Oh, I don't think Tom Sowell would tell anybody to join the

Host: The night hung over Washington D.C. like a velvet curtain — cold, quiet, and watchful. Beyond the marble pillars of the Supreme Court, the city buzzed faintly — a restless hum of power and ambition under streetlights that never slept.

Inside a dimly lit bar, two figures sat opposite each other in a corner booth, their faces half-lit by the low amber glow of an antique lamp. The air smelled faintly of bourbon, smoke, and the kind of truths that people only speak when the world grows still.

Jeeny stirred the ice in her glass, eyes full of thought. Jack leaned forward, sleeves rolled up, his grey eyes sharp as razors but carrying a tired kind of honesty. On the table between them lay a small, dog-eared newspaper clipping — a quote by Clarence Thomas, about Thomas Sowell, the economist and philosopher:

“Oh, I don't think Tom Sowell would tell anybody to join the administration. That's not his style. But I think his attitude has always been if it had to be done he'd prefer me to do it than somebody else.”

The words sat there, quiet but heavy, like a stone dropped in still water.

Jeeny: “There’s something noble about that, isn’t there? ‘If it had to be done, he’d prefer me to do it.’ It’s the kind of humility that comes with purpose.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Humility? Or self-importance dressed up as duty? You could read it either way.”

Jeeny: “I don’t think so. It sounds like acceptance — that the work might be hard, thankless, even painful — but someone still has to step up. That’s not ego, Jack. That’s service.”

Jack: “Service is easy to romanticize from the outside. But when you’re inside the machinery — the politics, the power plays — ‘doing what needs to be done’ usually means dirtying your hands. People say they want the job done right, but no one wants the cost of doing it.”

Host: The ice in Jeeny’s glass cracked softly, like distant thunder. The barlight flickered. Outside, a sirens’ wail faded into the distance — a haunting reminder of the city’s endless contradictions.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why Thomas Sowell’s attitude matters. He didn’t want power. He wanted competence. He knew — as so few do — that power without principle is poison. So he’d rather someone with a conscience take the reins than watch it rot from the inside.”

Jack: “And yet conscience never survives the reins. Look around — politicians, advisors, intellectuals — all of them start with ideals. By the time they’re done, the ideals are bargaining chips. You think Clarence Thomas or Thomas Sowell never compromised?”

Jeeny: “Compromise isn’t corruption. It’s survival. You don’t change systems by staying pure on the sidelines.”

Jack: “And you don’t save your soul by stepping into hell and pretending you can walk out clean.”

Host: A low beat of tension pulsed between them. Jack’s words hung in the smoke, sharp and bitter. Jeeny’s eyes glowed darker now — not with anger, but conviction.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up believing anyone can do good inside the system.”

Jack: “I haven’t given up. I’ve just stopped pretending that good intentions are enough. Power isn’t a tool — it’s a tide. Once you step in, it decides where you go.”

Jeeny: “So what? You’d rather watch the tide drown people than wade in and pull someone out?”

Jack: (pauses) “Maybe. Because too often the ones who wade in end up dragging others under.”

Host: The rain began outside — soft at first, then harder, a rhythmic drum on the windowpane. Jeeny watched the droplets race down the glass, her reflection merging with the city lights.

Jeeny: “You know, Thomas Sowell never asked to be anyone’s hero. He just thought. He challenged both sides. And maybe that’s what Clarence Thomas meant — that doing what must be done isn’t about glory. It’s about endurance. About standing in the fire because you can take the heat.”

Jack: “Or because you think no one else can.”

Jeeny: “That’s not arrogance, Jack. That’s responsibility. When you’re capable, you don’t get to hide behind cynicism. You act. Even if it hurts you.”

Host: Jack laughed — a low, rough sound. It wasn’t mocking. It was the kind of laugh that came from a place of old wounds.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That if something’s broken, it’s your duty to fix it — even if it breaks you?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because somebody has to. And if I can, then it should be me.”

Jack: “And what if that’s exactly how the world eats its best people alive?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’ll be eating people who gave a damn.”

Host: The rain softened again. The bar’s neon sign blinked in and out, reflecting across the table — two faces split between red and shadow.

Jeeny: “Think about history, Jack. Every reform, every revolution, every movement that changed the world — someone had to say, ‘If not me, then who?’ Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Rosa Parks — they didn’t want the stage. But they stood on it anyway.”

Jack: “And what did it get them? Jail cells, bullets, broken bodies.”

Jeeny: “And a world that moved forward because of it.”

Jack: “At what cost?”

Jeeny: “At the cost of silence. And that’s always the greater loss.”

Host: Jack leaned back, eyes distant. The lamplight caught the faint silver line of a scar near his temple — a story he never told.

Jack: “You think Thomas Sowell’s words were about nobility. I think they were about resignation — knowing that if he didn’t do it, someone worse would. That’s not hope, Jeeny. That’s realism in its rawest form.”

Jeeny: “Realism doesn’t cancel hope. It makes it necessary. Even in resignation, there’s a choice — a quiet, moral defiance. ‘If it has to be done, I’d prefer to do it.’ That’s not surrender. That’s stewardship.”

Jack: (softly) “Stewardship of what?”

Jeeny: “Of integrity. Of conscience. Of what’s left when the slogans fade.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked with slow precision. The rain outside had stopped, leaving the streets slick with reflected light. A cab splashed through a puddle, sending up a brief shimmer of silver.

Jack’s voice broke the quiet.

Jack: “You ever wonder if they regret it? The ones who step up? If they ever wish they’d stayed anonymous — safe?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But regret’s just the tax on doing something meaningful. People like Sowell, like Thomas — they carried that weight because someone had to. Maybe that’s what moral courage really is — not wanting to do it, but doing it anyway.”

Host: Jack’s hand rubbed his face slowly, his expression softening. The firelight reflected in his eyes, flickering like something fragile trying to live again.

Jack: “I don’t know, Jeeny. Sometimes I think the bravest thing isn’t stepping forward. It’s staying human when the world rewards power instead of virtue.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the only way to stay human is to use power right.”

Jack: (after a pause) “If it had to be done… you’d rather do it yourself, wouldn’t you?”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “I would. And I’d hope you would too.”

Host: The bar had grown almost empty. Only the bartender, polishing a glass, and a distant song playing low on the radio remained. The rain-soaked city outside pulsed faintly, as though the night itself exhaled.

Jack glanced at the quote on the table one last time, tracing the words with his finger.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Sowell meant — not pride, not duty, but the quiet burden of being someone who still cares when most don’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind of care that costs something. The kind that doesn’t look for applause.”

Host: A slow, tired smile crept across Jack’s face. He lifted his glass.

Jack: “To the ones who do it because it must be done.”

Jeeny: (raising hers) “And to those who wish they didn’t have to — but still do.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, a soft sound swallowed by the night.

Outside, the streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, each one a fragile beacon holding back the dark — imperfect, flickering, but still burning.

And in that glow lived the quiet truth of Clarence Thomas’s words — that real duty is never loud, never proud, and rarely chosen.

It is simply done, because someone must.