Next to a circus there ain't nothing that packs up and tears out

Host: The parking lot behind the old department store was almost empty, except for a few abandoned shopping carts and a torn banner that still read, “Holiday Sale — 50% Off!” The air was cold, biting, and filled with the aftertaste of December — the kind of stillness that settles after laughter and lights are gone.

Strings of broken bulbs hung over the alley, their colors now dull, their purpose spent. Snow had turned to slush, reflecting the neon signs of a late-night diner. Inside, through fogged windows, two figures sat across from each other — Jack and Jeeny, coffee between them, tension lingering like the steam that rose and vanished between their words.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? Just a week ago this place was glowing. Choirs, decorations, kids with eyes full of wonder. Now it’s just… empty.”

Jack: “That’s the thing about Christmas, Jeeny. It’s all lights and noise until the bill comes due. Kin Hubbard said it right — ‘Next to a circus, there ain’t nothing that packs up and tears out faster than the Christmas spirit.’”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like kindness is a con.”

Jack: “It is — seasonal amnesia. Everyone pretends to care for a few weeks, then forgets as soon as the wrapping paper hits the floor. Look around. The same people who smiled at you in December won’t even nod in January.”

Host: A truck rumbled past outside, spraying dirty snow against the glass. Jack didn’t flinch; he just stirred his coffee, eyes fixed on the dark surface like a man trying to find meaning in the swirl of reflections.

Jeeny: “I don’t think that’s fair. For some people, those moments — the music, the lights, the giving — they’re real. Even if they don’t last, they still mean something.”

Jack: “A moment of pretend doesn’t erase a year of selfishness. You can’t borrow a soul once a year and call it virtue.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t a moment better than nothing? Would you rather live in a world without even that — no songs, no gifts, no goodwill?”

Jack: “Honestly? Maybe it’d be more honest. No illusions, no plastic hope. Just the truth — cold, consistent, and real.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him, her eyes reflecting the faint lights outside. A child and his mother passed by the window, the boy still clutching a red ribbon from a forgotten present. He laughed, carefree, and for a second, the sound pierced the silence like a bell from another world.

Jeeny: “You call it illusion, Jack, but maybe that’s what we need — a little make-believe to remind us of what we could be. Isn’t that what every holiday, every ritual, every tradition is — a chance to pretend until it becomes true?”

Jack: “Pretend doesn’t change the world, Jeeny. It delays it. Look at the charities that boom in December and vanish by February. Look at the homeless. They get blankets at Christmas, then forgotten by spring. You call that spirit? I call it a performance.”

Jeeny: “Performance or not, someone’s still warmer tonight because of it. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Not if it lets us feel righteous enough to stop trying the rest of the year.”

Host: The waitress approached, refilling their cups. The sound of coffee pouring was the only movement in the room. Outside, the snow started again — gentle, hesitant, as if unsure whether to return.

Jeeny: “You’re angry at the wrong thing, Jack. The Christmas spirit isn’t fake — it’s just fragile. It needs people to keep it alive, and most of us are too tired, too afraid, or too busy to do that.”

Jack: “So it’s our fault for not believing hard enough?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s our fault for not carrying it. For treating it like a guest instead of a home.”

Jack: “You can’t live every day like Christmas, Jeeny. The world doesn’t work that way.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can live every day like kindness isn’t just a decoration.”

Host: The lights above them flickered, and the radio in the corner crackled with a familiar tune — one of those carols that had been played a thousand times too many. But tonight, in that empty diner, it sounded different — lonely, almost haunted.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was little, I used to think the Christmas tree was alive. After we’d pack it up, I’d feel sorry for it — like it had done its job and we just… discarded it.”

Jack: “That’s the nature of joy, isn’t it? Temporary. You light it, it flares, and then it’s gone. Just like the circus. You cheer, then they leave, and the tent collapses.”

Jeeny: “But the circus comes back next year. And we go, again and again — because we remember how it made us feel. Maybe that’s what the Christmas spirit is. Not the lights, not the gifts, but the memory of who we were, for a moment, when we still believed.”

Jack: “Believed in what?”

Jeeny: “In goodness, Jack. In the idea that the world, even just once a year, could be soft.”

Host: The word hung in the air — soft — as if it didn’t belong in a world like theirs. Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders dropping under the weight of thoughts he didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “You really think one month of pretending to be good makes a difference?”

Jeeny: “It does if it makes you miss it when it’s gone.”

Host: A long silence followed. The diners had all left, and only the sound of the clock and the snow remained. Jack looked at the window, where a faint reflection of the two of them floated — a man and a woman in the afterglow of a holiday that the world had already forgotten.

Jeeny: “Maybe the Christmas spirit doesn’t vanish as fast as you think. Maybe it just waits — for someone to see it again.”

Jack: “And you think that’s me?”

Jeeny: “I think it could be anyone. Even you.”

Host: Jack laughed, but it wasn’t mocking — it was tired, almost grateful. The sound softened the edges of the room.

Jack: “You really are a stubborn believer, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Someone has to be. Otherwise, what’s left after the circus leaves?”

Host: The rain of melted snow dripped from the roof, each drop echoing like the beat of a clock winding down. Jeeny stood, buttoning her coat, her eyes gentle, her smile quiet but real.

Jeeny: “Maybe the spirit doesn’t pack up, Jack. Maybe it just follows us — waiting for us to notice it again.”

Host: Jack watched her leave, the doorbell chiming softly behind her. He looked down at his cup, now cold, and for the first time, he noticed a reflection of the diner’s lights in the coffee’s dark surface — small, faint, but still there.

He smiled, just a little.

Because sometimes, even after the circus packs, the tent folds, and the music fades, a little of the magic stays — quiet, patient, waiting for the next believer to find it.