It's a Gen X thing to be okay with going unnoticed or unrated or

Host: The bar was half-empty, the kind of place where conversation existed in whispers and light came in shades of amber and regret. The jukebox in the corner hummed with a song that no one had chosen — an old tune that seemed to have outlived its relevance but not its beauty.

Outside, the rain was light but steady, blurring the neon signs into streaks of color — red melting into blue, blue into violet. Inside, everything was still.

Jack sat at the end of the counter, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers, the smoke curling toward the low ceiling like a ghost rising from habit. A notebook lay open before him, the first page filled with scribbles and the rest untouched — a field of blankness he hadn’t yet earned.

He didn’t notice Jeeny enter until she was beside him, her reflection appearing in the long mirror behind the bar. Her coat was soaked from the rain, her hair damp, her eyes sharp but gentle — the kind of gaze that could cut you and heal you at the same time.

She sat beside him without a word, ordered a whiskey neat, then finally spoke.

Jeeny: softly “David Berman once said — ‘It’s a Gen X thing to be okay with going unnoticed or unrated or untouched. To be free from strangers’ expectations, or anger. People got angry at me when I stopped making music because it seemed I was devaluing everything.’”

Jack: smiling faintly “He said that before disappearing for years. Everyone thought it was self-destruction. Maybe it was just self-preservation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. He didn’t disappear — he just stopped performing for the audience.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass slowly, pretending not to listen but clearly listening. Outside, thunder rolled like a deep, slow drumbeat — not threatening, just reminding.

Jack: looking down at his notebook “I get that. People only seem to care about you as long as you’re producing. The minute you go quiet, they act like you’ve betrayed them.”

Jeeny: quietly “Because your silence reminds them of theirs.”

Jack: smirking faintly “You always have a poetic answer ready.”

Jeeny: “No, just a few quiet years of my own.”

Host: The light above them flickered, humming faintly. The bar had that timeless feeling — as though every lost musician, writer, and wanderer had sat in those same seats, chasing meaning in half-finished sentences.

Jack: after a pause “He was right, though. Gen X never really wanted fame — just freedom. To make art without applause. To create something honest, even if no one noticed.”

Jeeny: nodding “And yet, the irony is — once you stop creating, the world gets angry. They think you owe them your output.”

Jack: bitterly “Like your identity’s a subscription they paid for.”

Jeeny: softly “But Berman didn’t owe them anything. His silence was part of his song. The pause was his rebellion.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette, watching the smoke twist and dissolve. He leaned back on his stool, his eyes distant.

Jack: quietly “You ever think we’re living in an age where absence itself has become offensive? You disappear for a while, and people think you’ve failed — not that you’ve healed.”

Jeeny: “Because we’re addicted to presence. To constant proof of existence — likes, posts, noise. But Berman — he chose absence as a kind of faith. A belief that meaning doesn’t need witnesses.”

Jack: smiling faintly “That’s beautiful. A belief that meaning doesn’t need witnesses.”

Jeeny: smiling back “He lived like that, didn’t he? Always on the edge between wanting to connect and needing to vanish.”

Host: The bartender set two glasses of whiskey in front of them. The ice clinked softly — a sound that filled the silence like punctuation.

Jack lifted his glass, studying the amber liquid.

Jack: quietly “You think he was right? That freedom’s found in being unnoticed?”

Jeeny: gently “I think freedom is being okay with being misunderstood. That’s rarer.”

Jack: after a pause “And loneliness?”

Jeeny: “Loneliness is the price of authenticity. The truest voices always echo before they’re heard.”

Host: A long silence stretched between them. The jukebox clicked, shifted tracks, and a Silver Jews song began to play — “Random Rules.” Jack froze, the familiarity hitting him like a memory he wasn’t ready to face.

Jeeny: softly “He never escaped his art, you know. He just learned to make peace with it. Maybe that’s what we’re all trying to do.”

Jack: quietly “To stop mistaking applause for understanding.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly.”

Host: The rain picked up again, harder now — a steady percussion against the windows. Jack took a slow sip of whiskey, his voice low, steady.

Jack: “I used to write songs. Not for anyone — just for myself. Then one day I stopped, and everyone kept asking me when I’d start again. I didn’t have the heart to tell them that silence was the only thing still honest in me.”

Jeeny: softly “Then your silence was your masterpiece.”

Jack: smiling sadly “It didn’t feel like that.”

Jeeny: “Neither did his. Until after he was gone.”

Host: The bar seemed smaller now, as though the world itself had folded inward to make room for the conversation. Time slowed; everything else fell away.

Jeeny: “Berman understood something we’re still afraid to accept — that withdrawal isn’t surrender. It’s a form of integrity. A refusal to commodify your pain.”

Jack: nodding slowly “To choose invisibility in a world obsessed with being seen.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ultimate rebellion — not to disappear out of despair, but to exist quietly, without needing validation.”

Host: The song reached its final verse, Berman’s voice breaking softly, full of tenderness and ache:
“In 1984, I was hospitalized for approaching perfection…”

The line hung in the air, fragile as smoke.

Jack closed his notebook slowly, his fingers resting on the cover as if sealing a truth inside it.

Jack: quietly “Maybe that’s the curse of the artist — the need to be heard and the yearning to be unseen.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Maybe it’s not a curse. Maybe it’s the balance that keeps art human.”

Host: The lights dimmed a little further, the rain easing outside, leaving the air fresh and clean.

Jeeny stood, slipping on her coat.

Jeeny: “You know, Berman once wrote that he wanted to be remembered not for what he created, but for the way he felt things. That’s what makes his silence sacred.”

Jack: softly “Feeling deeply in a world that rewards noise.”

Jeeny: “And still choosing peace.”

Host: She left a few bills on the counter, her eyes lingering on him one last time.

Jeeny: smiling softly “Keep writing, Jack. Even if no one reads it.”

Jack: quietly “That’s the only way it’s real.”

Host: She nodded, then turned and walked out into the rain, her silhouette dissolving into the streetlight glow.

Jack sat for a long moment, the bar returning to its stillness. He opened his notebook again — the page blank — and began to write.

Outside, the city breathed — unnoticed, unjudged, untouched.

And as the final notes of Berman’s song faded, his words lingered like a benediction for every quiet soul that ever dared to step away:

“It’s a Gen X thing to be okay with going unnoticed or unrated or untouched. To be free from strangers’ expectations, or anger.”

Because silence, when chosen, isn’t emptiness —
it’s sovereignty.

And in that sacred quiet —
between the noise of the world and the ache of creation —
the artist, at last,
comes home to himself.