People hate me because I am a multifaceted, talented, wealthy

Host: The night was thick with neon and noise. The city thrummed — a heartbeat of cars, sirens, and laughter bleeding through rain-soaked streets. Inside a dim bar on the lower east side, the air was smoky, the walls lined with portraits of long-dead artists staring down as if judging the living.

At the far end of the counter sat Jack, his elbows on the wood, a half-empty glass before him, the ice melting slow. Jeeny sat beside him, coat still wet, hair clinging to her cheeks. They looked like two ghosts who had stopped to argue over what it meant to be alive.

The bartender switched the radio, and Jerry Lewis’s voice — old, theatrical, arrogant — crackled from the static: “People hate me because I am a multifaceted, talented, wealthy, internationally famous genius.”

A pause. Then Jack laughed — low, bitter, genuine.

Jack: “You’ve got to hand it to him — at least the man didn’t fake humility.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he just forgot how to hide it.”

Host: The barlight flickered across Jack’s face, sharp angles catching the reflection of a neon sign that read ‘Truth Served Cold.’ He took a long sip, eyes narrowing at the quote still echoing through the static.

Jack: “He’s right, you know. People do hate that kind of person. Not because he’s wrong — but because he reminds them of what they’ll never be.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they hate what he became to get there.”

Jack: “Which is?”

Jeeny: “Loud. Self-worshipping. Alone.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but the words landed like stones dropped into still water. The sound seemed to sharpen the air, to slice the smoke hanging between them.

Jack: “You call it self-worship. I call it self-knowledge. Look, Jeeny — the world spends its life telling people to be small, modest, grateful. But genius doesn’t bow. It burns. And when it burns too bright, the crowd throws stones just to dim the light.”

Jeeny: “That’s convenient. So every arrogant man with talent gets to call himself a misunderstood flame?”

Jack: “Not every man. Just the ones who actually earned it. Lewis, Picasso, Kanye — hell, even Steve Jobs. The world cheered when they succeeded, then crucified them for acting like they knew it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because genius without grace isn’t greatness — it’s vanity. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glinted, dark and fierce. Rain rattled the window, casting rippling patterns on her face — light and shadow shifting like an argument made visible.

Jack: “Vanity built half the modern world. You think Michelangelo carved David because he was humble? He signed his name right across it, for God’s sake. He wanted people to see his genius.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but he didn’t mock the world while showing it. He gave something to it. That’s the difference. Lewis’s line isn’t about art — it’s about himself. That’s what makes people hate it.”

Jack: “And yet you’re talking about him right now. Even in your disapproval, he wins. That’s the irony of genius — the world can’t stop orbiting it, even when it pretends to despise it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, his smile half-daring, half-broken. Jeeny folded her hands, fingers trembling slightly — a gesture more from passion than anger.

Jeeny: “You think hatred is proof of importance?”

Jack: “Sometimes, yes. People don’t hate mediocrity — they ignore it. They hate what they envy. That’s human nature.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s simpler — people hate arrogance because it reminds them how fragile dignity is. The moment you call yourself a genius, you strip away the humility that connects you to everyone else. Without that, you’re just noise — no matter how brilliant.”

Host: The bar grew quieter, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen. Even the rain slowed to a hush.

Jack: “So, what — geniuses should apologize for existing? For knowing they’re better?”

Jeeny: “No. But they should remember that greatness isn’t a mirror — it’s a window. The moment you make it about you, you stop creating and start posing.”

Jack: “You talk like genius owes the world kindness. It doesn’t. The world owes genius room to breathe.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every genius who forgets humility suffocates under their own ego. Look at Tesla — died penniless. Look at Van Gogh — cut off his ear, starved. Look at Michael Jackson — adored and destroyed. It’s never the talent that kills them, Jack. It’s the mirror.”

Host: The light over the counter buzzed faintly, casting a halo around the empty bottles behind the bar. It was a holy glow in a godless place — fitting for two people arguing about divinity and downfall.

Jack: “So you think Lewis was wrong to say it?”

Jeeny: “No. I think he was lonely when he said it. There’s a difference between pride and pain disguised as pride. Sometimes people brag the loudest when they feel unseen.”

Jack: “Now you’re just being sentimental.”

Jeeny: “No. Just human. You see arrogance; I see armor.”

Host: Jack went still. The ice in his glass had melted completely, a small pool of water catching the reflection of his face — fractured, distorted.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right.”
He spoke quietly now, as if the fight had drained from his voice.
“Maybe I’ve worn that armor too. Pretending confidence so I don’t feel how small I actually am.”

Jeeny: “We all have. The difference is whether we mistake the armor for ourselves.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The rain began again — soft, forgiving. Outside, a taxi splashed by, and the barlight caught the gold of Jeeny’s eyes, turning them into something like forgiveness.

Jack: “So maybe genius isn’t the problem. Maybe fame is. You give a man too much light, he can’t help but cast a shadow.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe the problem isn’t the light — it’s forgetting that you didn’t create the sun.”

Host: Jack laughed — the first honest laugh of the night, short and weary.

Jack: “You should’ve been a philosopher.”

Jeeny: “And you should’ve been kinder to yourself.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The bartender began stacking glasses, the sound rhythmic, cleansing. The world outside was still dripping, but lighter now — like a wound that had begun to close.

Jack: “You know, maybe Jerry Lewis wasn’t wrong. Maybe people did hate him because he was multifaceted, talented, wealthy — all that. But maybe he forgot that the world doesn’t hate those things. It hates when you tell it you know you have them.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because humility is the last bridge between greatness and belonging. Once you burn it, you’re just an island of brilliance — shining, but alone.”

Host: She stood, pulling her coat tight around her. Jack stayed seated, watching the door as she stepped into the rain, her silhouette dissolving into the streetlights.

He looked at the empty seat, then at his reflection in the window — a man caught between pride and longing.

Jack: (softly) “Armor or arrogance — sometimes I can’t tell the difference anymore.”

Host: Outside, the rain turned to mist, silver under the lamps. The neon sign flickered — ‘Truth Served Cold’ — before finally dimming into darkness.

Host: And as the scene faded, one truth lingered in the air —
that the genius who must remind the world of his greatness is really reminding himself
that he once believed he was still enough,
before the world’s applause became the only proof of it.