The cost of living is going up and the chance of living is going

Host: The city pulsed beneath a neon sky, its lights flickering like wounded stars. Rain fell in thin needles, tracing the edges of old brick buildings and cracked billboards that promised a better life for a higher price. Inside a dim 24-hour diner, the air smelled of grease, coffee, and fatigue. Jack sat in a corner booth, his jacket hanging loosely from his shoulders, his eyes heavy but sharp. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, steam rising between them like a fragile barrier.

Host: The clock above the counter blinked past midnight. The few remaining customers looked like ghosts of the working class — delivery drivers, nurses, janitors, each paying for warmth and silence. Outside, the sign above the diner buzzed and sputtered, spelling out only half its name: Open.

Jeeny: “You ever hear that line by Flip Wilson? ‘The cost of living is going up and the chance of living is going down.’”

Jack: “Yeah,” he muttered, stirring his coffee with the end of a spoon. “Sounds about right. Feels like the world’s figured out how to sell us everything but time.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than that, Jack. It’s not just inflation — it’s suffocation. People can afford phones that cost a month’s rent but can’t afford a weekend off. We’re living longer, but dying inside faster.”

Host: The neon glow from outside painted their faces in pink and blue — artificial colors that made them look like two people caught between eras. A truck rumbled past, shaking the window, the rain trembling in its wake.

Jack: “That’s the economy, Jeeny. Prices rise, markets shift, wages crawl. Always has been that way. The strong adapt. The weak complain.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that? You think struggling to survive means someone’s weak? That a mother working two jobs just to keep her lights on is complaining?”

Jack: “No,” he said, leaning forward, his grey eyes hardening. “But the world doesn’t care about fairness. It never did. You think the market owes anyone a living? It’s eat or be eaten.”

Jeeny: “Then what’s the point, Jack? If life becomes just survival, if every breath has a price tag — what’s left of living?”

Host: The waitress, tired and kind, refilled their cups. The sound of the coffee stream filled the silence — soft, steady, like rain inside. Jeeny’s voice lowered, trembling with quiet anger.

Jeeny: “You know what’s crazy? My neighbor’s husband died last month. Heart attack at forty-three. He worked twelve-hour shifts — said he’d rest after retirement. Retirement never came. They buried him in his uniform.”

Jack: “That’s tragic,” Jack whispered. “But it’s also life. We don’t get to choose when the game ends. We just play the hand we’re dealt.”

Jeeny: “You call that life? That’s not living — that’s existing under a mortgage. People aren’t living anymore, Jack. They’re maintaining.”

Host: A bus hissed to a stop outside, its doors opening with a tired sigh. The driver, gray-haired and stooped, glanced at the diner, then drove off again — empty.

Jack: “You talk like there’s a choice. Like we can just walk away from the system. You need money to live. That’s the rule. Every breath you take costs something — rent, food, insurance, time.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the tragedy — we’ve confused the price of things with their worth. We chase paychecks instead of purpose.”

Jack: “Purpose doesn’t pay bills, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Neither does burnout.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the ceramic creaking faintly. His voice turned low, almost wounded.

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? Last week, I fired two good people. Couldn’t afford to keep them. Then I worked their hours myself. Forty-eight hours straight. You know what I earned for that?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “A prescription for blood pressure and a notice from my landlord.”

Host: The rain outside turned into a downpour, the window streaked with silver lines, blurring the world beyond. The neon sign flickered again — now it read only Pen. A cruel coincidence.

Jeeny: “Then don’t you see it, Jack? That’s exactly what Wilson meant. The cost of living keeps rising, and the chance of actually living keeps shrinking. You’re proof of it. We’re all paying more just to feel less alive.”

Jack: “Then what’s the answer? Quit? Go live off the grid? The system doesn’t break because we protest — it breaks us first.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every broken person adds a crack. Sooner or later, the structure gives.”

Host: Her eyes shone with defiance — not naïve, but dangerous. The kind that burns quietly until it consumes everything false.

Jack: “You sound like an idealist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But idealists are just realists who still believe change is possible.”

Jack: “Change costs money too.”

Jeeny: “No — it costs courage.”

Host: The air between them thickened, filled with the hum of machines, rain, and the faint melancholy tune from a broken jukebox in the corner. The light flickered again — dimmer, then bright — like the world trying to decide whether to keep shining.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? Not dying poor. Dying busy. Spending my whole life working just to afford a life I never lived.”

Jeeny: “That’s what most people do. They build cages out of necessity. The trick isn’t escaping them — it’s remembering they’re not home.”

Host: A moment passed. A passing siren screamed through the night, fading into the distance like a warning no one hears in time.

Jack: “You ever think it’s too late to change? That we’re already owned by our bills, our jobs, our debts?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I also think hope isn’t an investment — it’s a rebellion. Even if you can’t change the world, you can still refuse to sell your soul for a paycheck.”

Jack: “You talk like money’s evil.”

Jeeny: “Money’s neutral. But the worship of it — that’s poison. It trades our time, our laughter, our peace for digits on a screen. We forget that living isn’t measured in what we buy, but what we breathe.”

Host: Jack looked up, his eyes glistening with something unspoken — exhaustion, perhaps, or recognition. The clock above the counter ticked louder now, each second slicing through the quiet like a blade.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But when your rent’s due, simplicity dies fast.”

Jeeny: “Of course it does. But courage doesn’t mean freedom from fear — it means choosing not to be defined by it. Even one honest moment of living — really living — is worth more than a lifetime of survival.”

Host: The rain softened, its rhythm slowing into something almost musical. The waitress turned off one of the neon signs, leaving the diner in a gentler darkness.

Jack: “So what? You think the secret to living is just slowing down?”

Jeeny: “No,” she whispered. “It’s remembering why we started moving at all.”

Host: He said nothing. Just stared at the steam rising from his cup, curling upward like a prayer without words. The city outside was still moving — endless cars, endless hours — but inside the diner, time felt paused, fragile, human.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I used to think the goal was success. Now I think it’s survival. But maybe — maybe it should’ve been meaning.”

Jeeny: “Meaning doesn’t come from having more, Jack. It comes from needing less.”

Host: The clock ticked once more — 1:03 a.m. The rain had stopped. A faint light broke through the clouds, brushing against the diner’s window like a promise.

Jack: “You win tonight.”

Jeeny: “No. The truth does.”

Host: The camera panned back, leaving them in the half-lit diner — two silhouettes against the dying neon. The streets glistened, silent and empty, the city momentarily holding its breath.

Host: And somewhere between the rising cost of survival and the falling chance of joy, two tired souls rediscovered what it meant to be alive — even if only for one unpriced, unbilled, unpaid minute of truth.