I may have been the only candidate in America who failed to ride

Host: The sunset bled across the horizon, its light spilling through the cracked windows of an old diner just outside a forgotten town. The neon sign flickered — half the letters burned out — leaving only “DIN” glowing against the twilight. Dust floated in the air, catching the light like tiny ghosts of conversations long gone.

At a booth near the back, Jack sat with his coat draped across the seat, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. His grey eyes were distant, reflecting the fading sun and the soft hum of a broken ceiling fan. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, the spoon clinking gently — a sound that filled the silence between them.

A small radio on the counter murmured faintly: an old political speech replayed, the words tinny and tired.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder why people love rebels more than leaders, Jack?”

Jack: “Because rebels give them someone to blame with hope attached.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical. Maybe they just want someone who sees them.”

Jack: “No. They want someone who confirms their anger. Mickey Kaus was right — the ones who don’t ride the wave of anti-establishment fury? They get left behind. Doesn’t matter if they’re honest or even right.”

Jeeny: “So you think authenticity doesn’t matter anymore?”

Jack: “Authenticity doesn’t sell if it’s not loud enough.”

Host: The fan above them groaned as it spun, pushing the warm air around the room. Outside, a truck passed on the empty highway, its headlights washing briefly over their faces.

Jeeny’s eyes caught the light — deep brown, full of the kind of belief Jack had long since buried.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the problem, Jack? The whole system built on noise instead of truth? People vote for anger, not answers. They want to feel something.”

Jack: “People always want to feel something. It’s easier than thinking. Every few years, they pick a new villain, a new savior. They call it democracy.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a scam.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Maybe the biggest con of all is the illusion that outrage equals change.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in the people anymore?”

Jack: “I believe in their patterns, not their promises.”

Host: The radio crackled. A news segment replayed a voice from years ago — the sound of a candidate talking about “change,” “renewal,” “the people.” The words, once full of fire, now sounded like echoes in an empty hall.

Jack glanced at it, then back at Jeeny, his tone measured, almost weary.

Jack: “You remember the 2016 campaigns? Every candidate tried to paint themselves as the outsider. Even the ones born in the heart of the establishment dressed up as revolutionaries. The anti-establishment wave wasn’t about truth. It was about performance. Those who didn’t act angry enough? They drowned.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because anger was the only language people understood by then. They were tired, ignored, poor. Their voices only mattered when they shouted.”

Jack: “And shouting became the new policy.”

Jeeny: “You think the world would move forward if everyone just stayed calm?”

Jack: “I think the world would move forward if people stopped confusing volume for vision.”

Host: A pause. The rain began to fall outside, soft and slow, like the world was exhaling. The neon sign buzzed, its broken letters flickering as if uncertain whether to keep glowing or give up entirely.

Jeeny took a sip of her tea, her hands trembling slightly, not from fear, but from a kind of frustration that felt older than the night.

Jeeny: “You talk like someone who’s given up, Jack. Like it’s all just manipulation and noise.”

Jack: “It is, most days. You ever see a campaign that doesn’t use people’s pain as fuel? Politics is just professional storytelling. You sell a version of hope that fits the crowd. Mickey Kaus didn’t lose because he wasn’t smart—he lost because he didn’t sell rage.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he lost because he refused to.”

Jack: “That’s idealism talking.”

Jeeny: “It’s integrity. And you can mock it all you want, but someone has to stand for something. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

Jack: “The point is to win, Jeeny. Without power, your principles are just pretty speeches.”

Jeeny: “And with power but no principles, you’re just another tyrant in a better suit.”

Host: The thunder cracked in the distance, shaking the windowpane. A flash of lightning illuminated the diner, catching the outline of Jack’s face — half shadow, half light.

For a moment, neither spoke. The sound of rain hitting the roof filled the silence, steady and relentless.

Jack: “You think integrity feeds the hungry? You think it stops wars, lowers rent, keeps factories open? No. Power does. You can’t fix a broken system from the outside looking in.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But the moment you ride the wave of anger, you become part of it. It controls you. The mob doesn’t think—it consumes. Ask Robespierre. Ask every ‘hero’ who thought they could steer a revolution and ended up beneath it.”

Jack: “History’s full of martyrs with good intentions and no results.”

Jeeny: “And tyrants with results and no souls.”

Jack: “You think I’m defending them?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re scared you might’ve become one of them.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the ceramic creaking faintly under his grip. His jaw clenched, a flicker of something like pain passing through his eyes.

The rain began to ease, replaced by the faint hiss of wet tires on the nearby road.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe I am scared. I used to believe in change once — thought the truth could win if you just said it loud enough. But the truth doesn’t trend, Jeeny. The truth doesn’t get clicks. Anger does. Fear does. You think people listen to reason anymore?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not all people. But some. Enough to start something real.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, all this noise drowns everything.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked — slow, steady, unbothered by their storm. The diner lights flickered once, then steadied. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice barely above a whisper, yet stronger than the thunder outside.

Jeeny: “You can’t ride every wave, Jack. Some aren’t meant to carry you. Some are meant to wash away what’s false. Mickey Kaus might’ve lost, but maybe losing with honesty is better than winning with rage.”

Jack: “That sounds noble. But nobility doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it keeps you human.”

Jack: “And what’s the use of being human in a world that rewards monsters?”

Jeeny: “To remind others they don’t have to become one.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, but not bitter. It was the kind of silence that held understanding, not distance.

Jack’s eyes softened, his expression no longer hardened by cynicism but touched by a faint, reluctant respect. He looked out the window, where the rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glistening under the streetlight.

Jack: “You really think there’s still room for people like that? People who won’t fake outrage just to get heard?”

Jeeny: “There has to be. Otherwise, what are we even fighting for?”

Jack: “Maybe… maybe you’re right.”

Host: The radio went silent, its static replaced by the faint murmur of an old song — something slow, nostalgic, the kind that plays when the credits roll but the story doesn’t quite end.

The neon sign flickered once more, spelling “DINER” again for a brief, perfect moment before fading back to “DIN.”

Host: Outside, the storm clouds broke apart, revealing a stretch of stars above the wet asphalt. Inside, two voices — one hardened by logic, one softened by faith — found a fragile, trembling middle ground.

And somewhere between anger and honesty, between winning and being true, they discovered the quiet dignity of standing still while the world raged past — choosing, as Mickey Kaus once did, not to ride the wave, but to remember what it means to stay human.