The golf facet of my life doesn't go with the rest of my life

Host: The city roared beyond the windows, a constant tide of sirens, horns, and voices clashing in a restless symphony. The skyline glowed in amber light, its towers like jagged teeth biting into the night. Inside the bar, the air was thick with smoke, bourbon, and that tired hush of men who’d gambled too much on deals and dreams.

At a corner table sat Jack, his suit undone, his tie loose, his eyes sharp but worn—the kind of man who’d fought wars with contracts, not guns. Across from him, Jeeny sat quietly, a glass of red wine untouched before her, her hair glowing under the flickering neon.

Jack: “You ever notice how golfers always look so damn serene? Green grass, blue sky, slow breathing... It’s like they live in another world.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they do. Maybe that’s the point.”

Jack: “Yeah, but you can’t live two lives. That’s what Trump said once—something about how his golf life doesn’t match the rest of his life. I get that. My boardroom isn’t a fairway—it’s a battlefield. I deal with sharks, not gentlemen.”

Host: A waiter passed by, the clink of glasses echoing like a faint chime against the low hum of conversation. Outside, the rain started, tracing silver veins across the glass.

Jeeny: “You think that’s something to be proud of?”

Jack: “Pride’s got nothing to do with it. It’s survival. This city chews up the weak and spits them into the gutter. You think kindness closes deals? You think empathy gets you the land you need when ten other wolves are circling it?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe it keeps your soul from becoming one of the ruins you build over.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered—sharp, deflective—but the silence that followed betrayed a crack in the armor. The bar light caught the faint lines beneath his eyes, etching the exhaustion of a man who’d fought too many silent wars.

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But poetry doesn’t pay rent. You know how many people I’ve seen go under because they wanted to ‘do the right thing’? The city doesn’t reward saints.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you sound like you envy them.”

Jack: “Envy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because they sleep. Because they don’t spend their nights counting deals like sins.”

Host: The rain deepened, the city lights bending and blurring through the glass. The music from the jukebox—a slow, melancholic blues—filled the air like smoke.

Jack: “You ever been to a negotiation, Jeeny? You ever watch people smile at you while planning your downfall? I’ve seen it every day. You have to be ruthless just to breathe.”

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it too, Jack. Not in skyscrapers, but in hospitals. In families fighting over inheritance. In people tearing each other apart for a piece of comfort. Ruthlessness isn’t unique to business—it’s just what we become when we stop believing we can win any other way.”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? Get eaten alive?”

Jeeny: “Maybe get eaten with your humanity intact.”

Host: A quiet laughter escaped Jack, low and hoarse, like the last puff of a dying cigarette.

Jack: “You really think there’s room for humanity in real estate? In New York? Come on, Jeeny. This isn’t a novel. This is a blood sport with contracts.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still talk about golf.”

Jack: “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jeeny: “It means somewhere, in all that chaos, you crave the stillness. The control. The quiet space where life doesn’t bite. Golf is the version of yourself that you can live with—the one that remembers what peace feels like.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavy and slow. The neon sign outside flickered red and white, painting their faces in pulses of light and shadow.

Jack: “Maybe. But the golf course is a lie. It’s manicured grass pretending to be nature. Like business pretending to be purpose. You walk the fairway, think you’re in control—but it’s all designed, Jeeny. The beauty, the order, even the silence. It’s as artificial as the deals I make.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes we need artifice to survive reality. Isn’t that what civilization is? A lie we agree to believe together?”

Jack: “That’s a pretty thought. But you don’t live it. You don’t know what it’s like to stare down someone who’d sell your future for a parking space.”

Jeeny: “And you don’t know what it’s like to forgive someone who did.”

Host: The rain thundered harder, the sound swallowing their silence. Jeeny’s eyes glowed faintly, catching the faint reflection of city lights, while Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, the ice clinking softly.

Jack: “So what’s your point? That I should walk away? Be kind in a world that’s cruel?”

Jeeny: “No. My point is that the cruelty isn’t the world’s—it’s the armor we put on. You say you deal with ruthless people, but maybe it’s because you’ve stopped recognizing the gentle ones.”

Jack: “Gentle people don’t last.”

Jeeny: “They do. They just don’t climb the same ladders you do.”

Host: The bartender turned down the music, leaving only the sound of the storm and the faint hum of electricity in the air. The moment felt fragile, stretched thin between cynicism and faith.

Jack: “You want to know the truth? Sometimes I miss being small. Before the deals, before the towers, before the fear. Back then, I thought success meant peace. Now it just means staying one step ahead of collapse.”

Jeeny: “And yet you play golf.”

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe to remember who I was before the climb.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy, Jack. You think they’re two separate lives—your rough-and-tumble world and your peaceful one. But they’re both you. You can’t build peace on the same ground you poison.”

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? I’m supposed to tear it all down?”

Jeeny: “No. Just stop building walls where bridges should be.”

Host: A faint thunderclap rolled across the city, distant and deep, like the echo of something inevitable. Jack looked down at his reflection in the amber whiskey, the liquid trembling as though the truth itself had stirred it.

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. That’s why it’s worth it.”

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Trump or me can’t just relax? It’s because the moment we stop fighting, the wolves start circling again.”

Jeeny: “Then teach the wolves to stop biting. You’re not powerless, Jack—you’re addicted to the fight.”

Jack: “You talk like I can just change.”

Jeeny: “You can. But not until you believe that strength isn’t the same as ruthlessness.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the sharp grey dimming into something almost human again. The rain began to fade, leaving faint trails of water crawling down the window.

Jack: “You really think peace can exist in a place like this?”

Jeeny: “Only if someone’s brave enough to plant it.”

Host: A long pause. Then Jack reached into his pocket, pulling out a golf tee, worn smooth at the edges. He turned it between his fingers, as though weighing the distance between his two lives.

Jack: “Maybe it starts with one quiet swing.”

Jeeny: “Or one honest deal.”

Host: The city outside began to calm, its pulse slowing with the rain. The bar lights dimmed, and for a brief, fragile moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

Jack lifted his glass.

Jack: “To bridges, then.”

Jeeny: “And to fairways that lead somewhere real.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, soft as a promise, echoing faintly beneath the hum of the neon sign. Outside, the first faint ray of moonlight broke through the clouds, silver and thin—like the fragile hope that somewhere, between power and peace, a man might learn to be whole again.