The worst cynicism: a belief in luck.

Host: The bar was nearly empty — a quiet dive tucked between two bookstores, the kind of place where old neon buzzed like a tired confession and the smell of smoke, whiskey, and weathered stories filled the air. The rain outside came down in long, slanted sheets, turning the window into a trembling mirror.

In the corner booth sat Jack and Jeeny, half-shadowed, their glasses catching the dim light. Between them lay a pack of cards, untouched, a metaphor waiting to happen. The jukebox in the corner played something low and mournful — an old blues song about chance and consequence.

Host: It was late enough that truth came easier, and small talk had given up the fight.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Joyce Carol Oates once said, ‘The worst cynicism: a belief in luck.’”

Jack: (grins faintly) “Ah, luck. The lazy man’s theology.”

Jeeny: “Or the cynic’s prayer.”

Jack: “Funny thing — people call it hope, but it’s just disguised surrender. Believing in luck means you’ve stopped believing in yourself.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s what you cling to when you’ve done everything right and still lost.”

Host: The bartender wiped down the counter, not listening but hearing everything. A neon sign flickered above the mirror: Good Fortune Tavern. It hummed ironically in electric blue.

Jack: “Luck’s a seductive lie. It lets you blame fate for your failures and fortune for your flaws.”

Jeeny: “So you don’t believe in it at all?”

Jack: “I’ve never met luck that wasn’t someone else’s hard work in disguise.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re angry at chance.”

Jack: “No — I’m angry at excuses.”

Jeeny: “You think Oates meant that too?”

Jack: “I think she saw what most people won’t admit — that luck is the coward’s version of faith. It’s the shrug people give when they’ve lost the will to build.”

Host: The light above their booth flickered, catching the smoke curling from the candle between them. The shadows danced — two faces, both weary but awake.

Jeeny: “But isn’t there a kind of tenderness in luck? The idea that something beyond us might still care enough to nudge the odds?”

Jack: (leans forward) “That’s not tenderness. That’s desperation dressed as comfort.”

Jeeny: “You make it sound so bleak.”

Jack: “No, just honest. Believing in luck means you’ve stopped demanding meaning. It’s giving chaos a halo.”

Jeeny: (smiles sadly) “And yet — the world keeps spinning on people’s need to believe that chance can love them back.”

Jack: “And that’s why it keeps breaking them.”

Host: A thunderclap rolled somewhere outside, its echo pressing against the bar windows. Neither of them flinched.

Jeeny: “Maybe cynicism isn’t the belief in luck itself — maybe it’s pretending luck absolves you from trying.”

Jack: “Yes. That’s the heart of it. It’s not about the coin toss. It’s about the cowardice of letting it decide for you.”

Jeeny: “So you believe only in cause and effect?”

Jack: “I believe in choice. In grind. In blood and stubbornness. Those are the only gods that ever show up.”

Jeeny: “And yet you still order whiskey and wish for calm.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s not wishing. That’s maintenance.”

Host: The rain eased, thinning to a mist that made the city shimmer — lights reflected on wet pavement, puddles catching bits of passing headlights.

Jeeny: “But isn’t it possible that luck is just... gratitude in disguise? The recognition that some things — timing, meeting the right person, surviving the wrong night — aren’t in your control?”

Jack: “Maybe. But then call it what it is — grace. Not luck. Luck is cheap. Grace costs you awareness.”

Jeeny: “Awareness of what?”

Jack: “That even what feels accidental carries fingerprints — your own or the world’s.”

Host: She turned the deck of cards between her hands, shuffling absently, her movements soft but deliberate.

Jeeny: “You ever gamble, Jack?”

Jack: “Once. Lost.”

Jeeny: “On what?”

Jack: “A person.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Then maybe you do believe in luck — just the kind that wears perfume.”

Jack: (laughs, but it’s small and sharp) “That’s not luck. That’s folly. The kind even Oates would forgive.”

Host: She dealt two cards face up on the table — a king and a joker. The light caught them just right, gold and red flashing for a brief, intimate second.

Jeeny: “Maybe the belief in luck isn’t cynicism. Maybe it’s exhaustion. When you’ve fought too many battles, you start hoping the universe will fight one for you.”

Jack: “And that’s the tragedy — the moment you start hoping instead of acting, you’ve already folded.”

Jeeny: “Then tell me — what do you believe in?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Work. Discipline. Momentum. That’s it.”

Jeeny: “No room for fate?”

Jack: “Fate’s a poet’s crutch. It’s what we blame when we’re too proud to admit we miscalculated.”

Jeeny: (softly) “But every artist needs a little myth, don’t they?”

Jack: “Maybe. But myths should serve truth, not smother it.”

Host: The bartender called last round. The jukebox went silent. Only the hum of the sign remained, buzzing its irony across the room.

Jeeny: “So the worst cynicism isn’t doubting hope — it’s pretending luck is enough.”

Jack: “Yes. Because once you hand your future to luck, you’ve already stopped writing it.”

Jeeny: “You’re a harsh man, Jack.”

Jack: “No. Just sober.”

Host: She smiled — small, knowing — and gathered the cards again, sliding them back into the deck. Outside, the rain had stopped completely. The street looked clean — like something had been washed away.

Jeeny: “Maybe Oates meant something deeper. Maybe the belief in luck is cynicism because it erases accountability. Because it lets us trade responsibility for superstition.”

Jack: “And that’s the easiest trade in the world.”

Host: He finished his drink, the glass clicking against the table like a full stop at the end of an essay. The city outside began to glow again — quiet, endless, alive.

Jeeny: “Then maybe the cure for cynicism isn’t faith or luck. Maybe it’s courage.”

Jack: “To act without guarantees.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The camera pulled back, leaving them framed by the neon glow of the sign behind them — Good Fortune Tavern. The irony hung in the air like perfume.

And over that scene, Joyce Carol Oates’ words lingered, precise and merciless:

“The worst cynicism: a belief in luck.”

Host: Because cynicism isn’t disbelief —
it’s surrender disguised as wisdom.

And luck?
Luck is the story we tell ourselves
when we’ve forgotten
that courage
was always the better bet.