Socialism and Communism are extremely attractive to a superficial

Host: The warehouse lights hummed, flickering slightly against the corrugated metal walls. Outside, the rain tapped on the roof — steady, unrelenting, like the pulse of an industrial city that had seen too much and changed too little.

Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the room, marked with faded company logos and half-forgotten slogans. A coffee pot steamed on a makeshift table, beside two folded jackets and a radio that muttered news about inflation, taxes, and something about new government reforms.

Jack stood near the loading dock, his hands in his pockets, shoulders heavy, the look of a man who’s worked too long to believe in miracles. Jeeny sat on a crate nearby, her hair tied back, her face lit by the single hanging bulb, the shadows deepening the warmth in her eyes.

Between them, on a torn piece of newspaper, lay the quote she’d just read aloud:

“Socialism and Communism are extremely attractive to a superficial observer. It is not until you get into the details, or actually experience it, that it becomes apparent that it does not work.” — Thomas Peterffy

Jeeny: “He’s right about one thing — it is attractive. Equality always sounds beautiful until you start asking who decides what’s fair.”

Jack: “And who pays for it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But still… there’s a reason people believe in it. They’re tired of the greed. Of the hunger. Of the same people owning everything — even hope.”

Jack: “Hope’s cheap, Jeeny. That’s why it’s always for sale.”

Host: The rain grew louder, a rhythmic percussion on the roof. Somewhere in the dark, a train horn sounded, low and distant — a song for people who move goods they’ll never afford.

Jeeny: “You talk like a cynic, Jack.”

Jack: “I talk like someone who’s seen what happens when dreams turn into systems. My uncle lived in Budapest before the wall fell. Said everyone was equal — equally miserable, equally waiting in line for bread.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that a failure of leadership, not of principle?”

Jack: “Maybe. But leaders are part of the principle. You give one person the power to fix inequality, and they start deciding who deserves to eat first.”

Jeeny: “And capitalism doesn’t do that?”

Jack: (smirking) “At least capitalism admits it’s selfish. Socialism lies about it.”

Host: Jeeny looked down, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug of coffee, the steam curling like thought itself. The light bulb flickered, and for a moment, her face softened, a mix of conviction and compassion.

Jeeny: “You think it’s lying to want everyone to have enough?”

Jack: “No. It’s lying to promise it without consequence. There’s no such thing as free — not food, not medicine, not freedom. Someone pays. Always.”

Jeeny: “Then what do you suggest? Just let the strong keep taking until the rest disappear?”

Jack: “No. But forcing equality by law just changes who’s holding the whip. I’d rather face an honest thief than a righteous one.”

Jeeny: “That’s a grim philosophy.”

Jack: “It’s a realistic one. History’s full of noble theories that became prisons.”

Host: The radio crackled, the voice of a commentator bleeding through static — “...rising costs... workers’ strike... government subsidy program under debate…”

The words drifted, meaningless yet familiar, like the background noise of every decade.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve given up on change.”

Jack: “Not change — perfection. Every system looks perfect from the outside. Socialism, capitalism, democracy, the lot of it. Then people get involved, and the rot begins.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the problem isn’t the system, then. Maybe it’s us.”

Jack: “Exactly. We keep building utopias with crooked hands.”

Jeeny: “Then why keep trying?”

Jack: “Because we’re too proud to admit we can’t stop pretending we can save everyone.”

Host: The warehouse door creaked as the wind pressed against it. The rain’s rhythm changed, faster now, almost anxious. The smell of wet asphalt filled the air, the earth breathing through the cracks in concrete.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother used to talk about the early days after the war — when everything was rationed. She said it was the closest people ever came to real kindness. They shared because no one had enough. Maybe that’s what socialism wanted — to make us share, not by force, but by empathy.”

Jack: “And what happened?”

Jeeny: “People stopped believing in empathy.”

Jack: “That’s what Peterffy meant. On paper, it’s paradise. In practice, it’s paperwork. Bureaucracy replaces compassion. And before you know it, freedom is rationed too.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we keep breaking things because we start from the wrong place. Maybe equality isn’t a policy — it’s a heart condition.”

Host: A pause, long and heavy. The sound of the rain softened, and through the cracked window, the first hint of dawn appeared — a faint silver light, cutting through the shadows.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only talk about systems when they’ve stopped believing in each other?”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, isn’t it? We build ideologies to replace the trust we lost.”

Jack: “And then fight wars defending them.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to defend a flag than a soul.”

Host: The sunlight crept slowly into the room, landing on the dusty floor, turning puddles into mirrors. The warehouse, once cold and grey, began to look almost human — flawed, enduring, hopeful.

Jeeny: “Maybe Peterffy was right — socialism doesn’t work when it’s forced. But that doesn’t mean the dream of fairness is wrong.”

Jack: “Dreams are fine, Jeeny. It’s when we start legislating them that they become nightmares.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the solution isn’t system versus system. Maybe it’s human decency, no matter the banner.”

Jack: “And who decides what decency looks like?”

Jeeny: “Each of us. Every day. When we choose generosity over greed, empathy over envy.”

Jack: “Sounds small.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only revolution that’s ever worked.”

Host: Jack looked at her, the edge in his eyes fading to something like respect. He nodded, slowly, as though conceding not a point, but a truth.

Jack: “You know, for all your optimism, you’re not wrong. Systems fail because they’re built to outlast compassion — and nothing does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe compassion is the only working model we’ve ever had.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving behind a city washed clean. The sound of distant traffic began again, a hum of ordinary life returning.

Jack walked to the window, looked out, his reflection merging with the pale dawn.

Jack: “Strange, isn’t it? We build empires to control each other — but in the end, it’s always the human heart deciding what works.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the heart doesn’t do politics, Jack. It just remembers who it hurts and who it helps.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Then maybe that’s the revolution I can believe in.”

Host: The light now filled the warehouse, soft and forgiving. The coffee steam rose again, curling through the air like incense, like absolution.

Two people sat in the quiet aftermath of argument — not divided, not convinced, but connected through the shared understanding that the world’s failures always begin and end with us.

And outside, under the new sun, the city stirred,
its people walking, working, arguing, hoping —
each carrying their own fragile system of belief,
each trying, in their imperfect way,
to make it work.