In the heat of our campaigns, we have all become accustomed to a

Host: The city was restless that night — the kind of restlessness that only comes after a long election day. The streets were slick from a late rain, reflecting billboards and neon signs that shouted campaign slogans now half-forgotten. In a small downtown bar, the last of the posters still hung crooked on the walls — faces of smiling candidates, the promises they’d never quite keep glowing faintly under tired light.

Host: At a corner table, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, two half-empty glasses between them, the dim TV above the counter replaying snippets of victory speeches and concession sighs. The room smelled of whiskey, wet coats, and disillusionment.

Host: Outside, sirens murmured somewhere in the distance, and the flicker of passing cars washed the walls in momentary light.

Jeeny: “Edmund Muskie once said, ‘In the heat of our campaigns, we have all become accustomed to a little anger and exaggeration. Yet, on the whole, our political process has served us well.’”

Jack: “A little anger? That man never saw Twitter.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “You know what he meant. The tension, the theatre — it’s part of democracy. The shouting, the posturing, the half-truths. It’s ugly, but it’s still… something that works.”

Jack: “Works? You call this working?” gestures toward the TV “Half the country hates the other half. Candidates screaming, voters blindfolded by slogans. It’s not politics anymore — it’s performance art for algorithms.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But performance isn’t always empty. Sometimes it’s how people are heard.”

Jack: “No — it’s how they’re manipulated.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, gravelly, tired. His sleeves were rolled up, and a faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw. The faint glow from the bar’s light reflected in his eyes — hard grey, but with the trace of something bruised behind them.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who stopped believing.”

Jack: “I didn’t stop believing. I just stopped pretending the system cares.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you still vote.”

Jack: “Out of habit, not hope.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, slow and sad. She traced a finger along the rim of her glass, the sound faint, musical.

Jeeny: “Muskie wasn’t naïve, you know. He’d seen the mess, too. But he understood something we forget — that the process itself isn’t the enemy. People are. Or maybe, people are the process.”

Jack: “So what, we’re supposed to forgive the lies because democracy’s still standing?”

Jeeny: “Not forgive. Understand. Democracy isn’t clean. It’s built on compromise, and compromise means bruises.”

Host: The bartender turned down the TV; the last image froze — a candidate waving through confetti that looked too much like ash.

Jack: “When he said we’ve grown accustomed to exaggeration, he didn’t know how right he’d be. We’ve gone from exaggeration to delusion. Politics is just branding now — emotion without accountability.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here we are. Still debating, still free to disagree, still drinking cheap whiskey without fearing the knock on the door.”

Jack: “That’s a low bar, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s the bar that defines the difference between democracy and dictatorship.”

Host: A pause settled, long enough for the clock above the bar to tick audibly. A siren wailed faintly through the window, then faded.

Jack: “You ever wonder if we’ve mistaken noise for participation?”

Jeeny: “Noise is participation, sometimes. People shouting into the void because silence feels like surrender.”

Jack: “You mean social media.”

Jeeny: “I mean voices. You can’t romanticize democracy and then complain when people actually use it.”

Jack: “But they’re not using it — they’re abusing it. Everyone’s angry, outraged, certain they’re right. Nobody listens.”

Jeeny: “That’s always been true. Even in ancient Athens, they shouted each other down. But it worked because they showed up.”

Jack: “You really think it still works?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Imperfectly, painfully, humanly — yes. It’s like that old line: ‘Democracy is the worst form of government, except for all the others.’”

Host: The light above them flickered once, briefly, before steadying. Outside, the rain had stopped, and the city lights blurred in puddles, softening their hard edges.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to think politics could save people. Then I realized it just reflects them. Anger, ambition, greed — the system’s only as honest as the ones running it.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s also as hopeful as the ones voting in it.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? Hope keeps feeding a machine that barely functions.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Hope is the machine. The rest is noise and rust.”

Host: Jeeny leaned closer, her brown eyes calm, unflinching. There was a gentleness in her defiance, the kind that comes from seeing too much and still choosing faith.

Jack: “You think all this — the ads, the mudslinging, the sound bites — serves us well?”

Jeeny: “Not the noise. The survival. The fact that every few years, we get to start over. That we can replace our leaders without firing a gun. That’s service enough.”

Host: Her words settled over the table like dust in sunlight, quiet but unignorable.

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. Not perfect. Not pure. But noble in the persistence. We fight, we lie, we exaggerate — but we also vote, rebuild, and argue again. That’s what Muskie saw. That the chaos is the point.”

Jack: “So the shouting means we’re still alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The bartender began wiping down the counter, the hum of the cooler filling the air again. The sound was steady, grounding — like the low hum of democracy itself, constant beneath the noise.

Jack: “You ever think anger’s just another kind of patriotism?”

Jeeny: “When it comes from care, yes. But not when it comes from contempt.”

Jack: “Then how do we tell the difference?”

Jeeny: “By what survives after the shouting.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, his cynicism softening into reflection. He reached for his glass, swirling the last of the whiskey.

Jack: “So, all this madness — the campaigns, the exaggeration, the fury — it’s not a flaw. It’s the fire that keeps it all alive.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fire can burn or warm — depends who’s holding the match.”

Host: The camera panned slowly across the bar — the peeling posters, the empty glasses, the faint buzz of the lights. The city outside continued its restless breathing, the heartbeat of a civilization that hadn’t given up on arguing its way forward.

Jack: “You know something, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What’s that?”

Jack: “Maybe the system’s not broken. Maybe it’s just human. Messy. Exhausting. But human.”

Jeeny: “And as long as it stays human, it serves us well.”

Host: The TV flickered once more — a candidate, smiling in slow motion, confetti still falling — and then cut to black.

Host: The bar grew quiet. Jack and Jeeny sat in the warm afterglow of shared understanding, the hum of the city pressing gently against the windows.

Host: Outside, a neon sign blinked OPEN, even as the night grew older.
And for a moment, the world — fractured, loud, and imperfect — still felt like it worked.