In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep

Host: The morning broke with a pale light, soft and reluctant, filtering through the industrial haze that hovered above the factory district. The air was thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of machinery echoing like a tired heartbeat. On the edge of the yard, two figures stood by an old pickup truck, its paint faded and windows streaked with dust.

Jack leaned against the hood, his hands buried in his jacket pockets, eyes squinting at the ground. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her hair tied back, a streak of grease on her cheek from the morning shift. Between them, the silence stretched — heavy, but not hostile.

Jeeny: “Lee Iacocca once said, ‘In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep busy — to plow your anger and your energy into something positive.’”

Jack: (lets out a short laugh) “Easy for him to say. He was a CEO. He had things to build, people to lead. When most of us are angry, we don’t have a company to fix — just our own broken lives.”

Host: The wind swept across the yard, stirring bits of paper and dust. A train horn echoed in the distance, long and mournful.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point, Jack. Whether it’s a company or a life, the idea’s the same — you use the energy. You plow it, like Iacocca said. You turn the storm into something that grows.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “You talk like anger is a tool. But it’s not. It’s a wild dog — it bites you before it bites what you aim at.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the trick is learning to train it.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned — that quiet fire that always challenged him. Jack looked up, his grey eyes catching the faint reflection of sunlight on the truck’s metal.

Jack: “You think people can just… decide to be productive when their world falls apart? When you’ve lost everything, the last thing you want to do is get up and ‘keep busy.’ You just want it to stop hurting.”

Jeeny: “And doing nothing makes it worse. You know that.”

Jack: (frowning) “You sound like one of those self-help posters they hang in office lobbies. ‘Turn pain into progress!’”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s not a slogan, Jack. It’s survival. My mother used to clean houses after my father died. Every day, even when her eyes were swollen from crying, she’d say, ‘Work keeps me from thinking too much.’ That’s how she made it through.”

Host: The sunlight finally broke through the smog, spilling a faint warmth across her face. For a moment, the factory smoke behind her looked almost like steam from breath — life pushing through exhaustion.

Jack: “So she buried her pain in chores. Doesn’t sound like healing to me. Sounds like running.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s transforming. She wasn’t running — she was redirecting. She couldn’t stop her grief, but she could shape what it did to her. You ever heard of Viktor Frankl?”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Holocaust survivor. Man’s Search for Meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. He said those who found meaning in suffering — even in the camps — were the ones who survived. They kept busy with purpose, even when hope was thin as thread.”

Jack: (softly) “You really think purpose is enough to fight despair?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only thing that ever is.”

Host: The machines inside the factory began to roar — sharp, mechanical, relentless. The morning shift was in full swing. Jack and Jeeny turned toward the noise, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath their boots.

Jack: “So what, you just… throw yourself into work whenever life collapses? Pretend you’re fine until it feels true?”

Jeeny: “No. I build. There’s a difference. Work without soul is pretending. But work with heart — that’s healing.”

Jack: “You mean like turning anger into art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Or music. Or even rebuilding a car. Anything that gives form to chaos.”

Host: A pause. A sparrow landed on a rusty railing nearby, its tiny wings trembling as it chirped into the air thick with smoke.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, when my old man walked out, I punched a hole in the wall. My mother didn’t say a word. She just handed me a trowel and said, ‘Fix it.’ Took me all night. But by morning, the hole was gone — and so was half the anger.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “That’s what Iacocca meant. You didn’t realize it, but you plowed your anger into something useful.”

Jack: “Guess I did. But back then, I wasn’t trying to be noble. I just needed something to do besides scream.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes that’s all we can do — keep our hands moving until the heart remembers how to breathe.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the distant sound of laughter from the other workers. Jack turned, watching a group of men haul metal parts onto a truck, their faces lined with grit but alive with purpose.

Jack: “You think they’re doing it for healing, Jeeny? Or just survival?”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? Healing hides inside survival sometimes. You only notice it later — when the ache is gone and you realize you’ve built something.”

Jack: “And if you can’t build?”

Jeeny: “Then help someone who can. That’s what I do on bad days. I help someone else stand.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, heavy yet gentle, like a hand resting on a wound. Jack stared at her, the lines around his mouth softening.

Jack: “You really believe there’s a right way to use anger, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Anger’s energy. Energy never disappears — it just changes shape. So change the shape.”

Jack: “And what about people who can’t control it? The ones who explode instead of build?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s our job to show them how. That’s why I keep working with those factory kids after hours. If they’re not fixing engines, they’re breaking windows. It’s all the same fire — but it burns differently depending on what you feed it.”

Host: The sky began to clear, revealing a band of blue through the grey. A truck backfired, sending a sharp sound through the air. Jack flinched, then chuckled softly — the first real laugh that morning.

Jack: “You know what? You remind me of Iacocca himself — stubborn, relentless, and always finding something to build when everything else is falling apart.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Jack: “He rebuilt Chrysler when everyone thought it was finished. I guess he didn’t just talk about turning anger into something positive — he lived it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what we all have to do — rebuild ourselves the same way.”

Jack: “But what if there’s nothing left to rebuild from?”

Jeeny: (looking at him, softly) “There’s always something left — you. As long as you’re breathing, there’s still material.”

Host: The camera drew closer — a faint smile tugged at the corner of Jack’s lips. He looked at Jeeny, the sunlight catching the dust motes around her like tiny, golden sparks.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too busy breaking to remember how to build.”

Jeeny: “Then start small. One bolt, one breath, one choice at a time. That’s how everything starts — even hope.”

Host: The factory horn blared, signaling the start of another shift. Workers moved, voices rising and fading in the morning air. Jack straightened, pulling on his gloves, the weight of his exhaustion giving way to quiet resolve.

Jack: “Alright. Let’s get back in there. I’ll try your way — build instead of burn.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Good. Because someday, when the storm passes, you’ll look back and realize the work saved you.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll just keep me too busy to fall apart.”

Jeeny: “That’s how saving yourself usually starts.”

Host: The two walked toward the factory doors, their shadows stretching long across the yard. The light hit the metal just right — turning rust to shimmer, exhaustion to quiet purpose.

As they disappeared into the noise, the camera lingered on the empty truck, its engine still warm, the faint steam curling upward — like anger transformed into motion, into work, into something quietly, stubbornly alive.

And beyond the smoke, the morning sun rose higher — a forgiving light, steady, gold, and good.