There's no damn business like show business - you have to smile

Host: The spotlight flickered in the half-empty jazz club, its pale circle barely holding back the thick smoke that curled like ghosts from forgotten cigarettes. The room smelled of bourbon, brass, and exhaustion — the perfume of a night that had been beautiful too many times and broken just as often.

Onstage, the old microphone stood alone, its metal mouth glinting faintly like a relic of truth no one dared to speak.

At the corner table, Jack sat slouched in a velvet chair, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey sweating in his hand. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her drink slowly, the ice clinking like soft applause, her gaze tracing the empty stage as if she could still see the ghosts of every performer who’d bled their heart into song.

Jeeny: “Billie Holiday once said, ‘There’s no damn business like show business — you have to smile to keep from throwing up.’”

Jack: (snorts) “That’s not cynicism. That’s autobiography.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s survival. She was saying you have to keep performing, even when your soul’s unraveling.”

Jack: “You mean pretending. The great American art form.”

Jeeny: “Pretending is part of truth, Jack. Every stage in life demands a mask.”

Jack: “And every mask eventually suffocates the one who wears it.”

Host: A pianist onstage plinked a few tired chords, testing the keys. The sound was cracked, uneven — like a confession disguised as melody.

Jack: “You know, Billie Holiday didn’t just sing the blues — she breathed them. Every note sounded like pain dressed up in velvet. That’s the thing about show business — people pay to feel emotions that would destroy them in real life.”

Jeeny: “And the performers sell their wounds as souvenirs.”

Jack: “Exactly. They turn suffering into spectacle.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the price of connection, isn’t it? You give a piece of yourself so someone else feels less alone.”

Jack: “That’s a noble lie. The audience doesn’t care about the soul — they care about the shine. The show must go on, remember? Even when it kills the performer.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of them rise through it — not because the pain disappears, but because they learn to make beauty out of it. That’s what Billie did.”

Host: The lights dimmed further. The hum of the amplifier filled the silence, low and electric, like the sound of a secret.

Jeeny: “She smiled not because she was happy — but because she understood tragedy and grace are twins. You can’t have one without the other.”

Jack: “No. She smiled because she had no choice. That’s what the business demands — performance over truth, illusion over honesty.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the irony is that her illusion was honesty. When she sang, you could hear the blood behind the glamour. That’s what makes her eternal.”

Jack: (leaning back) “Eternal or trapped?”

Jeeny: “Both. All artists are. They live in the space between applause and silence — loved for their pain, destroyed by it.”

Host: A bartender wiped the counter, his rag moving in slow circles. The smell of scotch hung in the air like memory.

Jeeny: “You ever think maybe she wasn’t condemning show business? Maybe she was exposing it — showing us what happens when art becomes a transaction.”

Jack: “You mean when the artist becomes the product.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She sold her voice because the world wouldn’t buy her truth.”

Jack: “And the world applauded as she broke.”

Host: The pianist began playing now — slow, deliberate chords that climbed like smoke toward the ceiling. It wasn’t Strange Fruit, but it carried the same ache, the same dignity in despair.

Jeeny’s eyes glimmered in the dim light.

Jeeny: “There’s something sacred about that kind of suffering, though. It’s the moment when pain transforms into art — when heartbreak becomes melody.”

Jack: “Sacred? No. It’s tragic. The world doesn’t want artists; it wants martyrs. It’ll drink their tears and call it inspiration.”

Jeeny: “But still — people come here, night after night, to listen, to feel. Isn’t that proof there’s something human left in the exchange?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s proof we’re addicted to tragedy — as long as it’s well-lit and in tune.”

Host: The music swelled, a slow jazz waltz that seemed to crawl through the air like a confession you couldn’t take back. The audience was small — a few scattered souls staring into glasses, all of them performing their own quiet acts of endurance.

Jeeny: “Do you know what she meant by smiling to keep from throwing up, Jack?”

Jack: “I assume it wasn’t about nausea.”

Jeeny: “No. It was about grace under humiliation. About knowing the show — life, art, fame — will always demand too much, and still finding the courage to sing anyway.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing pain again.”

Jeeny: “I’m recognizing strength.”

Host: The spotlight found the stage, and a young singer stepped into its circle — trembling, uncertain, yet radiant. Her sequined dress caught the light like the surface of water.

Jack and Jeeny both turned to watch.

The first note cracked — but she didn’t stop. She closed her eyes, exhaled, and began again, stronger.

Jack: “There it is. The performance. The smile before the storm.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s survival, Jack. That’s art — defiance dressed as poise.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe it’s the only kind of honesty we can bear to witness.”

Host: The singer’s voice grew steadier. She sang about love, loss, and whiskey — the eternal trinity of the human condition. Her words filled the small room like smoke — heavy, fragrant, inescapable.

Jeeny leaned back, whispering almost to herself.

Jeeny: “She’s smiling to keep from breaking. That’s not deceit. That’s devotion.”

Jack: “And one day the smile will break anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But tonight, it’s enough.”

Host: The final note trembled in the air — fragile, perfect, unfinished. The audience clapped softly, the kind of applause that feels more like prayer than praise.

Jack raised his glass toward the stage.

Jack: “To Billie — who knew that truth wears lipstick and pain plays piano.”

Jeeny: (raising her own) “And to every soul who’s ever had to smile through the ache — onstage or off.”

Host: Their glasses touched with a dull, delicate sound — like the heartbeat of something human still trying to survive in a world of performance.

The light dimmed. The singer stepped away, leaving silence heavy as velvet.

And in that silence, Billie Holiday’s words lingered, alive and undeniable —

That show business is not about applause, but endurance,
that behind every glamorous smile lies a tremor of truth,
and that sometimes the bravest thing an artist can do is keep singing —
even when the music tastes like pain.

Host: The night bled into quiet. The smoke thinned.

Jack looked at Jeeny and said, almost softly,
Jack: “Maybe all of life is show business.”

Jeeny: “Then we’d better learn how to smile beautifully.”

Host: And as the last chord faded, the two of them sat in the hush of afterglow — where grief and grace danced together, and the applause was only an echo of survival.