The American people are smart. They've gotten sick of the

Host: The city was still awake, but it was the kind of wakefulness that comes after too many hours, too much noise, too much news. A television behind the bar played a debate on mute—faces arguing with exaggerated passion, hands slicing the air, graphics screaming headlines no one believed anymore. The barroom light was amber, heavy, hanging over half-empty glasses and tired faces.

At a corner booth, Jack sat with his sleeves rolled up, a whiskey in front of him, the glow of his phone reflecting in his grey eyes. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the bench, her hands clasped, her expression calm but her eyes alive with something like hope.

Host: The quote hung in the air, quiet but sharp, spoken softly by Jeeny, almost like a prayer in a place where few still believed in anything.

Jeeny: “The American people are smart. They’ve gotten sick of the predictable hyperpartisan talking points and canned anger.” — John Avlon.

Jack: (snorts) Smart, huh? You really believe that? People are tired, not smart. There’s a difference.

Jeeny: (leans forward) No, Jack. They’re both. Tired and smart. You don’t get tired of something unless you’ve seen through it first.

Host: Jack let out a short laugh, the kind that comes from cynicism, not humor. He took a sip, the ice clinking against the glass like a slow heartbeat.

Jack: You’re romanticizing the crowd again. Every election, every cycle—it’s the same. People shout about change, then vote for the same faces, the same games, the same anger dressed in different colors.

Jeeny: But maybe this time they mean it. Maybe people are beginning to see that the shouting doesn’t fix anything. Maybe they’re remembering that democracy is supposed to be a conversation, not a performance.

Jack: (leaning forward, voice low) Conversation? We don’t have conversations anymore, Jeeny. We have algorithms. People only hear what they already believe. The system doesn’t feed truth; it feeds confirmation.

Jeeny: That’s exactly why Avlon said what he said. People are getting sick of that. Don’t you feel it? The weariness in their eyes, the disgust in their voices when another politician yells the same scripted outrage?

Host: A sports channel flickered briefly on the screen, then back to the debate. It didn’t matter. The rhythm was the same—two sides shouting, no one listening.

Jack: (shakes his head) I don’t buy it. People like to think they’re above it, but they feed off it. Outrage is the new entertainment. If they were really sick of it, the ratings would crash, the comment sections would go silent. But they don’t.

Jeeny: Maybe they’re addicted, not entertained. Addiction doesn’t mean you love something—it means you can’t escape it.

Host: Jack stared at her, the smoke curling from his cigarette, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Jack: So you’re saying the people are both victims and accomplices?

Jeeny: (nods) Exactly. Just like all of us. We hate the noise but keep the volume up. But there’s something different this time—I can feel it. It’s like people are waking up, realizing they’ve been played.

Jack: (dryly) Waking up to what?

Jeeny: To the fact that anger has become an industry. Every “breaking story,” every “exclusive leak,” it’s all built to make us react, not think. But you can’t fool people forever. Eventually, they stop listening.

Host: A pause. The kind of silence that carries the weight of realization. The rain started outside, tapping softly against the windowpane.

Jack: You really think people are that self-aware? That they’ll suddenly stop buying what’s been sold for decades?

Jeeny: History shows they can. Look at the 1960s—people got tired of lies, of wars, of propaganda, and they took to the streets. Or the fall of the Berlin Wall—when people decide they’ve had enough, even the strongest walls crumble.

Jack: (smirks) Yeah, but look at what came after. Corruption, division, the same cycle starting again. Human nature doesn’t change, Jeeny—it just dresses differently every few decades.

Jeeny: Maybe so. But human hope doesn’t die either. You call it naïve. I call it evolution.

Host: The light flickered over her face, catching the faintest smile, fragile but fearless. Jack’s jaw tightened; he was losing ground, not in logic, but in belief.

Jack: Evolution? That’s generous. The same people you’re defending are the ones sharing conspiracy videos and calling each other traitors online.

Jeeny: (voice soft but firm) And yet they still go to work. They still help neighbors. They still mourn after school shootings, send donations after hurricanes, stand in line to vote even when they think it won’t matter. That’s not stupidity, Jack. That’s endurance.

Jack: (quiet now) Endurance… or denial?

Jeeny: Maybe both. But from endurance comes wisdom. From exhaustion comes clarity.

Host: The bartender turned off the TV. The room exhaled, suddenly aware of the silence left behind.

Jack: You really think there’s clarity in this mess?

Jeeny: There always is, if you listen long enough. People are realizing that screaming isn’t strength, that compassion isn’t weakness. You can feel it everywhere—teachers, nurses, parents—they’ve had enough of being divided.

Jack: (staring at his drink) But the machine won’t stop. It profits off division.

Jeeny: Then maybe the people stop feeding it. Maybe that’s what Avlon meant. Not that they’re saints—but that they’re smarter than the noise believes.

Host: A faint rumble of thunder rolled outside. The city lights flickered in puddles. Jack ran a hand through his hair, the weight of his thoughts visible in his posture.

Jack: You talk about “the people” like they’re a single organism. But they’re fragmented—different fears, different truths.

Jeeny: And yet, when the storm hits, they all take cover under the same roof. That’s what keeps me believing.

Host: Her words hung there, soft but heavy, like the last note of a song in an empty room.

Jack: (after a long pause) You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe fatigue is the first sign of intelligence. When people stop cheering for the fight, maybe that’s when healing starts.

Jeeny: Exactly. They’re not blind—they’re just tired. And tired people eventually start asking better questions.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Questions without slogans.

Jeeny: (smiles back) And answers without shouting.

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle, and the city outside began to breathe again. A bus rumbled past, carrying strangers home from long days. Inside the bar, the last light glowed warmer, more human.

Jack: You ever think maybe the problem isn’t anger—it’s that we’ve forgotten how to be honest with it?

Jeeny: (nodding) Yes. Anger can be noble when it’s real. It’s the canned kind that kills us—the rehearsed fury, the soundbite rage.

Host: Jack looked up, his grey eyes softer now, like smoke thinning in morning light.

Jack: So maybe the people are smarter than I thought. Maybe they’re just waiting for a reason to believe again.

Jeeny: Or maybe they already believe. Just quietly this time.

Host: The bartender dimmed the lights, and the television screen went dark. Only the hum of the refrigerator remained, steady and calm, like a heartbeat returning to rest. Jack raised his glass, and Jeeny mirrored him.

Jack: To tired people.

Jeeny: To smart ones.

Host: Their glasses clinked, a small, human sound in the vast silence of the hour. Outside, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the streets glistening with a quiet kind of truth—that beneath all the noise, the world was still listening.

Fade out.