Damn right. You ever seen someone jump into a fight that wasn’t theirs and come out clean? I haven’t. People love playing hero until the blood hits their shoes.”

Host: A distant shout echoed from the street. The crowd shifted like a wave, surging, pulling back, waiting. The neon sign above the door flickered, its red letters sputtering: Fade Kingz.

Jeeny: “But that’s how neighborhoods rot, Jack. Everyone just stands there, watching someone else’s pain like it’s a show. You can’t call it community if nobody bleeds for each other.”

Jack: “Community? That word’s been sold, Jeeny. People only remember community when they’re the ones who need saving. The rest of the time, it’s survival. You mind your business, you stay alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s not survival, that’s cowardice. The people who ‘mind their business’ when injustice happens — they become part of it. Look at history. Look at those who stayed silent during segregation, or those who turned away in Rwanda, in Bosnia. They thought it wasn’t their business either.”

Host: Jack exhaled, a slow stream of smoke sliding between his lips, curling like a question mark in the dim light. His eyes met hers — cold, grey, unreadable.

Jack: “And what did the righteous get for it? Burned, shot, crucified. You don’t save the world by jumping into every war. You just die tired.”

Jeeny: “Then why live at all if you’re just watching others suffer? You think peace comes from silence?”

Jack: “Peace comes from knowing which fights are yours. Not all battles are noble. Some are just noise.”

Host: Outside, a glass bottle shattered. The sound snapped through the room, like the crack of a whip. Jeeny’s shoulders tensed. Jack didn’t move. The barber, an old man with silver hair, looked up briefly, then went back to sweeping.

Jeeny: “So you draw lines around your empathy now?”

Jack: “No, I draw lines around stupidity. People start fights over respect, reputation, or some comment on social media — and suddenly everyone’s supposed to pick a side. I don’t owe my life to anyone’s pride.”

Jeeny: “But it’s not always about pride. Sometimes it’s about protection. Sometimes someone’s getting hurt, and silence becomes consent.”

Jack: “And sometimes stepping in gets more people hurt. You think you’re stopping violence — but all you’re doing is feeding it. That’s the trap. Beef’s like fire — you blow on it, it grows. You ignore it, it burns itself out.”

Host: The radio crackled, the old song fading into silence. The only sound left was the faint murmur of the crowd and the buzz of a dying fluorescent bulb overhead.

Jeeny: “That’s a comfortable philosophy for someone who’s never been the one on the ground.”

Jack: “You think I haven’t? You think I don’t know what it’s like to be the one nobody helps? That’s exactly why I stopped expecting anyone to jump in. That kind of faith will break your bones faster than fists.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you healed wrong.”

Host: The words hung between them like smoke, heavy and slow to disperse. Jack turned, his jaw tightening, the muscles in his neck taut with restraint.

Jack: “You talk about intervention like it’s salvation. But let me tell you — in the real world, every savior eventually gets crucified by the very people they tried to help.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes them saints.”

Jack: “Or fools.”

Jeeny: “Or both.”

Host: The crowd outside erupted, a sudden yell, followed by footsteps scattering down the block. The sirens began, far away but approaching. The rain started soon after, light at first, then steady, hissing on the pavement.

Jack: “There. It’s done. They’ll clear it up, go home, post about it, forget by morning. And I’ll still have my peace.”

Jeeny: “And what kind of peace is that, Jack? The peace of not caring? The peace of looking away?”

Jack: “The peace of not being dragged into hell every time someone lights a match.”

Host: Jeeny stood, her eyes bright with restrained anger, but also something else — sadness. She walked toward the window, watching the rain wash the street, turning blood into rusty water.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s a story — old, maybe apocryphal. When Cain killed Abel, God didn’t just punish the killer. He cursed the silence of the earth that swallowed the blood without protest.”

Jack: “And what did that silence ever learn?”

Jeeny: “That neutrality isn’t peace. It’s complicity.”

Host: Jack flicked the ash from his cigarette, the embers falling like tired stars. His expression softened, but only slightly — the kind of shift that hints at a wound, not a conversion.

Jack: “Maybe. But I’m not God, Jeeny. I’m just a man trying to keep my head above water. Every war drags in the bystanders, and I’m done being cannon fodder for someone else’s pride.”

Jeeny: “And yet, when the next fight comes to your door, you’ll want someone to care. You’ll want someone not to mind their business.”

Jack: “If that day comes, I’ll deal with it. Until then — peace over pride.”

Jeeny: “Maybe peace isn’t the absence of pride. Maybe it’s the courage to stand in someone else’s storm.”

Host: The rain tapered, the sirens now just echoes. The barbershop was quiet again, except for the slow drip of water from the roof. Jeeny turned, looking at Jack one last time.

Jeeny: “You call it survival. I call it surrender.”

Jack: “And you call surrender heroism. Maybe that’s our difference.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The streetlight outside flashed, casting brief frames of light across their faces — like an old film reel flickering, showing the same scene in two versions of truth.

Jack stubbed out his cigarette, his reflection in the mirror split by a crack that ran through the glass — a fracture perfectly aligned with his eye.

Jeeny whispered, barely audible: “Even mirrors break when they watch too long.”

Host: The doorbell chimed as she left, the rain swallowing her footsteps into the city’s hum. Jack stared at the empty chair, the faint steam from her coffee still rising, like a ghost refusing to leave.

The radio clicked back on. Scarface’s voice murmured through the static, a quiet echo of his creed — a warning, a confession, a truth carved from the streets:

“I like to mind my business when it comes to other people’s business, especially when it comes to beef.”

Host: And as the music faded, so did the world, leaving only the faint smell of rain, smoke, and something else — the unspoken question of whether peace born of silence is peace at all.