The first mistake in public business is the going into it.

Host: The evening sky hung heavy with the color of old bruise — a fading violet bleeding into grey. A low wind prowled through the empty courtyard of the city hall, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and political dust. The great building loomed like a weary titan of forgotten promises, its columns chipped, its flag limp in the dying light.

Inside, under the stale glow of fluorescent lamps, Jack sat slumped at a long table, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, his fingers stained with ink and frustration. Papers sprawled before him — proposals, petitions, denials. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, her arms crossed, eyes turned toward the city below. The streetlights flickered like anxious thoughts.

Jack: “Benjamin Franklin said, ‘The first mistake in public business is the going into it.’”
He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “The man knew what he was talking about. Politics isn’t service, Jeeny. It’s self-cannibalism dressed in patriotism.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who expected purity in a swamp.”

Host: Her voice cut through the stale air — soft, but edged with iron. Jack rubbed his forehead, the lines of fatigue tracing across his face like battle scars.

Jack: “I expected meaning. I thought I could change something — fix something. Turns out, the system doesn’t want fixing. It wants feeding.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you came in believing politics was a cure, not an ecosystem. You can’t change a swamp by walking into it angry. You just become part of the humidity.”

Jack: “And you’re saying Franklin was right — that the mistake was walking in at all?”

Jeeny: “I think he meant that public life eats the private soul. You start by trying to serve people. Then you end up serving images, interests, egos — everything but truth.”

Host: The rain began again, pattering against the high windows. Its rhythm was almost human — a tired applause for the futility of good intentions. Jack reached for his coffee — cold now — and stared into it as though it might explain the world.

Jack: “You know, when I joined, I believed in integrity. I thought if I kept my hands clean, I’d make a difference. But the first thing they told me was: ‘Clean hands can’t build anything — not in mud.’”

Jeeny: “Maybe they were right. Maybe you don’t change things by staying clean — maybe you change them by staying honest while you’re dirty.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, but honesty doesn’t survive the machinery. It gets processed out. Every bill, every deal, every vote — it’s compromise all the way down. By the time you push one good thing through, you’ve had to trade three others away.”

Jeeny: “That’s not corruption, Jack. That’s humanity under pressure. Franklin knew it — that’s why he called it a mistake. Not because public business is evil, but because it demands the kind of endurance few people have.”

Host: The light from the streetlamps cast fractured shadows across the table, slicing Jack’s face into planes of light and darkness. He looked older in that moment — not by years, but by ideals lost.

Jack: “So, what then? You enter public life knowing you’ll lose a piece of yourself? That’s not noble. That’s tragic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Every act of service costs something. Franklin wasn’t condemning the act of entering; he was warning of the toll it takes. The first mistake isn’t joining — it’s forgetting who you were before you did.”

Jack: “You think I’ve forgotten?”

Jeeny: “No. I think you remember too well, and it’s breaking you.”

Host: The rain softened, its sound mingling with the faint hum of the city outside. Jack rose and walked toward the window, his reflection merging with Jeeny’s — two outlines against a blurred skyline. The glass trembled faintly under the touch of wind.

Jack: “You ever wonder if democracy is just a sophisticated illusion? People think they have a voice, but all they have is a ballot and a blindfold.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynicism, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s observation.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s exhaustion. Cynicism is what happens when idealists run out of oxygen.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, tender but unflinching. Jack’s jaw tightened, the faint shimmer of moisture in his eyes barely visible under the dull fluorescent hum.

Jack: “You think I wanted to end up like this? You think I wanted to be another suit making speeches that don’t matter?”

Jeeny: “I think you still care — that’s the problem. You care too much in a place that punishes it.”

Jack: “So what am I supposed to do? Keep pretending this isn’t all theater?”

Jeeny: “No. You stand in the theater and say your lines like you mean them — even if the audience is asleep. That’s what separates the politician from the servant.”

Host: Outside, lightning flared across the skyline, briefly illuminating the distant outline of the capitol dome — a symbol that once shone like purpose, now glimmering like irony.

Jack: “You sound like you still believe in it.”

Jeeny: “I believe in people, not systems. Systems rot. People remember. Someone out there hears your words — even if it’s only one person. That’s still public business, Jack. That’s still worth walking into.”

Jack: “And what if it destroys me?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe destruction is just another kind of contribution.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, its steady rhythm cutting through the long pause between them. Jeeny turned away from the window, picking up one of the papers from the table — a motionless policy draft, unsigned, unseen.

Jeeny: “Franklin’s words weren’t cynical, Jack. They were compassionate. He’d lived long enough to see the weight of power crush even the most well-meaning. He didn’t tell us to avoid it — he told us to respect the cost before we enter.”

Jack: “And you think that makes the mistake worth making?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every worthwhile thing begins as a mistake someone dared to make anyway.”

Host: The rain stopped entirely now. The city lights shimmered on the wet pavement, fractured into a thousand tiny stars. Jeeny placed the paper gently back on the table, her eyes finding Jack’s with quiet certainty.

Jeeny: “Franklin’s warning wasn’t to keep good people out of public life. It was to remind them — you’ll lose your comfort, your illusions, maybe even your peace. But if you can survive that loss, maybe you can still give the world something real.”

Jack exhaled, his voice almost a whisper.
Jack: “You make it sound almost noble again.”

Jeeny: “It always was. It just hurts too much to see it that way.”

Host: The room fell silent except for the faint hum of the building — the sound of fluorescent lights, the echo of distant traffic, the sigh of two tired hearts still trying to believe in something larger than themselves.

Outside, dawn began to break — faint, fragile, like the first honest truth after a long lie.

Jack leaned against the table, staring at the papers as if seeing them for the first time — not as burdens, but as reminders.

Jack: “Maybe Franklin was right. The first mistake is going in. But maybe the second is never trying at all.”

Jeeny smiled, soft and sad.
Jeeny: “Exactly. The world runs on the courage of people who keep walking into the fire — knowing it burns.”

Host: The first light of morning touched their faces, washing the fatigue in a thin silver glow. The old building, once oppressive, now felt lighter — as if it too exhaled.

And as the city awakened below them, Jack whispered — to Jeeny, to Franklin, to the unseen millions who still dared to care:

“The mistake was the beginning. The persistence — that’s the legacy.”

Host: The sun rose over the capitol dome, scattering the night and igniting the windows like the memory of a better promise — one still worth chasing, even through all its mistakes.