There's no business like show business, but there are several

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the dusty blinds of a cramped office above a theatre district street. The faint murmur of cars drifted up through the open window, carrying the scent of coffee, asphalt, and distant laughter from tourists taking selfies in front of the marquee below. On the wall hung a faded poster of an old Broadway musical, its colors drained by time, but still proud, like a memory refusing to die.

At a chipped wooden desk, Jack sat with a stack of ledgers, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, a pen tapping restlessly against his notebook. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the window, watching the faint reflection of a billboard that read: “THE MAGIC OF SHOW BUSINESS LIVES HERE.”

Her smile was small, wistful — the kind of smile born from both admiration and exhaustion.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, David Letterman once said, ‘There’s no business like show business, but there are several businesses like accounting.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Sounds about right. At least accounting doesn’t depend on applause.”

Host: A faint chuckle escaped Jeeny, though her eyes stayed thoughtful, tracing the skyline like she was searching for something just out of reach. The office clock ticked with a steady, bureaucratic rhythm — a metronome of ordinary life.

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the point, isn’t it? The world treats show business like it’s something holy — this shining temple of dreams. But underneath, it’s still a business like any other. People chasing profit, competition, image, survival.”

Jack: (finally glancing up, smirking) “And you say that like it’s a bad thing. What did you expect — angels with makeup kits? Even dreams need budgets, Jeeny. Somebody’s got to keep the lights on.”

Host: He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under the weight of his cynicism. His eyes were sharp, reflecting the flicker of neon signs outside that danced on the wall like restless ghosts.

Jeeny: “I’m not against practicality, Jack. But sometimes I wonder if show business started with passion and ended with invoices. We call it art, but half the people in it are more worried about ratings than revelation.”

Jack: “That’s just evolution. You can’t pay rent with revelation. Look at Chaplin — genius, sure, but even he knew how to sell it. Entertainment is supply and demand. Always has been. Always will be.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that destroy the magic? The idea that art could mean something more than market value?”

Jack: “Magic doesn’t pay the crew. You know how many unpaid dreamers end up broke because they confuse the two? There’s a reason accountants sleep better than artists.”

Host: The hum of a distant air conditioner filled the brief silence that followed. Jeeny crossed her arms, her reflection now sharper in the window glass — her face caught between hope and disillusionment.

Jeeny: “And yet, accountants will never understand what it feels like to make someone cry from a story, or laugh in the dark with strangers. You can’t measure that kind of currency, Jack. It’s the closest thing we have to meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning is overrated. Comfort’s the real currency. A man who balances the books might not move an audience, but he doesn’t starve, either.”

Jeeny: “You really think safety is worth more than soul?”

Jack: “Ask the millions working nine-to-five jobs who still watch movies on Friday night. They’d rather see passion than live it. Less mess that way.”

Host: The sound of laughter rose from the street below — a group of young performers exiting a rehearsal studio, their voices full of energy and naïve joy. Jeeny turned her gaze toward them, her expression softening as she watched one of the girls twirl in the sunlight, her script pages fluttering like white birds.

Jeeny: “They don’t care about budgets, Jack. Not yet. They believe in something pure — that a story can change a life. That a song can outlast the singer. Isn’t that worth the struggle?”

Jack: “It’s noble, sure. But temporary. The world eats idealism for breakfast. Every show closes, every star fades, every applause dies. You can’t build eternity out of spotlight dust.”

Jeeny: “But it’s the only dust that sparkles.”

Host: A sharp silence followed, like the pause after a perfect line in a play — the kind that leaves the audience breathless. Jack blinked, his smirk faltering.

Jack: “You sound like one of them.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just refuse to believe that art has to apologize for being beautiful.”

Jack: “Beauty doesn’t fix the books. You know what happens when idealists run companies? Bankruptcy. Look at Broadway during the Great Depression — theaters shutting down, actors unpaid, sets dismantled for firewood. The only people who survived were the ones who treated it like business.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of the greatest works were born from that struggle. The Grapes of Wrath, Gone with the Wind, even Chaplin’s The Great Dictator — all made in times when the world was falling apart. Maybe that’s the point, Jack. Art isn’t the absence of practicality. It’s the rebellion against it.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke catching a shaft of sunlight. Jack’s jaw tightened. He stared at the paperwork, but the numbers blurred, replaced by something softer — something like memory.

Jack: “My father worked backstage, you know. Built sets for cheap plays in dingy theaters. Never made much, but he loved it. Said it felt like being part of a secret universe. I used to think he was foolish — chasing illusions while others built stability. But maybe…”

Jeeny: “Maybe he was building meaning.”

Host: Jack looked up, and for a moment, the skeptic in him seemed to step aside, revealing the quiet boy beneath — the one who once peeked through the curtain and saw the world transformed by light and music.

Jack: “You really think art can justify itself? That it doesn’t need to prove its worth in numbers?”

Jeeny: “It already does — in hearts. Every time someone walks out of a theater feeling a little less alone, that’s your balance sheet.”

Jack: (softly) “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, what’s the point of the stage? Or the story?”

Host: The office seemed to grow quieter, the ticking of the clock blending into the distant murmur of the city. Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his eyes no longer cold — just thoughtful.

Jack: “You know… maybe Letterman wasn’t mocking the difference between show business and accounting. Maybe he was pointing out the similarity — that both need balance. Art and logic, dream and discipline.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s the harmony, isn’t it? Show business and show soul. You can’t have one without the other.”

Host: The light shifted, falling across the poster on the wall. For the first time, Jack noticed the small signature scrawled at the bottom — his father’s handwriting, faded but still there. He stared at it for a long, still moment.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the trick isn’t to choose between the art and the accounting. Maybe it’s to make sure neither one eats the other alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only real business worth running.”

Host: The camera of the scene pulled back slowly. Outside, the theatre lights began to flicker on, bathing the street in golden glow. The billboard shone brighter now, its reflection catching both their faces in the window — one tired but awakened, the other hopeful but grounded.

For a moment, they both watched in silence as the crowd below gathered for the evening show — strangers united by the same desire to believe, if only for a few hours, that stories still mattered.

The screen of the world faded to black, leaving only the faint echo of laughter, the rustle of papers, and the soft whisper of a truth rediscovered:
that in every ledger and every lyric, every contract and curtain call —
the business and the dream are simply two sides of the same trembling heartbeat.