I was a typical Valley teen, in smoggy Van Nuys.

Host:
The sun was a dull orange bruise in the sky, hanging low over the cracked streets of Van Nuys. The air shimmered with heat, heavy with the smell of asphalt, gasoline, and faint traces of orange blossoms fighting to survive between concrete and smog.

Old palm trees stood like crooked sentinels along the boulevard, their shadows long and tired. Billboards promised beauty, fame, and escape — all for a small monthly fee. The sound of distant traffic, a passing radio, a skateboard wheel hitting a curb — the symphony of a city too restless to sleep, too young to know how.

In the parking lot of a faded drive-in diner, two figures sat on the hood of a dusty Chevy, milkshakes sweating in their hands, watching the sun dip behind the Hollywood Hills like an old movie reel burning out.

Jack squinted toward the skyline, his grey eyes narrowed against the glare, his jaw set in quiet nostalgia. Jeeny, beside him, swung her legs gently, her black hair catching the warm light, her brown eyes soft with curiosity.

Host:
It was the kind of evening that could only exist in a memory — hazy, cinematic, and alive with the invisible hum of all the lives that once believed in something bigger.
And between them, Ed Begley Jr.’s words seemed to hover, thick with the same smoggy poetry that still clung to the Valley:

"I was a typical Valley teen, in smoggy Van Nuys."

Jeeny:
(smiling)
“Smoggy Van Nuys,” huh? You can almost taste it when he says it.

Jack:
Yeah. That word — “smoggy” — does more than describe the air. It describes the whole damn feeling of growing up there. You know, that haze between wanting to get out and being afraid you actually might.

Jeeny:
(chuckling softly)
You sound like someone who’s been there.

Jack:
I was. Not Van Nuys exactly — but a place just like it. Strip malls, car lots, too much sun, and that same stubborn hope that one day you’d make it somewhere where the sky wasn’t the same color as your disappointment.

Jeeny:
That sounds almost poetic for something so ordinary.

Jack:
Ordinary is poetic when you’re young enough not to see it.

Host:
The sky dimmed slowly, the heat giving way to that dusky glow that turned every neon sign into a confession. Jack’s voice lowered, like he was speaking more to himself than to her.

Jack:
The Valley had a kind of… innocence, you know? Not real innocence — just the kind you fake to survive. Everyone wanted something — to act, to sing, to escape — but nobody wanted to admit they were scared of staying average.

Jeeny:
And you? What did you want?

Jack:
I wanted to leave. But I didn’t know where to go. You tell yourself you’re meant for more — but “more” never shows up with an address.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s the curse of places like that. They make you dream, but not how to wake up.

Jack:
Exactly. You live half-asleep, half-hoping.

Host:
A car horn echoed somewhere down the street, sharp and distant, cutting through the golden quiet. Jeeny’s eyes followed it, as though she could see through the layers of smog, through the years themselves.

Jeeny:
You know what I think Begley meant? It’s not just about Van Nuys. It’s about that universal teenage state — where you think the world’s so close you could touch it, but everything still feels out of reach.

Jack:
(half-smiling)
Yeah. The Valley’s just a backdrop. The real setting’s that teenage brain — all smoke and sunlight and self-doubt.

Jeeny:
(smirking)
You’re getting philosophical about smog now?

Jack:
Hey, smog is honest. It tells the truth — that beauty’s there, just blurred by the mess we make of it.

Host:
The lights from a passing bus washed over them — a brief, ghostly illumination that faded as quickly as it came. The sound of the city softened into a low hum, like the last note of a forgotten song.

Jeeny:
It’s strange, isn’t it? How we remember places not for what they were, but for how they made us feel.

Jack:
Yeah. And for the versions of ourselves we left there.

Jeeny:
Do you ever go back?

Jack:
Sometimes. Just to see if the streets remember me. But they never do. They’ve got new kids now — new dreamers, new heartbreaks. The smog doesn’t change, though. It’s the one constant.

Jeeny:
(smirking)
You make it sound romantic.

Jack:
Maybe it is. Even smog looks beautiful when you realize it’s just the sky trying to breathe.

Host:
She laughed, that soft, unguarded kind of laugh that carried the warmth of a whole summer. The sun was almost gone now, leaving behind streaks of violet and red — the last proof that even endings could look like beginnings if you caught them in the right light.

Jeeny:
When I was a teenager, I used to think the world would start the moment I left my hometown.

Jack:
And did it?

Jeeny:
(pauses, smiling)
Not really. I just found a bigger version of the same confusion.

Jack:
(laughing softly)
That’s the truth no one tells you. The smog just changes names.

Jeeny:
But we keep chasing the clearer air anyway, don’t we?

Jack:
Yeah. Because maybe it’s not the view we’re after — it’s the act of chasing.

Host:
The jukebox inside switched songs again — a soft, nostalgic tune that hummed of old diners, lost youth, and people who still believed their next stop could change everything.

Jeeny leaned back against the windshield, her gaze on the hazy horizon.

Jeeny:
I think that’s why we remember our teenage selves so vividly. They were brave enough to believe that someday actually meant something.

Jack:
And stupid enough to think it wouldn’t hurt to find out.

Host:
They both smiled — not the smiles of amusement, but of recognition. The kind you share with someone who’s lived through the same dream and the same disappointment.

Host:
The streetlights flickered on, their glow mixing with the fading sunlight. The city sighed, as if exhausted by the weight of its own stories.

Jack drained the last of his coffee, then looked at Jeeny.

Jack:
You ever think we’re still those kids from Van Nuys — just older, better dressed, still trying to make sense of the haze?

Jeeny:
(quietly)
Maybe. But at least now we know the smog’s not the enemy. It’s just part of the view.

Host:
The last light of day slipped away completely, leaving only the hum of cars, the faint buzz of neon, and two silhouettes against the glow of a city that never stopped pretending it was on the edge of something extraordinary.

And in that perfect quiet — somewhere between nostalgia and clarity — Ed Begley Jr.’s words came alive again, soft but steady:

That even in a smoggy valley, even in the ordinary,
there is always a spark of becoming,
a flicker of youth refusing to go out —
because no matter how far we go,
a part of us is always that teenager,
standing in the haze,
squinting toward the horizon,
believing the air might clear
just enough to let the dreams show through.