I was kicked out of school because of my attitude. I was not

Host: The sun was falling behind the factories, its light dripping like molten brass through the cracks of the city’s skyline. The air was thick with the smell of oil, metal, and rain that had never quite washed anything clean. The train yard behind the old warehouse buzzed with the hum of engines and the shouts of workers ending their shift.

Inside, among broken pallets and graffiti-scarred walls, a small fire crackled in a rusted barrel. The flames cast their shadows in jerky, nervous movements, like memories that refused to die. Jack sat on an overturned crate, his hands blackened from work, his grey eyes caught somewhere between defiance and fatigue.

Jeeny stood across from him, arms folded, eyes bright with that familiar mixture of empathy and iron. She had brought two sandwiches, wrapped in old newspaper, and a bottle of cheap whiskey.

The night was loud, but between them — it was quiet.

Jeeny: “You’ve been working out here since sunrise. You don’t even talk to anyone anymore.”

Jack: “Talking doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does anger.”

Jack: “Depends on how you use it.”

Host: He took a swig from the bottle, the liquid burning its way down, etching something like truth into the back of his throat.

Jack: “You know what Richard Pryor said once? ‘I was kicked out of school because of my attitude. I was not assimilating. So I went to work, taking any jobs I could get.’ That’s what it feels like right now. Not failing — just refusing to fit.”

Jeeny: “Pryor didn’t just refuse to fit. He rewrote the mold. You think he liked being kicked out? He just turned that pain into art. Into truth.”

Jack: “Yeah, but that’s him. The exception. People love to talk about the one guy who made it after being thrown out. Nobody writes songs for the rest of us who just keep working until our hands turn to stone.”

Host: The flames popped, sparks leaping into the darkness like tiny, desperate dreams. Jeeny watched him — his jaw, the way it clenched when he said “stone,” the way his eyes carried both rage and memory.

Jeeny: “You call it stone, I call it character. The world tried to make you assimilate, and you refused. Maybe that’s your art — your survival.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But it’s just exhausting. Every time I walk into a room, I’m told I’m too blunt, too angry, too ‘not right for the culture.’ What they mean is — too real.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with being real?”

Jack: “It doesn’t pay, Jeeny. That’s what’s wrong. You can’t feed your honesty to the system and expect it to thank you.”

Host: A train rumbled past, the ground beneath them trembling like an unspoken truth. The barrel fire flickered, its light catching in Jeeny’s eyes, reflecting something more than pity — recognition.

Jeeny: “Do you remember when you quit that corporate job? Everyone said you were crazy. But you said you couldn’t breathe in there. That every day felt like wearing someone else’s skin.”

Jack: “Yeah. They said I had an attitude. I just didn’t know how to smile while being chained.”

Jeeny: “Then you’re like Pryor. He didn’t assimilate, and he didn’t apologize for it. He worked the clubs, he failed, he bombed — and still kept talking. He made people laugh with the same truth that almost got him erased.”

Jack: “Yeah, but Pryor had a microphone. I’ve got a hammer and a manager who calls me a ‘problem employee’ because I won’t pretend to love the grind.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are. Still working, still standing, still too alive to quit. You think assimilation is survival — but sometimes it’s death in a suit.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain-soaked concrete and diesel, a reminder of the city’s heartbeat — harsh, rhythmic, unforgiving. Jack rubbed his hands, the calluses catching the light like small scars that had learned how to shine.

Jack: “You ever wonder if maybe the system’s right? That maybe people like me are just too difficult to fit anywhere?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You just make the places you go too small to hold you.”

Jack: “That’s a nice line, but the rent’s still due.”

Jeeny: “So was Richard Pryor’s. You think he didn’t scrub floors, haul trash, sling jokes for drunks who didn’t care? He did all that before anyone listened. What mattered wasn’t the job — it was the refusal to shrink.”

Jack: “Refusal’s easy when you’ve got talent.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s easy when you’ve got truth. And you do. That’s what they can’t teach or buy.”

Host: The fire sputtered, the light catching her face — sharp with belief, soft with memory. Jack looked at her, that mix of frustration and longing playing beneath the surface, like a man staring at both his judge and his salvation.

Jack: “So what am I supposed to do? Just keep swinging the hammer until the world suddenly decides I’m a prophet?”

Jeeny: “No. You keep swinging it because it’s what keeps you honest. Because you’re still building something — even if it’s just yourself.”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty — it was thick, alive, the kind that only exists between two people who’ve run out of defenses. The night outside seemed to listen with them.

Jack: “You think I could’ve been like Pryor?”

Jeeny: “You already are. The world just hasn’t learned how to laugh at your truth yet.”

Jack: “And if it never does?”

Jeeny: “Then you still win. Because you didn’t become them.”

Host: Her voice was quiet now — less a challenge, more a confession. The flames in the barrel were dying, their light softer, gentler, no longer a blaze — just an ember holding on.

Jack stood, staring into the fire, his reflection fractured in its flicker. His eyes were no longer hard — just tired, but alive again. He reached for the whiskey, took another swig, and handed it to her.

Jack: “To getting kicked out, then.”

Jeeny: “To not fitting in.”

Jack: “To the ones who work anyway.”

Jeeny: “And to the ones who never stop becoming.”

Host: They drank. Outside, the rain began again, soft this time — like a blessing instead of a burden. The train rumbled past once more, but it didn’t sound angry now. It sounded hopeful, like a song that refused to end.

The flames finally dimmed, but their faces still glowed — not from the fire, but from something unspoken between them. A kind of defiance, a quiet truth.

And as the city turned its gears and the night stretched long and endless, two people who had refused to assimilate sat in the half-light, burning just enough to stay alive.