In Torch Song, I did that character almost non-stop from 1978

Host: The city was quiet, but not peaceful — a kind of restless silence that lingered after storms. Rain still clung to the rooftops, refusing to leave. Through a fogged window, a faint orange light from a theatre marquee flickered, spelling out the word “Torch” — one letter burnt out, like a memory trying to forget itself.

Inside a nearly empty bar across the street, Jack sat hunched over a half-drunk whiskey, the glass leaving wet rings on the counter. His face was drawn, his grey eyes tired, as though they’d watched too many curtains fall. Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, watching him with the kind of patience that only comes from understanding.

A poster for Harvey Fierstein’s Torch Song Trilogy hung crookedly on the wall beside them — faded, but still glowing in the neon’s afterlight.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that poster for ten minutes, Jack. What are you thinking?”

Jack: “About how someone can live one character for nine years straight. Fierstein said he did that. Played the same role over and over, until it wasn’t just a part, it was his life. And when it finally ended, he said he failed. That it colored everything else he tried. That’s… something I understand too well.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass, his eyes lost in the reflection of bottles. The rainlight shimmered across the floor, cutting the room into shards of amber and shadow.

Jeeny: “You mean your work, don’t you? That project you lost last year?”

Jack: “Not just the project. The identity that came with it. You do something long enough — it becomes you. And when it’s gone, you’re not sure who’s left. That’s what Fierstein meant. The failure didn’t just hurt him — it redefined him.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it just revealed him. Sometimes we hide behind what we do, and when it’s gone, the mask slips.”

Jack: “You always say that like it’s beautiful. But it’s not. It’s terrifying. To realize that the thing that once gave you meaning now haunts you. That every new role, every new job, feels like a lesser echo of what you once were.”

Host: The air between them thickened — not with anger, but with shared heaviness. A taxi splashed through a puddle outside, its headlights flashing like a brief memory across the windowpane.

Jeeny: “Jack, you think too much in losses and measurements. Maybe Fierstein wasn’t lamenting the failure. Maybe he was just acknowledging that every success leaves a scar — that art, when lived too long, starts to own you.”

Jack: “And what’s wrong with being owned by your art? Isn’t that what passion is? To give yourself entirely?”

Jeeny: “Until there’s nothing left to give. Until your passion becomes a prison. You think you’re building something beautiful, but you’re just locking yourself inside it.”

Host: The neon sign outside began to buzz, one of the letters flickering, fighting to stay lit. The sound filled the room like an uneasy heartbeat.

Jack: “But that’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it worth it. You think Torch Song became what it was because Fierstein kept his distance? No. He breathed it. Lived it. And when he said it colored how he reacted to everything after, that wasn’t regret — that was truth. Every artist, every creator, gets stained by what they make.”

Jeeny: “Then why call it failure?”

Jack: “Because that’s what happens when you believe the world will understand your devotion, and it doesn’t. You pour your soul into something — and the audience blinks. And suddenly all that fire inside you feels like smoke.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, Jack. That fire was never for them. It was for you. The failure didn’t come from doing — it came from expecting.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, gentle but unforgiving. Jack looked at her, his eyes searching for an escape, but there was none — only the truth of her voice and the weight of his own reflection in the bar mirror.

Jack: “So what, we’re supposed to create in a vacuum? Pretend the world doesn’t exist?”

Jeeny: “Not pretend — accept. The world may not applaud, but that doesn’t make your song any less real. Look at Fierstein — he kept performing that same character for nearly a decade. Maybe it wasn’t just about success. Maybe he was trying to understand himself through it.”

Jack: “Or maybe he was trapped by it. Maybe he just couldn’t stop being that man on stage because he didn’t know how to be anyone else.”

Jeeny: “That’s not failure, Jack. That’s human. We all cling to the roles that once made us feel alive. The difference is whether we learn from them or let them consume us.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the door, sending a shiver through the room. The bartender turned down the lights; the neon glow bathed their faces in a soft crimson hue. The world outside was a mirror of their conversation — beautiful, broken, and still beating.

Jack: “You know, I once thought failure was the end of something. But maybe you’re right — maybe it’s a kind of mirror. You look at it long enough, and it shows you what you were afraid to see.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Failure isn’t the shadow of your work; it’s the light behind it. It shows you its edges. Without it, you’d never know where the art ends and where you begin.”

Jack: “You make it sound so forgiving. But when you’ve lost something you poured your life into, it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like ashes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you’re still looking at what’s gone, not what’s left. Ashes are still warm, Jack. There’s life in them. That’s what Fierstein was saying, I think — the pain of the ending gives color to everything that follows.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, then released. He looked down, smiled, barely, the kind of smile that hurts before it heals.

Jack: “So maybe failure isn’t a punishment, but a palette. Maybe that’s how we paint the next chapter.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every failure is a new color. The trick is learning to see it before you turn away.”

Host: Outside, the neon sign flickered one last time — the burnt letter suddenly glowed, whole again, if only for a second. It lit their faces in a brief halo of red and gold, like a final bow before curtain call.

Jack: “Maybe we don’t stop playing our old roles. We just learn to rewrite them.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the failure isn’t in repeating — it’s in refusing to grow from what we repeat.”

Host: The rain had stopped, the street gleaming under the streetlights like a stage floor waiting for its next act. Jack and Jeeny rose, silent, together, their footsteps echoing against the empty night.

In the distance, the theatre marquee flickered once more — Torch Song — a reminder that even failure can glow, if you let it.