I've used the prestige and influence of having been a president

Host: The night was heavy with rain, the kind that whispers against the windows like an old secret trying to be remembered. A single streetlight flickered outside the small café, painting long shadows across the floor. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of coffee and wet pavement. Jack sat by the window, his coat damp, his hands wrapped around a cup as if trying to absorb its warmth. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, her eyes steady and bright, like embers refusing to die.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, when Carter said he used his prestige as a former president to promote peace and human rights, I couldn’t help but think—it sounds noble, sure. But it’s also just... strategic. Influence is still a form of power, and power always has an agenda.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point, Jack? To use power not for gain, but for good? He didn’t retire into silence or self-importance. He built homes for the poor, fought disease, and mediated conflicts when most men his age were collecting awards. That’s not an agenda. That’s a legacy.”

Host: The steam from their cups rose, curling like ghosts between them. The rain grew louder, a steady drumbeat echoing their tension. Outside, a neon sign flickered, its reflection trembling on the tabletop.

Jack: “Legacy, sure. But influence isn’t ever pure. Every time a public figure speaks, even when they mean well, they’re still branding something. Carter’s reputation as the ‘humanitarian president’ is as much a construct as his presidency. Maybe he genuinely believes in what he’s doing—but that doesn’t make it selfless.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying altruism is impossible? That every act of good is just a transaction in disguise?”

Jack: “I’m saying we’re all wired to seek value—approval, purpose, redemption. Maybe Carter’s work was just his way of atoning for political failures. Remember the Iran hostage crisis? His approval ratings sank, his image shattered. Maybe this was how he rewrote his own history.”

Host: Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly as she lifted her cup, then set it down again. Her eyes glimmered, not from anger, but from conviction that had been tested too many times to still be gentle.

Jeeny: “Maybe redemption isn’t such a bad motive, Jack. Isn’t that what we all want—to make right what went wrong? The world doesn’t need saints without ego; it needs people who still act even when their reasons are imperfect. Carter didn’t have to spend decades building houses with Habitat for Humanity, or monitoring elections in broken democracies. But he did.”

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, none of it changes how power operates. He had a platform, a name—those were his weapons. If some unknown man tried to do the same, no one would listen. So how much of his success is really moral, and how much is just the echo of his title?”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling it softly. The streetlight outside flickered, and for a moment, the café was swallowed in a brief darkness before the light returned, faint and golden. Jack’s eyes caught that glow, and there was something almost tired in them.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re accusing him of using his past instead of being used by it. But what else can a person do? We all inherit our own symbols, Jack. Some people wear them as burdens; others turn them into tools. Carter turned his into a torch.”

Jack: “Or a spotlight.”

Jeeny: “Is there really a difference if it illuminates something good?”

Host: The silence between them tightened, stretching like a wire about to snap. The rain had eased to a drizzle, but inside, the air was charged—an invisible current that pulled at every word, every glance.

Jack: “You believe too much in symbols, Jeeny. In intentions. But results matter more than motives. If his work didn’t stop wars, if human rights violations still happen daily, if the environment keeps burning—then what does his influence really achieve?”

Jeeny: “You measure everything in outcomes, but some things aren’t measured that way. Hope isn’t data, Jack. It’s endurance. When Carter went to North Korea in 1994, he helped avert a war—even if temporarily. That’s not illusion; that’s a moment of peace carved from chaos. Even a small light matters in a long night.”

Jack: “But temporary peace doesn’t change human nature. We go back to the same patterns. Wars, greed, exploitation. One man’s idealism can’t rewire the system.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we keep trying? Why do you still work, still argue, still wake up every day? Because something inside you still hopes the system can bend, even a little.”

Host: Her voice had softened, but there was fire behind it—quiet, burning steady. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening. Outside, a bus splashed through a puddle, its reflection rippled in the glass beside him.

Jack: “You think I hope. I think I’ve just accepted the rules. People like Carter, they play a moral game inside a corrupted arena. But maybe the only real victory is learning to survive it without lying to yourself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival isn’t enough, Jack. Maybe what keeps us human is that we refuse to stop believing we can heal something. Carter didn’t wait for a perfect world—he built one brick at a time. That’s what makes him different from the rest.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. Only a few drops slid down the glass, catching the light like tiny stars. The hum of the city outside returned—the soft laughter of passersby, the distant siren, the echo of life continuing.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple, Jeeny. But for every Carter, there are a hundred men who use their influence for power, not peace. The balance is always tilted.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But history isn’t a balance sheet, Jack. It’s a story, and some people still write the right lines in it. Carter’s quote wasn’t just self-praise—it was a promise that influence doesn’t have to end when authority does.”

Jack: “A promise—or a justification?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. But if a justification leads to kindness, if a promise leads to action, does the difference even matter?”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped against the cup, slow and rhythmic, like a clock winding down. His eyes softened, and for a fleeting moment, the steel in them seemed to melt into something almost like regret.

Jack: “Maybe not. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better to try and fail nobly than to never try at all. But sometimes I wonder if those small victories are enough to keep us from sinking.”

Jeeny: “They are, Jack. Because every life Carter touched—every house built, every voice defended—those aren’t statistics. They’re threads in a larger fabric of hope. You can’t see it all at once, but it’s there.”

Host: The light shifted—soft, golden, brushing across their faces like a quiet dawn that had forgotten the hour. Outside, the street gleamed with rain, reflecting the world like a mirror made of mercy.

Jack: “You always make me sound like a cynic trapped in a burning room.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you are. But even the cynic keeps watching the door—waiting for someone to open it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The café was still, save for the faint clinking of cups and the heartbeat of the city beyond. Then Jack smiled, barely, but it was there—a small, unsteady curve that carried more weight than words.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. I’ll give you this—if power must exist, I’d rather it be in the hands of someone who builds than someone who burns.”

Jeeny: “And that’s all we can ever hope for—that our influence builds something that lasts, even if we never see it stand.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—two figures framed against the window, rainlight washing over their faces, the city beyond slowly blinking awake. The moment hung in the air, fragile and infinite, like a final note in a song that refused to end.