If I don't get along with Democrats, I'm sort of, like, out of

Host: The city lights burned like restless thoughts along the Potomac, shimmering through the fog of late-night ambition. Inside a dimly lit hotel bar, the kind frequented by lobbyists and survivors of long political wars, the air was thick with cigar smoke, tension, and the slow exhaustion of power.

Host: The television above the bar played muted headlines — senators’ faces flickering across the screen, promises delivered with perfect rehearsed sincerity. Jack sat at a corner booth, the glow of the TV tracing the edge of his jaw, his expression unreadable. Across from him, Jeeny swirled her glass of bourbon slowly, her eyes sharp, but her tone calm — the calm of someone who’s seen the wheel of history turn too many times and still hopes to steer it.

Host: Outside, sirens wailed distantly — reminders that the capital never sleeps, it just changes masks.

Jeeny: (reading from her phone) “Donald Trump once said, ‘If I don’t get along with Democrats, I’m sort of, like, out of business.’”

Jack: (smirks) “Ah, the great pragmatist pretending to be a populist.”

Jeeny: “You sound like that surprises you.”

Jack: “Not surprised — amused. It’s the first honest thing he ever said. Politics is business. Cooperation is currency. You stop trading, you starve.”

Jeeny: “And yet, we’ve turned disagreement into religion. Everyone wants loyalty — no one wants dialogue.”

Jack: “Because dialogue doesn’t get you reelected. Conflict does. Polarization’s the best business model this country’s ever invented.”

Jeeny: “That’s what I hate about it, Jack. We talk about governance like it’s a stock exchange — profit margins of power.”

Jack: “It is. Trump just said the quiet part loud. You can hate him for a lot, but not for being wrong about that.”

Host: The bartender poured another round, the sound of liquid hitting glass echoing faintly, like punctuation in their unending argument. The air-conditioning hummed like a nervous thought trying to stay rational.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t it bother you — that politics has become transactional? That cooperation only happens when someone’s ‘out of business’ without it?”

Jack: “Bother me? It’s how the world works. You think Washington runs on principle? It runs on dependency. You scratch my vote, I’ll scratch your budget.”

Jeeny: “And somewhere in between, the people who actually need help get buried under compromise.”

Jack: “Compromise is democracy, Jeeny. That’s the part everyone forgets. You can’t govern with purity; you can only govern with trade.”

Jeeny: “No. Compromise is noble when it’s rooted in conscience, not convenience.”

Jack: (leans forward) “Conscience doesn’t build infrastructure. Deals do. He understood that — the game, the art, the negotiation. The system rewards whoever can play both sides without collapsing.”

Jeeny: “You’re defending corruption as if it’s realism.”

Jack: “I’m not defending it. I’m describing it. Truth doesn’t need to be moral — it just needs to be accurate.”

Host: A burst of laughter erupted from a nearby table — a group of aides arguing over polls and policies like stock traders over futures. Jeeny glanced their way, then back at Jack, her voice lowering, her words deliberate.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the sickness of it all? Politics should be moral. It should be about people, not position.”

Jack: “Morality doesn’t win votes. Optics do. The last moral politician died poor or forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve lost something worse than elections — maybe we’ve lost the idea of service itself.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe we never had it. Maybe ‘service’ was just the story we told ourselves so power felt noble.”

Host: The TV above them cut to footage of a Senate hearing — raised voices, clipped answers, the slow theater of democracy performing indignation. The sound was still off, but the images said everything: division framed as duty.

Jeeny: “I refuse to believe that’s all it is — theater. I’ve seen people fight for unity, for empathy. Politics doesn’t have to be a circus.”

Jack: “It’s not a circus. It’s an economy — emotion as capital, outrage as stock.”

Jeeny: “You’re describing manipulation, not leadership.”

Jack: “They’re the same thing now.”

Jeeny: “Not if people remember they have a choice.”

Host: Her words landed softly, but they carried the kind of quiet defiance that survives even the worst cynicism. Jack looked at her for a moment — that look he gave when he wanted to mock her but couldn’t.

Jack: “You really think bipartisanship still means something?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, we’re not a nation, just two rival corporations competing for moral market share.”

Jack: (laughs) “You should write speeches.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather write laws.”

Jack: “Good luck. Every law is a compromise signed in invisible ink.”

Jeeny: “Then let the ink be integrity.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t trend.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it lasts.”

Host: The lights dimmed as the bar prepared to close. Outside, the rain began to fall — soft at first, then heavier, washing the reflections of red and blue lights into the same watery blur.

Host: Jack finished his drink, staring at the last swirl of amber like it contained a map of every deal he’d ever justified. Jeeny stood, slipping her coat over her shoulders, her voice quieter now, almost tender.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what his quote really means — not about politics, but people. If you can’t get along with those you disagree with, you’re out of the only business that matters: being human.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And if the other side doesn’t want to listen?”

Jeeny: “Then listen harder.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “You really believe that’ll change anything?”

Jeeny: “It already has — every time someone refuses to shout back.”

Host: The bartender turned off the last lamp, leaving them in the glow of the exit sign — red, persistent, almost hopeful. Jeeny walked toward the door, and Jack followed, their footsteps echoing through the emptiness like an unfinished conversation.

Host: Outside, the rain met them with cold honesty. The city looked softer now, as if exhaustion had made it human again.

Host: Jack tilted his face to the rain, murmuring half to himself:

Jack: “Maybe business would run better if we remembered how to talk instead of sell.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Now you’re negotiating with your soul.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — two figures standing beneath the dripping streetlight, the Capitol dome glowing faintly in the distance, equal parts symbol and warning.

Host: And as the rain washed the streets clean, Donald Trump’s pragmatic confession transformed — no longer political, but philosophical:

Host: If we can’t get along with those we oppose, we are all, in the truest sense, out of business — bankrupt of empathy, bankrupt of nationhood, bankrupt of grace.