I'm from a small town in North Carolina and went to a small

Host: The bar was nearly empty — that tender, sleepy hour when laughter lingers like perfume and the neon sign outside hums to no one in particular. The floor was sticky, the air warm with the scent of beer, wood, and ambition that never quite left town. On the small corner stage, a single microphone stood crooked, the kind that had listened to a thousand jokes and a few confessions.

Host: Jack leaned at the bar, nursing a half-finished drink, his sleeves rolled up, the look of someone who’d seen the back alleys of dreams. Across from him sat Jeeny, elbows on the counter, a notebook open beside her, her handwriting scattered like rain. They had been there a while — not talking about the day, but about the before.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Fortune Feimster once said, ‘I'm from a small town in North Carolina and went to a small college and didn't think that someone like me could make a living in L.A. doing comedy. I worked hard, especially in college, but at that age, you don't know what's next.’”
(She looks at him.) “You ever feel that way — like you started out too small to dream big?”

Jack: (laughing under his breath) “All the time. Growing up, I thought success was something that happened to other people — the kind born knowing which train to catch. I didn’t even know there was a train.”

Jeeny: “And yet you found one.”

Jack: “Yeah. But I didn’t get on it — I chased it for ten years first.”

Host: The bartender turned down the lights, leaving the room in a gentle half-darkness. Outside, rain began to fall — soft, forgiving, the kind that makes you nostalgic for things you never lived.

Jeeny: “I love her story, though. This idea that comedy — joy — can come from a place that small. That someone who thought she didn’t belong ends up making people laugh across the world.”

Jack: “That’s the trick, isn’t it? The people who think they don’t belong are usually the ones who end up making the rest of us feel like we do.”

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s true. People like her — they come from places that teach you humility before you ever learn ambition. That’s a good foundation. Makes you work twice as hard and still remember to laugh about it.”

Host: He tapped his glass lightly against the wood — not a toast, just a rhythm, a small heartbeat in the silence between words.

Jeeny: “I think what she said about not knowing what’s next is what gets me most. Because that’s the truth of being young, isn’t it? You work hard, but you don’t yet know what for. You just… hope the road shows up beneath your feet.”

Jack: “And sometimes it doesn’t — and that’s the lesson.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “But sometimes it does — and that’s the miracle.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, smearing the streetlights into watercolor streaks of orange and white. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed, its headlights flashing across their faces — brief, cinematic illumination.

Jack: “You know, people romanticize small towns like they’re made of nostalgia. But when you’re from one, all you feel is the edge. You can see the end of everything you know from your front porch. That kind of perspective either breaks you or makes you curious.”

Jeeny: “And for her, it made her brave.”

Jack: “Yeah. Brave enough to get on stage and risk silence.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing about comedy — it’s the most honest art form there is. You can’t fake laughter. You either reach people or you don’t.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s truth disguised as timing.”

Host: He smiled then — the kind of smile that comes not from happiness, but from recognition.

Jack: “You know, I think what I love about that quote is how ordinary it sounds. No drama, no destiny. Just a woman from North Carolina with a dream she didn’t believe she deserved. That humility — that uncertainty — that’s real. That’s the American mythology most people forget.”

Jeeny: “You mean the part where the hero doesn’t start with confidence — just hope.”

Jack: “Hope, and a willingness to work while still doubting yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s courage, Jack.”

Jack: “That’s survival.”

Host: The bartender refilled their glasses quietly, nodding as if he’d overheard something worth agreeing with. The jazz on the radio softened to a whisper — the kind of song that drifts into your bones instead of your ears.

Jeeny: “You know what I think’s beautiful about her story? It’s not that she made it big. It’s that she stayed funny. Most people lose their humor somewhere between ambition and exhaustion.”

Jack: “Because they forget to love the small moments. The open mics. The crappy bars. The audiences of five who still clap like they’re fifty.”

Jeeny: “And because they start chasing applause instead of connection.”

Jack: (smiling) “You sound like a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who learned that laughter is sacred. It’s how ordinary people turn pain into poetry.”

Host: The rain slowed, easing into a quiet drizzle. The room felt warmer now, softer, as if the world outside had decided to rest.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange it is — that the people who make us laugh are often the ones who’ve cried the most?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Laughter is grief’s disguise. The only way to live with tragedy is to find rhythm in it.”

Jack: “You think she knows that?”

Jeeny: “Oh, she knows. You can’t be that funny without having met heartbreak first.”

Host: He leaned back, his eyes tracing the condensation on the window. Outside, the neon light from the sign flickered — “Open Late” — the “L” occasionally failing.

Jack: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How small-town dreams always sound improbable until they come true. Then they become proof. Proof that the map isn’t the territory. That you can start in the smallest place and still find something vast.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what she meant — that uncertainty isn’t failure, it’s fuel.”

Jack: “And not knowing what’s next is the most honest part of living.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the faint drip from the awning outside. The air smelled like wet concrete and possibilities.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, when I was younger, I used to think the world owed me a clear path. Now I think it just gives you crossroads — and waits to see who has the nerve to choose.”

Jack: “And the humor to laugh when you choose wrong.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host: The neon sign buzzed once more. The bartender turned up the music slightly — a slow tune, hopeful, like dawn sneaking into midnight.

Host: And in that quiet, Fortune Feimster’s words lingered — not as nostalgia, but as reminder:

that dreams don’t begin with certainty,
they begin with work;
that small towns can grow vast hearts;
and that not knowing what comes next
isn’t fear —
it’s freedom,
the laughter between failure and faith.

Host: The lights dimmed. The bar clock ticked past midnight.

And as Jack and Jeeny sat there,
two small souls in a vast, unpredictable world,
they smiled —
because for the first time that night,
they didn’t need to know
what came next.