Remember, always give your best. Never get discouraged. Never be

Host: The night was thick with the scent of diesel and rain, the kind of darkness that swallowed neon and spat back memory. A lone diner stood at the edge of the highway, its sign flickering uncertainly: “OPEN 24 HOURS,” though it looked tired of proving it.

Inside, the air hummed faintly with the sound of an old radio whispering the day’s politics to no one in particular. The walls were lined with photographs of forgotten celebrities and yellowed newspaper clippings, all curled at the edges—faces frozen in confidence, unaware of their fading.

At a booth near the window, Jack sat with his hands clasped, a half-empty cup of coffee steaming faintly before him. Jeeny sat opposite, her coat damp, her hair tied loosely, eyes reflecting the neon pulse of a red “OPEN” sign. The quote—Nixon’s words—had just fallen from her lips like a stone breaking a still pond.

Jeeny: “Remember, always give your best. Never get discouraged. Never be petty. Always remember, others may hate you. But those who hate you don’t win unless you hate them. And then you destroy yourself.”

Jack: (lets out a low laugh, bitter as burnt coffee) It’s almost poetic—coming from Nixon. The man who said, “Don’t hate,” while he built a career out of paranoia.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s what makes it powerful, though. When someone who fell apart still had the courage to tell others not to make the same mistake.

Host: The rain outside thickened, drumming against the window with rhythmic insistence. The fluorescent light above them buzzed faintly, a tired kind of halo over a conversation neither of them could walk away from.

Jack: You’re giving him too much credit. He destroyed himself long before anyone else could. He hated his enemies. Hated the press. Hated being doubted. And that hatred became his reflection.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s the point. Maybe he knew that hatred is the most seductive failure—because it feels like strength until it starts eating your insides.

Jack: (leans back, smoke curling from his lips) Hatred’s honest, though. You can trust a man who hates. At least you know where he stands.

Jeeny: Honest? No, Jack. Hatred’s just a mirror for fear. It doesn’t reveal anything new—it only repeats your wounds back to you.

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed, the ash from his cigarette falling onto the table like grey snow.

Jack: You talk like hatred’s some disease. But sometimes it’s necessary. You think Martin Luther King didn’t hate injustice? That Gandhi didn’t hate oppression?

Jeeny: (firmly) They hated the systems, not the people. There’s a difference. That’s what made them extraordinary. They refused to mirror the cruelty they fought.

Host: The radio crackled, shifting from static to the soft hum of an old jazz tune. For a moment, the sound filled the air like a heartbeat between arguments.

Jack: (after a pause) You think that’s even possible now? To fight without hating? Look around. The world’s built on outrage. It’s currency. The moment you stop hating, you’re invisible.

Jeeny: Then maybe invisibility is the new rebellion. Maybe staying kind in a hateful world is the last act of courage left.

Jack: (snorts) That sounds like something you’d embroider on a pillow.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) Maybe. But it’s still true.

Host: Jack looked out the window, watching the headlights slide across the wet pavement. For a moment, he seemed younger, like the man he’d been before cynicism became his armor.

Jack: You ever hate someone, Jeeny? Really hate them?

Jeeny: (thinks) Once. And it felt good—at first. Like a fire that kept me warm. But then I realized I was burning from the inside out.

Jack: (quietly) Who was it?

Jeeny: Myself.

Host: The word lingered between them like smoke that refused to fade. Jack’s expression softened, and for a long while, he said nothing.

Jack: (finally) You know, that’s the part Nixon never said out loud—the part about hating yourself. He blamed everyone else. The press, the left, the elites. But the real enemy was the reflection in the mirror.

Jeeny: (nodding) Exactly. And that’s why his words matter. Because they weren’t hypocrisy—they were confession.

Jack: You think he meant it?

Jeeny: I think he wanted to mean it. And sometimes that’s all a person can do—want to be better, even if they fail.

Host: The waitress, an older woman with tired eyes, poured more coffee into their cups without a word. Steam rose like ghosts between them.

Jack: Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about being perfect. Maybe it’s about trying not to become what you hate—even when you lose.

Jeeny: That’s the only kind of victory that lasts. Every other one eats itself alive.

Jack: (grins faintly) You sound like you’ve been practicing sainthood.

Jeeny: No. Just survival.

Host: The rain slowed, then stopped. The neon sign flickered once, twice, before burning steady again. Jack reached for his cigarette pack, then hesitated, his hand hovering midair before pulling back.

Jack: You ever notice how hate gives people purpose? It’s like it fills the silence they’re afraid to face.

Jeeny: And love fills it with noise they can stand to live with.

Jack: (smiling) You always bring it back to love.

Jeeny: Because it’s the only thing that outlasts destruction.

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked loudly now, marking the quiet minutes between revelations.

Jack: Maybe Nixon was right, then. The haters don’t win unless you hate them back. But it’s hard not to.

Jeeny: I know. But maybe that’s the challenge of being human—to stay soft in a world that rewards hardness.

Jack: (staring at her) You make it sound noble.

Jeeny: No, just necessary. Otherwise, we all become what we fear most.

Host: Jack nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on her but seeing something else—perhaps the version of himself that had once believed in goodness. The kind that wasn’t naïve, just stubbornly alive.

Jack: So what do we do with hate, then? Lock it up? Pretend it isn’t there?

Jeeny: No. You face it. You name it. You feed it patience until it starves.

Jack: (smiles faintly) That’s poetic.

Jeeny: That’s survival.

Host: The diner clock struck midnight. The radio changed to an old interview—a voice speaking faintly through static. It was Nixon himself, or maybe just someone who sounded like him, saying something about “peace with honor.”

For a brief second, both Jack and Jeeny looked toward the sound, and neither spoke.

Jack: (softly) “And then you destroy yourself.” He was talking about all of us, wasn’t he?

Jeeny: (nodding) Every time we choose bitterness over grace. Every time we mistake revenge for justice.

Jack: (sighs) Hell of a warning from a man who couldn’t follow it.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s why it matters. The fallen always see the cliff most clearly.

Host: The lights dimmed, the rain gone, leaving the road outside wet and gleaming under the sodium lamps. Jack reached for his coat, Jeeny for her pen, scribbling something on the napkin she’d been doodling on all night.

Jack: What are you writing?

Jeeny: A reminder.

Jack: To give your best?

Jeeny: (smiles) To not destroy myself.

Host: She slipped the napkin into her pocket, stood, and walked toward the door. Jack followed, pausing just before stepping into the cold air.

The neon light flickered once more, bathing them both in that fragile red glow—the color of warning, of courage, of being alive despite it all.

Jack: (murmurs) Maybe that’s the real lesson. You can lose everything, but if you keep your heart intact, you still win.

Jeeny: (softly) Yes. Because hate can’t live in a heart that’s still awake.

Host: And with that, they stepped into the night, the doorbell chiming behind them. The diner stayed behind like a confession box—empty, humming faintly with the echo of a fallen man’s wisdom and two souls who chose not to follow his fall.

Fade out.