If there are a couple of adjectives people use to describe me

Host: The rain had a slow, lazy rhythm, falling like forgotten thoughts on the cracked sidewalk outside a downtown bar. The neon sign hummed faintly — “Riley’s” — casting a restless orange glow across the damp pavement. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of whiskey, fried onions, and something like resignation.

Jack sat at the counter, his sleeves rolled up, a half-empty glass before him, his reflection fractured in the mirror behind the bottles. Jeeny sat beside him, tracing the rim of her drink with a slow, deliberate motion, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Host: It was one of those nights when words felt heavier than the air, and the silence between them had its own pulse.

Jeeny: (quietly) “If there are a couple of adjectives people use to describe me, anger is usually in there,” David Cross once said. “I’ve never taken that as criticism. It’s the way I naturally communicate.”

(She pauses, watching the reflected lights dance in her glass.) I think that’s… honest. Maybe even healthy.

Jack: (snorts softly) Healthy? You think anger is healthy? You’ve been listening to too many stand-up comedians.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) You think it isn’t?

Jack: No, Jeeny. Anger is what people use when they’ve run out of control. It’s emotional noise — just static that drowns out reason.

Host: The bartender glanced their way but didn’t interrupt; he’d seen this scene before — two people trying to fix the world with nothing but words and whiskey.

Jeeny: That’s not what I mean. I’m talking about that quiet kind of anger, the one that tells you something’s wrong but you’re too tired to fight it. Like Cross said — not “gun-toting crazy” angry, but… human angry.

Jack: (takes a sip) There’s nothing noble about that. It’s just resignation disguised as emotion. People call it “anger” because they don’t want to admit they’ve already given up.

Host: The ceiling fan above them turned slowly, stirring the smoke and the dim light. A blues guitar murmured from the jukebox, the sound curling around their words like a sigh.

Jeeny: Maybe it’s not about giving up. Maybe it’s about being awake. The world is cruel, Jack — really cruel. You can’t walk through it without feeling some kind of rage. The question isn’t whether you’re angry; it’s whether you know what to do with it.

Jack: (sets his glass down with a soft thud) And most people don’t. They tweet about it, they post hashtags, they shout into echo chambers, then go home and watch Netflix. That’s not anger. That’s performance.

Jeeny: (leaning in) So what — unless someone’s smashing a window, their anger isn’t real?

Jack: No. I’m saying if your anger doesn’t change anything — not even you — then it’s just self-indulgence.

Host: Jeeny’s jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm, like someone holding a flame steady in the wind.

Jeeny: Maybe not everyone needs to change the world. Maybe it’s enough to just feel something — to refuse to go numb. Look at art, Jack. Look at Picasso’s Guernica, or Nina Simone’s Mississippi Goddam — all that came from anger. But it wasn’t about throwing punches. It was about showing the world its own reflection.

Jack: (smiles bitterly) You think I don’t get that? I know anger creates art. But it also destroys lives. Wars start with people who thought their anger was righteous.

Jeeny: (gazes into her drink) And peace starts with people who finally let themselves feel it. You can’t heal a wound you keep pretending isn’t there.

Host: A car horn echoed outside — long, angry, almost symbolic — before fading into the night. The bartender refilled Jack’s glass without asking.

Jack: You talk about anger like it’s poetry. But you know what I’ve seen? I’ve seen men hit their wives and call it “stress.” I’ve seen bosses yell at waiters and call it “passion.” Anger gives people permission to hurt others.

Jeeny: That’s not anger, Jack. That’s abuse. That’s fear dressed up as dominance. Real anger doesn’t lash out — it burns inward. It’s a signal. A flare in the dark saying, “Something’s wrong here.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass. The liquid trembled slightly, catching the flicker of the bar lights.

Jack: You sound like you’re defending it. Like you think being angry is a virtue.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it is. Maybe it means you still care.

Host: The words landed between them — not loud, but heavy. Outside, the rain thickened, drumming against the window like impatient fingers.

Jack: (after a pause) You know what’s funny? I used to be like that. Always angry. Thought the world was broken — government, corporations, people, all of it. Then one day, I realized — being angry didn’t make me noble. It just made me tired.

Jeeny: (nodding slightly) Yeah. But maybe tired anger is better than empty peace.

Jack: (looks at her, studying her face) You really believe that?

Jeeny: I do. Because peace without awareness is just silence. It’s the absence of noise, not the presence of understanding.

Host: The guitar on the jukebox shifted to a rough, scratchy solo, its notes bending like pain turned into melody. The light flickered, catching the sharp line of Jack’s jaw and the soft curve of Jeeny’s shoulder.

Jack: You think people like David Cross are helping by being angry on stage?

Jeeny: I think they’re reminding us that we’re allowed to feel. That it’s okay to be furious at the absurdity of it all — at injustice, at stupidity, at our own mistakes — without turning it into hate.

Jack: (half-smiling) “Angry in a mild way,” huh? That’s me most days. Just angry enough to notice, too lazy to riot.

Jeeny: (laughs lightly) Maybe that’s the kind of anger we need — the slow burn that doesn’t explode, just keeps glowing, reminding us we’re still alive.

Host: The rain softened, and the lights from the street reflected on the wet pavement, rippling like restless thoughts. Inside, the bar felt smaller, warmer — as if the conversation had quietly altered the air.

Jack: (his voice quieter now) You know what’s weird? The older I get, the more I realize — anger and sadness are the same thing. Just different disguises for disappointment.

Jeeny: (nods gently) Maybe anger is what sadness wears when it’s too proud to cry.

Host: Jack looked down, his eyes reflecting the soft orange light. For a moment, he didn’t speak — the sound of the rain doing all the talking.

Jack: So what do we do with it, then? This… mild anger?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) We live with it. We talk through it. We turn it into something. Music. Writing. Even just a conversation like this. Because pretending it’s not there — that’s when it becomes dangerous.

Jack: (sighs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth) You always have a way of making dysfunction sound poetic.

Jeeny: (grinning) Maybe that’s because life is dysfunction. Anger’s just the soundtrack.

Host: The bartender turned off the neon sign, and the bar dimmed into a softer, quieter glow. Outside, the storm had stopped. A streetlight flickered once, then steadied — pale and calm.

Jack: (finishing his drink) You know, Jeeny… maybe I don’t hate my anger anymore.

Jeeny: (looking at him, tenderly) Good. That means you’ve finally made peace with the part of you that still wants the world to be better.

Host: They sat in the fading light, the air around them soft and still. Somewhere outside, a lone car passed through the puddles, its tires whispering against the street.

And for a fleeting moment — between anger and quiet, between exhaustion and grace — they both smiled. The kind of smile that knows the fight isn’t over, but maybe, just maybe, it’s worth having.