If you love your work, you'll be out there every day trying to do

Host: The morning sun hung low over the horizon, a pale gold coin slipping through the fog that still clung to the valley. The air was sharp with dew and the faint smell of diesel from the waking town below. At the edge of the highway, in a small, dusty diner where truckers and dreamers shared the same coffee pot, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other — their hands cupped around steaming mugs, their eyes reflecting the soft light of the rising day.

Host: Outside, the world stirred — engines growled, signs flickered, and the rhythm of ambition began its daily hum. Inside, the conversation was quieter, but heavier — like the moment before a machine starts to move.

Jeeny: “Sam Walton once said, ‘If you love your work, you'll be out there every day trying to do it the best you possibly can, and pretty soon everybody around will catch the passion from you — like a fever.’”

Jack: “A fever, huh? I’ve had one of those. It burns hot, then leaves you empty.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, rough with the gravel of cynicism. He stirred his coffee absentmindedly, watching the swirl of dark liquid, as though searching for meaning at the bottom of it.

Jeeny: “Not that kind of fever, Jack. The kind that spreads, not because it consumes, but because it inspires. You’ve felt it before — that electric pull when you love what you do so much it stops feeling like work.”

Jack: “Love of work? That’s a pretty phrase for addiction. I’ve seen people burn themselves out in the name of passion — skipping meals, sleep, family — all to keep chasing something they think makes them alive.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing obsession with purpose. There’s a difference. Obsession drains you; purpose fills you. Walton wasn’t talking about grind — he was talking about joy. About that invisible spark that turns effort into art.”

Host: The waitress passed by, her shoes squeaking on the tile floor, her smile tired but real. The radio crackled in the corner — a soft country song about mornings, hard work, and home. Jack watched her move, his expression shifting, a trace of something like understanding behind his usual armor.

Jack: “You think she’s feeling joy right now? She’s on her feet for ten hours, serving coffee to people who don’t remember her name.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not joy every minute — but maybe dignity. Love of work doesn’t always mean glamour, Jack. Sometimes it’s just showing up, doing your best even when nobody’s watching. That kind of devotion — it’s contagious.”

Jack: “Contagious? You think love of work can spread like some kind of holy infection?”

Jeeny: “Yes. I’ve seen it happen. One person who truly cares can change the temperature of an entire room, an entire team, even an entire company. That’s what Walton meant — passion that catches, not through words, but through action.”

Host: The sunlight grew brighter, spilling across the countertops, turning the chrome edges of napkin holders into tiny mirrors. Jack leaned back, eyes narrowing, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Jack: “And what happens when the fever dies, Jeeny? When the spark fades? You can’t live on passion forever. People burn out. Reality catches up.”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. But that’s not failure — it’s rhythm. Passion isn’t supposed to be constant. It’s supposed to breathe. You love your work, you pour yourself in, and then you rest. That cycle — that’s life.”

Jack: “Funny. The system doesn’t allow for that. You stop moving, and you’re replaced. People don’t want your passion; they want your productivity.”

Jeeny: “Then change the system. That’s what people like Walton did. They led with enthusiasm, and others followed. They didn’t demand perfection — they inspired effort. And effort is the most human thing there is.”

Host: The diner door opened briefly, letting in a rush of cold air and the sound of engines starting up outside. For a moment, Jack looked through that doorway, watching a group of workers climb into their trucks, laughing about something trivial — but real.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the part I forgot. When I used to work on cars, back in the shop — I’d stay late, not because I had to, but because I wanted to see it done right. There was something about fixing a thing, about making it run, that made me feel… alive. I didn’t call it passion. I just called it work done well.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the fever, Jack. It’s not about being consumed, it’s about being connected — to your craft, to others, to the meaning behind what you do. When you care deeply, people notice. They catch it.”

Host: Jeeny’s smile was quiet, the kind that didn’t ask for agreement but waited patiently for it to arrive. Jack looked down at his hands, rough and lined, still bearing the marks of his past labor — the ghosts of machines and metal and motion.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is, love isn’t in the work — it’s in the way you work.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And when you do it with your whole self, others can’t help but feel it. That’s what makes leadership contagious.”

Host: The clock ticked, slow and certain. Outside, the fog began to lift, revealing the outline of the fields, the storefronts, and the open road. The town was awake now — not just moving, but alive.

Jack: “You really believe one person’s passion can move the world?”

Jeeny: “Not the world. But it can move a heart. And that’s where every change begins.”

Host: The light hit the window just right, filling the booth with warmth. Jack’s smirk softened into something like a smile, small but true. He lifted his cup, took a sip, and nodded, as if accepting a truth too simple and too deep to argue with.

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time I caught the fever again.”

Jeeny: “It’s never too late, Jack. Passion doesn’t expire. It just waits to be remembered.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — through the window, over the parking lot, past the trucks and the fields, until the diner became a small, glowing dot in the wide morning. The sun climbed higher, turning the fog into light, revealing what had always been there.

And in that rising brightness, the message lingered, quiet but alive, like the hum of the waking earth itself:

Do what you love — and the world will feel it.