The less government interferes with private pursuits, the better

Host: The night had a restless hum, the kind that clings to cities with too much history and too little sleep. In an old brick tavern tucked between two empty storefronts, the air was thick with smoke and the faint ticking of a neglected clock above the bar. A storm was gathering beyond the windows, and the neon lights outside bled through the rain in long, slow streaks of red and gold.

Host: At a corner table, Jack sat with a glass of bourbon, his grey eyes half-hidden beneath the brim of his hat. His hands were steady, but his voice, when it came, carried the tired weight of a man who’d seen too many systems promise too much. Across from him, Jeeny rested her chin on her hand, her hair cascading like ink over her shoulder. Her eyes, deep and alive, seemed to hold both faith and fire.

Host: Between them lay an open book, the page turned to a quote from Martin Van Buren:
“The less government interferes with private pursuits, the better for general prosperity.”

Jeeny: “So,” she said softly, tracing the words with her finger. “You’d agree with him, wouldn’t you, Jack? That the best thing government can do... is get out of the way.”

Jack: “Not agree,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Just recognize the truth of it. You can’t make people prosper by choking them with rules. Government was meant to protect, not to parent. Every time it tries to fix things, it ends up breaking them worse.”

Host: The lightning outside flashed, illuminating the hard lines of his face — a man carved by realism, not hope.

Jeeny: “You sound like Van Buren himself,” she said, half-smiling. “But wasn’t he the one who watched the Panic of 1837 tear the country apart — and still said that? Thousands lost everything. And what did his hands-off philosophy do for them?”

Jack: “It kept freedom intact,” he said simply. “He understood that failure is part of freedom. When you let the market fall, people learn to build it again — smarter, stronger. You start interfering, and you create dependence, not resilience.”

Jeeny: “So you’d let people starve for the sake of principle?”

Jack: “I’d let them fight for their lives, not wait for the state to hand them one.”

Host: The air seemed to tighten between them. The storm outside cracked, a roll of thunder shaking the windows. Jeeny’s eyes flared — not in anger, but in something deeper: conviction, grief, and a quiet kind of rage.

Jeeny: “You call it freedom, but it’s just abandonment. Tell me, Jack — what kind of ‘prosperity’ lets a mother choose between rent and medicine? What kind of ‘private pursuit’ is fair when one man’s success is built on another’s hunger?”

Jack: “And what kind of world do you get when the government decides what’s fair? When it chooses who deserves help and who doesn’t? Look at Soviet Russia, at Mao’s China. Every time control replaces choice, prosperity dies.”

Jeeny: “But what about compassion? What about the duty of a society to its own people? You can’t just leave them to the wolves. We’ve seen what laissez-faire capitalism does — the Gilded Age, children in factories, men jumping from stock exchange windows. Freedom without responsibility is just greed with better grammar.”

Host: The rain intensified, pounding against the glass in sync with the rhythm of their voices. Jack leaned forward, his hands flat on the table, his expression caught between defiance and fatigue.

Jack: “You keep calling it greed, Jeeny, but you’re missing the point. Prosperity comes from risk. From the hunger to create something better. The moment you start promising people security, you take away their fire. You can’t build a nation on comfort — only on ambition.”

Jeeny: “And what of the ones who have no chance to start? The ones born at the bottom while others are born at the top? Don’t tell me it’s all merit. You’ve seen the streets, Jack. The rich don’t just get richer by talent. They inherit the rules.”

Jack: “Then change the rules — don’t multiply them. Every new law, every program, every handout — it becomes another chain. Government doesn’t give you freedom. It rations it.”

Host: The light flickered, a gust of wind rattling the door. Jeeny’s voice lowered, her tone no longer sharp, but aching.

Jeeny: “You talk like liberty is a god, Jack. But liberty means nothing if it doesn’t touch the human heart. If it doesn’t feed, heal, or lift. What’s the point of being free to starve?”

Jack: “What’s the point of being fed if you’ve lost your freedom to choose?”

Host: A flash of lightning froze them — two faces, two philosophies, separated by inches and centuries.

Jeeny: “You sound like the men who said the Depression was just a market correction. While people sold apples in the street, the government sat back and called it prosperity’s lesson.”

Jack: “And then came the New Deal — bloated, inefficient, debt-ridden. It helped, sure. But it also taught generations to look up, not inward, when things fell apart. You can’t keep rescuing people from consequence and call that growth.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you also can’t keep punishing people for being human and call that liberty.”

Host: A long silence. The storm began to ease, leaving a soft hiss of rain. The clock above the bar ticked like a slow heartbeat, filling the space where their anger had been.

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth is somewhere between us. Maybe prosperity isn’t about interference or indifference, but balance. A government that knows when to step back, and when to stand up.”

Jack: “Balance,” he murmured, his eyes distant. “Like a tightrope between freedom and fairness. Too much of either, and you fall.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the goal isn’t to win the argument, but to walk the rope — together.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, soft but steady, like the final note of a song neither wanted to end. Jack looked at her, something unspoken stirring in his chest — not agreement, not surrender, but understanding.

Host: The rain had stopped. A single beam of light broke through the clouds, cutting across the table, illuminating the open book. The ink of Van Buren’s words gleamed faintly under the light, as if time itself were nodding in approval of their debate.

Host: Outside, the city breathed again. The streets glistened, and far off, a sirene wailed, its cry rising and fading — the sound of a world still arguing, still rebuilding, still balancing between the pull of freedom and the weight of responsibility.

Host: Jack took one last sip, set his glass down, and smiled, a weary, genuine smile.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe Van Buren was right — the less government interferes, the better. But maybe,” he paused, “it also means the less we wait for government to save us, the more we must save each other.”

Host: Jeeny nodded, her eyes glistening with quiet agreement.

Host: And as they rose and walked into the clearing night, the streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, two shadows merging into one — proof that even in disagreement, there could still be harmony.