Politics is just like show business. You have a hell of an

Host: The spotlights blazed white across the old theater, cutting through the dust that hung like ghosts of applause. Rows of empty seats stretched out into shadow, the faint scent of velvet, paint, and long-faded perfume lingering in the air. The stage, once vibrant, now stood bare — just a single wooden podium left standing in the center, its microphone tilted slightly, waiting for someone to believe in it again.

Jack stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the microphone like it was a mirror. He wore no tie tonight — just a rumpled shirt, sleeves rolled, the look of a man both performer and penitent. Jeeny sat in the front row, legs crossed, watching him with that sharp, knowing gaze she always wore when truth was about to enter the room.

Behind them, the faint hum of old projectors flickered — a reel of light spilling across the stage wall, showing a montage of past campaigns, speeches, and headlines. The ghost of politics — and performance — filled the air.

Jeeny: “Ronald Reagan once said, ‘Politics is just like show business. You have a hell of an opening, coast for a while, and then have a hell of a close.’”

Host: Jack smiled wryly, turning toward her, the light hitting his face like a spotlight.

Jack: “Coming from an actor, that’s not exactly shocking.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it’s honest. The man knew the script.”

Jack: “The trouble is, the audience doesn’t know it’s a play.”

Jeeny: “Oh, they know. They just prefer to believe it’s real — that the performance is conviction, that the lines are truth.”

Jack: “And when the curtain falls?”

Jeeny: “They demand an encore.”

Host: A low hum filled the space — the sound of an old amplifier coming to life. Jack stepped toward the podium, his hands gripping the edges, as if testing the weight of something familiar.

Jack: “You know, I used to think politics was noble — the art of persuasion, the defense of ideals. But now? It’s theater with higher stakes and better lighting.”

Jeeny: “And worse actors.”

Jack: smirking “You said it, not me.”

Jeeny: “But you’re not wrong. The problem isn’t that politics became theater. It’s that we started rewarding the performance more than the truth.”

Host: The light from the projector flickered again — campaign rallies, flashing cameras, smiling faces waving to unseen crowds.

Jack: “Every politician has their act — their opening number, their ‘I care about the people’ scene, their dramatic monologues. But somewhere between the promises and the applause, the truth gets rewritten for ratings.”

Jeeny: “Because politics runs on emotion now, not logic. You don’t win votes — you win hearts. You don’t need policies — you need punchlines.”

Jack: “And when the applause fades, they reinvent themselves for the next season.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not governance, it’s brand management.”

Host: The sound of rain began to patter softly against the theater’s old roof, each drop a muted drumbeat. The world outside blurred in through the windows — a city still glowing with billboards and news tickers, headlines spinning faster than truth could keep up.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Every campaign feels like a movie we’ve already seen. The hero’s speech, the villain’s scandal, the tragic fall, the sudden redemption arc. Same story, new cast.”

Jeeny: “Because people don’t vote for reality, Jack. They vote for narrative. We don’t want leadership — we want catharsis.”

Jack: “So we elect the best storyteller.”

Jeeny: “Always have.”

Host: Jack walked down from the stage and sat beside her. For a moment, the two of them watched the reel of old political footage playing on the back wall — clips from decades past, full of waving flags and carefully rehearsed sincerity.

Jeeny: “You know, Reagan understood something most politicians still don’t. Politics is about performance because human beings need symbols. They don’t want policy details — they want meaning.”

Jack: “And if meaning doesn’t exist, they’ll buy illusion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. People don’t want to be informed. They want to be inspired — even if the inspiration’s a lie.”

Host: The film reel clicked to its end, the sound of spinning film filling the silence. The image dissolved into blank white light — blinding, pure, empty.

Jack: “You ever think democracy’s just an audience voting for its favorite actor?”

Jeeny: “It is. But that doesn’t mean the play can’t matter.”

Jack: “You sound optimistic.”

Jeeny: “I’m realistic. Every great performance, even if it’s an illusion, still moves people. It still plants an idea. The problem isn’t that politicians act — it’s that too many forget they were cast to serve, not to star.”

Host: Jack nodded, his expression softening. He glanced around the empty theater — the worn velvet seats, the peeling paint, the echoes of laughter and applause long gone.

Jack: “You know, I used to love being onstage. That moment before the lights come up — your heart pounding, your breath catching. It’s pure truth for about three seconds. Then you start pretending.”

Jeeny: “And you were good at pretending.”

Jack: “Too good. I think that’s why I left. Pretending started feeling like living.”

Jeeny: “That’s the same reason most good politicians burn out. The mask grows roots.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, the sound blending with the whisper of the projector still spinning, refusing to stop. Jack looked up at the light beam cutting across the room. Dust danced in it — endless, aimless, beautiful.

Jack: “So what’s the solution, Jeeny? Tear down the stage? Stop clapping?”

Jeeny: “No. Just remember that the stage isn’t the world — and applause isn’t the same as truth.”

Jack: “You think people ever will?”

Jeeny: “Only when they get tired of the show.”

Host: Jack stood, walking back to the stage. He turned the microphone upright again and spoke softly, his voice filling the empty space like a confession.

Jack: “Maybe Reagan was right. Maybe politics is show business. You start with fireworks, stall with charm, and finish with a bow. But somewhere in between, someone out there actually believes you meant it.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that belief — however small — is still worth performing for.”

Host: The lights above them dimmed until only the spotlight on Jack remained. He looked out into the empty seats — the invisible audience of conscience and memory.

Jack: “You ever think truth needs its own stage?”

Jeeny: “It already has one. You’re standing on it.”

Host: A long pause. Then the faint sound of an old tape rewinding — the endless cycle of stories starting over. Jack smiled, his voice low, almost to himself.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s all politics ever was — one long monologue, hoping someone in the dark was still listening.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what keeps it human.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the spotlight fading, the theater dissolving into shadow.

Outside, the rain stopped. A faint light broke through the clouds, silver and sincere.

And as the world began to stir again, the words of Reagan seemed to echo through both history and the silence he left behind:

That politics, like theater, is an act of persuasion —
and though the curtain must always fall,
the true measure of the performance
is whether anyone walked away believing it meant something real.