The first rule of business is: Do other men for they would do

Host:
The streetlights burned low against the fog, their yellow halos bleeding into the damp night. The city was restless — that peculiar hour when the workday had ended, but the weight of its bargains still lingered. In the window of a narrow café, two silhouettes sat opposite one another, the soft hum of traffic outside blending with the faint clatter of cups.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee, ink, and rain. The light above their table flickered every few seconds, like truth struggling to stay alive. Jack leaned back in his chair, a ledger open in front of him, its pages crowded with numbers that looked more like confessions than calculations. Jeeny sat across, her expression half amusement, half warning, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.

Jeeny: softly, quoting with a dry smile “Charles Dickens once wrote — ‘The first rule of business is: Do other men for they would do you.’”

Jack: grinning faintly “Cynical old Dickens. That line belongs on a trading floor more than in literature.”

Jeeny: arching an eyebrow “He wasn’t joking. He was describing what the world had become — and what it still is.”

Jack: leaning forward, closing the ledger “You think it’s worse now?”

Jeeny: quietly “I think it’s the same. Only now we call it strategy.”

Host:
Outside, a car horn blared in the distance — impatient, human, predictable. A man in a suit passed by the window, phone pressed to his ear, his eyes fixed nowhere in particular.

Jack poured himself more coffee, his movements deliberate, his voice edged with thought.

Jack: softly “You know, that line has a strange kind of honesty. Dickens didn’t pretend the business world was moral. He just held up the mirror and made us look.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And we still look away. Because the mirror doesn’t flatter us.”

Jack: nodding “No, it doesn’t. It shows us the hunger beneath the handshake — the quiet calculation behind every smile.”

Jeeny: softly “The polite brutality of commerce.”

Jack: chuckling darkly “Exactly. Business is a war where they call the battles ‘opportunities.’”

Host:
The rain intensified, tapping against the café window like fingers urging confession. The city outside looked blurred — as if morality itself had been washed out of focus.

Jeeny took a slow sip of her coffee before speaking.

Jeeny: thoughtfully “But maybe Dickens wasn’t condemning business itself. Maybe he was warning us about what happens when profit becomes a substitute for principle.”

Jack: raising an eyebrow “You mean when success becomes survival?”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. When you stop asking what’s right and start asking what works. That’s the moment a man stops doing business and starts doing harm.”

Jack: leaning forward “But you can’t run a company on compassion. The world’s not built that way.”

Jeeny: quietly, with conviction “Maybe not. But every empire built without it eventually collapses — because greed is a structure that eats its own foundation.”

Host:
A pause fell between them. The café’s lights flickered again, briefly plunging the space into shadow. For a heartbeat, their reflections in the window looked like strangers.

Jack stared into his cup, voice low.

Jack: softly “You know, when I started out, I believed in the dream — work hard, rise fast, make it. Then I realized the people above me weren’t climbing; they were standing on shoulders.”

Jeeny: gently “And the shoulders break, eventually.”

Jack: nodding “Yeah. I guess Dickens understood that better than most. He saw business not as progress — but as theater. Everyone playing the hero of their own hustle.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “And every act ends the same way — with a profit sheet and a conscience in conflict.”

Host:
The waiter passed by, refilling their cups with quiet efficiency. Outside, the fog thickened, swallowing the neon lights until the world beyond the glass felt like an echo.

Jeeny folded her hands, her voice softer now.

Jeeny: quietly “You know what’s strange? Dickens mocked that rule, but he also understood its seduction. There’s something comforting about cynicism — it excuses you from believing.”

Jack: raising his eyes “And belief gets expensive.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “It always has.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked — steady, unfeeling. Somewhere in the kitchen, a dishwasher clanged; a sound both mundane and eternal.

Jack leaned back, his voice quieter, tinged with weariness.

Jack: softly “You think it’s possible to do business differently? To make money without losing yourself?”

Jeeny: after a long pause “Maybe not in the world as it is. But maybe in the world as it could be.”

Jack: skeptical but curious “And how do you start something like that?”

Jeeny: looking him straight in the eye “By not mistaking competition for creation. By remembering that business isn’t about doing other men — it’s about doing good.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You sound like you belong in a novel yourself.”

Jeeny: grinning “Maybe Dickens would’ve written me as a dreamer. But the truth is — dreamers built every empire worth remembering.”

Host:
The camera would pull back now — the two of them framed by the café window, the city’s heartbeat pulsing faintly beyond. The light flickered once more, then steadied.

Jeeny gathered her coat, standing to leave. Jack remained seated, staring at the open ledger — the neat rows of numbers, the story of his own compromises written in ink.

Jeeny: quietly, as she turned to go “The first rule of business, Jack, shouldn’t be to do others before they do you. It should be to remember that success without soul is just theft in a suit.”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Then maybe it’s time to start rewriting the rules.”

Host:
The door opened, and a gust of cool air rushed in — carrying the scent of rain, the sound of distant traffic, and the faint hope of renewal.

Jeeny stepped out into the night, disappearing into the fog. Jack closed the ledger slowly, his hand resting on the cover as if on a conscience.

And as the light above their table flickered one last time, Charles Dickens’ words lingered like a moral dare:

“The first rule of business is: Do other men for they would do you.”

Because satire
is truth disguised as laughter.

Dickens didn’t praise the rule —
he exposed it.

He saw that beneath every empire
built on greed
was a ledger of human cost.

The true measure of enterprise
is not the wealth it creates,
but the humanity it preserves.

And if business is a mirror of man,
then every profit without principle
is merely another crack
in the reflection.

The storm outside eased,
and for a moment,
the neon signs flickered like confessions —
reminding the city that in every transaction,
a soul is still
on the line.