The best advice that was given to me was that I had to be 10

Host: The city was caught between night and neon — that strange hour when ambition refuses to sleep. The streets glowed with puddles of electric color, reflections of a world too alive to rest. A jazz tune — something slow, mournful, and full of swagger — drifted from a nearby bar, curling through the air like smoke.

Jack sat on the curb outside, the collar of his worn leather jacket turned up against the wind. His hands were stained with the day’s work, but his eyes — grey, sharp, and restless — carried the weight of something deeper than fatigue.

Jeeny approached, her heels tapping against the wet concrete, her coat drawn tight. She stopped beside him, the flicker of a streetlight painting her face in silver and gold.

Between them hung the pulse of the city — loud, alive, unforgiving.

Jeeny: “Samuel L. Jackson once said, ‘The best advice that was given to me was that I had to be ten times smarter, braver, and more polite to be equal. So I did.’”

Jack: without looking up “Ten times, huh? Sounds exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s the truth for a lot of people. Equality doesn’t come naturally in this world — it’s demanded, earned, and defended.”

Jack: “And sometimes it’s still denied.”

Host: A bus roared by, spraying a wave of dirty water across the curb. Jack didn’t flinch. Jeeny stepped back slightly, her reflection rippling in the puddle.

Jeeny: “That’s what makes his words powerful — not just that he did it, but that he knew he had to. He played a rigged game and still won.”

Jack: “Or maybe he just learned how to lose with style until the world couldn’t ignore him.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You make it sound cynical.”

Jack: “It’s survival. People like him don’t climb — they fight gravity.”

Host: The jazz from the bar grew louder as someone opened the door. The scent of whiskey and old dreams drifted out, mingling with the rain.

Jeeny: “You ever had to be ten times anything, Jack?”

Jack: gruffly “Every damn day. Not to be equal, though — just to stay visible.”

Jeeny: “Then you understand him.”

Jack: “I understand the exhaustion.”

Host: Jeeny leaned against the brick wall, crossing her arms. The neon from the diner across the street painted her in flickering red — half warmth, half warning.

Jeeny: “You think it’s unfair?”

Jack: “Of course it’s unfair. But fairness isn’t part of the contract. You think history’s built on fairness? It’s built on those willing to work ten times harder so others can pretend the playing field’s level.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep playing.”

Jack: “Because quitting’s uglier.”

Host: The wind carried the faint sound of laughter from a passing group of strangers. Their joy felt almost foreign — unburdened, innocent.

Jeeny: “What I love about that quote,” she said quietly, “is the last part — ‘So I did.’ No bitterness. No apology. Just strength turned into action.”

Jack: “Strength and restraint. ‘Polite,’ he said. That’s the part that gets me. To keep composure when the world keeps spitting on your shoes — that’s not politeness. That’s power disguised as grace.”

Jeeny: “Grace is the most underestimated kind of power. People think it’s submission. It’s actually control.”

Jack: nods slowly “Control’s the only real weapon we’ve got. Anger’s loud but it burns quick. Discipline? That lasts.”

Host: The rain began again, soft at first, then steadier. A few drops found their way down Jack’s collar. He didn’t move. Jeeny tilted her face upward, letting the cold water kiss her skin.

Jeeny: “Do you think you’ve lived that way — ten times more than you had to?”

Jack: “No. I think I’ve lived exactly as much as I had to, and it still nearly broke me.”

Jeeny: “That’s honesty.”

Jack: “That’s exhaustion.”

Host: A taxi slowed at the corner, its headlights slicing through the rain, then drove off when neither moved. The sound of the city folded back into them.

Jeeny: “You know what else I hear in his words?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Pride. Not arrogance — earned pride. The kind that comes from knowing the world demanded more from you and you gave it, and it didn’t kill you.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s the closest thing to equality we ever get — to stand unbroken where others expected you to fall.”

Jeeny: “And to do it with style.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Yeah. With style.”

Host: The rain turned the street into a mirror, reflecting the flicker of neon signs, headlights, and fleeting shadows — all of it layered, endless.

Jeeny: “You know, there’s something sacred in resilience. Everyone wants to talk about talent, luck, genius — but no one honors endurance. Jackson’s words do.”

Jack: “Endurance doesn’t sell tickets. Triumph does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why he said it. To remind us that triumph is built on invisible miles no one celebrates.”

Jack: “Invisible miles — that’s a good phrase.” He looks at her now, half-smiling. “You should write it on a protest sign.”

Jeeny: grinning back “And you’d hold it?”

Jack: “I’d carry it till my arms broke.”

Host: The jazz song inside shifted — from melancholy to motion, from smoke to flame. The trumpet blared, wild and alive. For a moment, the world outside matched its rhythm — imperfect, but unstoppable.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Being ten times more — smarter, braver, kinder, whatever — isn’t just about equality. It’s about identity. It’s about refusing to let the world define your ceiling.”

Jack: “And breaking it so loudly that everyone has to look up.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: A car horn echoed down the block, long and low. The rain slowed again, falling in soft sheets, shimmering in the glow of the streetlights.

Jack lit a cigarette, the flame trembling in the wind. The orange glow illuminated his face, tired but peaceful now.

Jack: “So maybe that’s what it means to live right — to know the odds, smile anyway, and keep showing up. Ten times, a hundred times, whatever it takes.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he did. That’s what we all have to do. The world may never meet us halfway — but that doesn’t mean we stop walking.”

Jack: nods “And if we have to walk through fire?”

Jeeny: “Then we walk beautifully.”

Host: The rain finally stopped. The sky broke open, revealing a thin, trembling moon above the skyline — like a scar turned silver. The streets glistened. The air smelled of wet metal and redemption.

Jack stood, stretching, his reflection tall in the puddle at his feet. He looked at Jeeny and smiled — small, tired, proud.

Jack: “Ten times, huh? Seems like a lot.”

Jeeny: “Not for the ones who know why they’re doing it.”

Host: The city lights blinked behind them — endless, indifferent, alive.

They walked off together, their footsteps echoing down the empty street, two figures against the neon glow — one weary, one unwavering, both carrying the quiet strength of those who refuse to quit.

And in the night’s hush, Samuel L. Jackson’s words hung like a banner over the world’s noise — not as complaint, not as command, but as testimony:

That when life asks too much, the answer is not bitterness — it’s brilliance.
To be ten times more is not submission. It’s transcendence.