The reality is gas prices should be much more expensive then they

Host: The city was half-asleep, veiled in a thin haze of smog and the distant hum of late-night traffic. A neon sign buzzed faintly above a small diner at the corner of a forgotten street. Inside, the air carried the scent of coffee, grease, and something heavier — a kind of weariness that clung to the walls.

Jack sat by the window, his jacket still damp from the drizzle outside. The streetlight threw fractured patterns across his face — one side all shadow, the other a slice of dim gold. Across from him, Jeeny cupped her hands around a steaming mug, her eyes distant, like she was watching the world disappear through the rain-streaked glass.

Jeeny: “You know what Elon Musk said once? ‘The reality is gas prices should be much more expensive than they are because we’re not incorporating the true damage to the environment and the hidden costs of mining oil and transporting it to the U.S. Whenever you have an unpriced externality, you have a bit of a market failure, to the degree that externality remains unpriced.’”

Jack: “He’s right about one thing — it’s a market failure. But not for the reasons people think. The problem isn’t just that gas is cheap; it’s that convenience is priceless. You raise the prices, and you don’t just change markets — you break people.”

Host: A truck rumbled past, its engine growling like a hungry beast. The windows trembled. The lights flickered. The diners — a few scattered souls hunched over their late-night meals — didn’t even look up.

Jeeny: “You always reduce it to economics, Jack. But this isn’t just about numbers. It’s about responsibility. Every gallon of gas we burn poisons something — the air, the sea, the future. Musk’s point isn’t about profit; it’s about truth. We’ve built a civilization that hides the costs of its own comfort.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. You start charging what gas really costs, and you’ll have riots in the streets. Think about the single mother driving to work, the trucker crossing state lines, the farmer who needs fuel for his crops. You tell them, ‘Sorry, the planet needs saving,’ and watch what happens. They won’t thank you for your ethics.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes flashed with a sudden, fiery light. The steam from her coffee curled upward like a rising spirit, vanishing into the dim air.

Jeeny: “So what, Jack? We just keep lying? Pretend that pollution is free because truth is too expensive? We’ve done that for decades — with coal, with plastic, with oceans full of waste. We tell ourselves it’s too complicated to fix, that it would hurt the economy. But what economy survives on a dead planet?”

Jack: “You’re preaching ideals in a system that runs on survival. The market doesn’t care about morality — it cares about momentum. Every empire in history — Rome, Britain, America — ran on extraction. Oil is just the modern word for power. You can’t shame a civilization out of its lifeblood.”

Host: The rain outside began to fall harder, blurring the neon signs into ghostly ribbons of color. The sound filled the silence between them like an accusation neither dared to voice.

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve mistaken power for progress. Every time we burn another barrel of oil, we’re writing our own obituary — one headline at a time. Do you know what happened in 2019, Jack? Venice flooded — the worst in half a century. Australia burned for months. And yet gas prices stayed low, because destruction is cheap when it’s far away.”

Jack: “And what about the millions who rely on that same fuel to keep their lives running? You think they can afford the luxury of guilt? You think a mother in Ohio or a driver in Delhi can pay double because of Venice’s water levels? The environmental crisis isn’t a moral failure; it’s an infrastructural one.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly what Musk meant? That the price tag is fake? That every cheap gallon is paid for by something else — the coral reefs dying, the air thick with soot, the children breathing in futures they’ll never live to see?”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not with anger, but with the kind of grief that grows out of understanding. Jack looked at her — really looked — and his expression softened, though the lines of cynicism still cut through it like faint scars.

Jack: “You think I don’t care? I grew up in a mining town. I watched men cough their lungs out before they turned forty. I’ve seen rivers run black. I know what the cost is. But every time someone talks about raising prices, the poor pay first. It’s always the same story — the rich buy Teslas, the poor walk.”

Jeeny: “And that’s why real change has to come from the top. From policy, from truth, from courage. You don’t fix a poisoned well by rationing sips — you clean the source. The only reason fossil fuels are cheap is because we’re subsidizing our own destruction. You call that a market? I call it collective delusion.”

Host: Her words landed like stones in still water — one by one, each ripple spreading outward. Jack’s hands tightened around his cup; the ceramic creaked softly under the strain. The rain slowed, as if even the sky was listening.

Jack: “So, what’s your solution, Jeeny? Triple the prices overnight? Watch economies collapse? That’s not salvation — that’s suicide.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. My solution is honesty. Put the real price on what we take. Not all at once, but truthfully. Let people see the damage in every dollar they spend. Maybe then, when gas hits eight dollars a gallon, they’ll finally ask why it costs nothing to destroy everything.”

Host: Jack looked down, tracing the rim of his cup with a slow, absent motion. The rain outside had stopped now, and the world beyond the glass shimmered — clean for a moment, like the air had been washed of its lies.

Jack: “You think people will change out of conscience?”

Jeeny: “Not all. But some will. And that’s how every revolution starts — not with everyone, but with enough.”

Jack: “You talk like we have time.”

Jeeny: “We don’t. That’s why honesty matters more than hope.”

Host: The clock behind the counter ticked steadily, indifferent to their words. A single beam of passing headlights sliced through the diner’s window, then vanished — like a fleeting memory of something pure.

Jack leaned back, his eyes on the faint reflections of the city’s dying lights.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the real failure isn’t economic — it’s moral. We’ve been subsidizing denial.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The planet doesn’t send invoices, Jack. But it keeps the books.”

Host: A long silence followed — the kind that isn’t empty, but full, like the last note of a symphony hanging in the air. The rainclouds began to drift apart outside, revealing a single star, dim but steady, above the sleeping city.

Jeeny smiled faintly, her eyes soft but resolute.

Jeeny: “Maybe one day, when we finally pay the real price for everything, it won’t be with money — but with understanding.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the first profit we’ve ever made that matters.”

Host: The lights in the diner flickered once more, then steadied. Beyond the glass, a soft wind brushed the wet streets, carrying the faint smell of oil, rain, and something almost sacred — the scent of a world both wounded and waiting.

And there, under the dim hum of a neon sign, two souls sat — not in agreement, but in awakening — knowing that the true cost of the world was not written in numbers, but in the quiet toll of every breath, every flame, every drop of the earth we take for granted.