No business can stay in business without customers. How you treat

Host: The rain streaked the city windows of the downtown diner, casting silver veins of reflection across the linoleum floor. It was nearly closing time — the lights dimmed, the coffee burnt down to its last bitter pot. The neon sign outside flickered, its hum a faint pulse in the silence.

Jack, still in his work clothes — a wrinkled shirt and loosened tie — sat in a corner booth. His phone lay silent beside a half-eaten slice of pie, a notebook open in front of him filled with numbers, plans, and slowly fading hope.

Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea, quiet and watchful. The waitress — tired but kind — refilled their mugs one last time before retreating to the counter, leaving the two of them alone with their thoughts and the sound of the rain.

Host: Outside, the world blurred. Inside, it was all too sharp — the weight of dreams on the brink.

Jeeny: (softly) “Harvey Mackay once said, ‘No business can stay in business without customers. How you treat — or mistreat — them determines how long your doors stay open.’”

(she looks at him) “You ever think about that, Jack? The way people talk about ‘business’ like it’s strategy, when really it’s just relationship?”

Jack: (without looking up) “I think about it every day. I just wish relationships showed up on balance sheets.”

Jeeny: “They do. You just call them ‘returns’ and ‘retention.’ The problem is, most people forget those words mean people.”

Jack: (half-laughing, bitter) “Tell that to the investors. They don’t want people. They want percentages.”

Jeeny: “And what do you want?”

Host: The question hung there — quiet, but edged with something like accusation. Jack sighed, rubbing his temple, the exhaustion of months pressing against his voice.

Jack: “I wanted to build something honest. A place where customers felt seen. Where they mattered. But somewhere between budgets and deadlines, I started treating them like transactions. And the numbers followed.”

Jeeny: “Downward?”

Jack: “Like gravity.”

Host: The rain tapped harder on the glass, echoing his words like punctuation.

Jeeny: “You forgot why you started.”

Jack: “I didn’t forget. I just got... tired. You know what it’s like to keep smiling at people who treat you like a vending machine?”

Jeeny: “Sure. But you forget — they’re tired too. The world runs on exhaustion these days. Every act of kindness is a miracle.”

Jack: (staring at his coffee) “You think kindness can save a business?”

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

Host: Her words landed heavy, quiet, true — the kind of truth you don’t hear in boardrooms or spreadsheets, only in places that still smell faintly of burnt coffee and sincerity.

Jeeny: “Mackay wasn’t talking about customers. Not really. He was talking about people — how we treat the ones who keep us alive. In business, in love, in friendship. You mistreat the hand that feeds you, and the hunger finds you again.”

Jack: “You make it sound moral.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every business, every brand — it’s a reflection of conscience. You can’t fake respect for long. The world can tell when you’ve stopped caring.”

Host: The neon outside flickered again — OPEN—then OPE, then nothing for a moment before the word resurrected itself, like a fragile promise.

Jack: “You know, when I first opened the company, I remembered everyone’s name — the delivery guy, the interns, even the woman who brought in muffins once a week. Then we grew, and I started calling them ‘accounts,’ ‘departments,’ ‘clients.’”

Jeeny: “And they stopped calling you back.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Jeeny: “Because no one wants to be a number, Jack. Not in a spreadsheet. Not in life.”

Host: The waitress dimmed the lights further. The diner now glowed in shades of amber and memory. The sound of the rain softened, replaced by the low hum of an old refrigerator and the soft click of Jeeny’s spoon against her cup.

Jack: (quietly) “You think it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “For what?”

Jack: “To open the doors again. To rebuild something that still remembers its humanity.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “It’s never too late to remember your why. It’s just harder when profit starts speaking louder than purpose.”

Jack: “And when fear starts sounding like logic.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But here’s the truth, Jack — people don’t buy products. They buy connection. They stay for trust.”

Jack: “And when that’s gone?”

Jeeny: “You earn it back. Slowly. One apology, one honest gesture, one human moment at a time.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and something softened in him. Not defeat. Not quite hope. Something quieter. A kind of acceptance that healing, even in business, requires humility.

Jack: “You know, the first review I ever got for our company said, ‘They make you feel like family.’ I framed it. Hung it in the lobby.”

Jeeny: “And then?”

Jack: (smiling sadly) “We redecorated.”

Jeeny: (after a long pause) “Then maybe it’s time to put it back up.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind that clean, post-storm silence — the kind where even neon seems to breathe easier.

Jeeny: “You know, Mackay was right. Doors don’t close because of competition. They close because people forget why they opened.”

Jack: “You think I can fix it?”

Jeeny: “If you start by listening again.”

Jack: “To my customers?”

Jeeny: “To your conscience.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The waitress flipped the sign to CLOSED, but the warmth inside lingered. Jack stood, pulling on his jacket, and for the first time in months, he didn’t look defeated. He looked... ready.

Jack: (quietly) “You ever think about how simple it really is? People just want to be treated like people.”

Jeeny: “And businesses forget that the moment they start chasing numbers instead of names.”

Jack: “Then maybe tomorrow I’ll start over. Call it day one again.”

Jeeny: “That’s how every great comeback starts.”

Host: The camera follows them out into the quiet street — puddles glinting under the lamplight, the world smelling faintly of rain and renewal. The neon sign behind them flickers one last time before going dark.

Host: And in that still, reflective night, Harvey Mackay’s words hum softly beneath the sound of their footsteps:

Host: That a business without compassion
is just a building with lights on.

That the customer is not a number,
but the reason for the story.

And that every open door —
in business, in love, in life —
stays open only as long
as kindness stands behind the counter.

Host: The rain begins again — light, cleansing, rhythmic —
and for the first time,
Jack walks toward the dawn
as if he’s finally ready
to start listening.