I'm famous. That's my job.

Host: The sky over downtown Los Angeles was a burnt orange bruise, fading into the deep blue of early evening. The streetlights flickered awake one by one, humming like old machines remembering their purpose. Inside a rooftop bar, the air shimmered with heat and vanity — the faint scent of perfume, expensive whiskey, and expectation.

At a corner table, Jack leaned back in a cracked leather chair, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, eyes sharp beneath the dim light. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her martini, the glass catching glints of city fire. The billboards outside blinked with faces, brands, influencers, and promises.

A digital screen across the bar flashed the quote in white neon letters:
“I’m famous. That’s my job.” – Jerry Rubin.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Do you think he was joking when he said that? Or was it the most honest thing a man could admit in this world?”

Jack: (snorts) “No joke. That’s just business. Fame is a job now. Always has been. Rubin just said it before Instagram did.”

Host: The music pulsed low — a slow, rhythmic beat like a heartbeat mixed with ambition. People around them laughed, posed, and scrolled — fingers flicking, faces glowing in the light of their phones.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it sad? To reduce a whole life to an image — to make existence a performance? He turned rebellion into celebrity.”

Jack: “And that’s why he won. He understood the game before everyone else. You want to change the world? Get people to look at you first. You can’t start a revolution if no one’s watching.”

Jeeny: “But at what cost, Jack? When does the message get lost in the mirror?”

Jack: “When you forget that people only listen to the loud ones.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, but her voice carried steel beneath the silk.

Jeeny: “And yet, the loudest ones often say nothing at all. Rubin went from anti-war marches to Wall Street suits. Don’t you see the irony?”

Jack: “No, I see evolution. He adapted. The world doesn’t reward martyrs; it rewards marketers.”

Jeeny: “So you think selling out is just another form of survival?”

Jack: “I think selling out is just buying in to reality.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the clink of glasses punctuating their silence. Outside, a billboard showed a model holding a bottle of water — her face serene, eyes distant, her name printed in bold: “Faith. Influence. Power.”

Jeeny: “You know, once upon a time, people wanted to be remembered for what they did. Now, they just want to be seen.”

Jack: “Visibility is immortality now. The cave paintings of our age are TikToks.”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “That’s not immortality, Jack. That’s echo. It doesn’t last. It just bounces.”

Host: The wind picked up, brushing through the open terrace, carrying with it the faint hum of the city below — sirens, laughter, the buzz of screens lighting a thousand windows.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing the past again. Every generation has its own temple of worship. Rubin’s temple was attention. And he built it with pure nerve.”

Jeeny: “He built it with ego. You can’t build love or meaning from that.”

Jack: “But you can build momentum.”

Jeeny: “Until it eats you.”

Host: The pause hung heavy. The light flickered across their faces — Jack’s gray eyes reflecting a restless hunger, Jeeny’s brown eyes filled with quiet ache.

Jack: “Tell me, Jeeny. Don’t you want to be seen? Don’t you want your name to mean something?”

Jeeny: “I want my work to mean something. Not my name.”

Jack: “But people remember names, not works.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve all failed.”

Host: A faint thunder rolled in the distance, the sky trembling above the skyline.

Jeeny: “Rubin once stood on the front lines of protest — shouting against systems, corruption, control. Then he became what he fought. Doesn’t that tell you something about fame?”

Jack: “It tells me he understood that attention is the new currency. You can spend it however you like — protest or profit.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather be rich than right?”

Jack: (with a half-smile) “I’d rather be heard than forgotten.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand trembled slightly as she set her glass down. The ice clinked softly — like a heartbeat slowing down.

Jeeny: “But being heard doesn’t mean you’re being understood. Sometimes the louder you get, the less anyone listens.”

Jack: “Maybe. But silence never changed the world either.”

Host: The rain began — a slow, tapping rhythm against the roof glass, turning the city into a hazy, shimmering mirror.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? I think people are terrified of being ordinary. That’s why they chase fame. It’s not about meaning — it’s about fear.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with wanting to matter?”

Jeeny: “Nothing. Until it replaces being real. Rubin said, ‘I’m famous. That’s my job.’ That’s not a job — that’s a mask.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s armor.”

Host: The word hung there — armor — glinting between them like a blade in candlelight.

Jeeny: “Armor for what?”

Jack: “For disappointment. For rejection. For a world that only listens when you shine. Fame isn’t a job — it’s a shield against invisibility.”

Jeeny: “But invisibility isn’t the enemy. It’s where the soul breathes.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, washing the neon into streaks of color — red, blue, violet — bleeding down the windows. The bar grew quieter, as if the storm had hushed it.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, Rubin’s life ended in silence. No cameras. No crowds. Just a quiet road in Los Angeles. Maybe that’s the universe reminding us that fame always fades.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe that’s just the universe reminding us that even the loudest stories end the same way — in silence.”

Jeeny: “Then why chase the noise at all?”

Jack: “Because silence hurts more when no one remembers your name.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him — truly looked — as if searching for the wound beneath his words. And maybe she found it, because her voice softened.

Jeeny: “You don’t want to be famous, Jack. You want to be loved.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Same thing, isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. Fame wants witnesses. Love wants presence.”

Host: The rain slowed, turning into a mist that clung to the glass like breath. The music shifted — a slow piano, low and reflective.

Jack: “You always have to ruin my cynicism with poetry.”

Jeeny: “Because poetry still believes in people.”

Host: They both laughed — quietly, like two weary travelers who’d reached the same conclusion by different roads.

Jack: “So what do you think fame really is?”

Jeeny: “A mirror with no reflection.”

Jack: “And love?”

Jeeny: “A reflection that doesn’t need a mirror.”

Host: The camera panned out, the city sprawling below — its lights flickering like restless dreams. Inside the bar, two souls sat against the glass, their faces half-lit, half-shadowed — torn between wanting to be seen and daring to be real.

And as the neon sign outside blinked again — I’m famous. That’s my job. —
the rain whispered one quiet truth: fame may echo, but love remains.