This is absolutely bizarre that we continue to subsidize highways

Host: The station was quiet beneath a ceiling of glass and steel. Rain pattered softly on the transparent roof, forming tiny rivers that raced each other down the panes. The trains came and went with their familiar rhythm — a low rumble, a brief shudder, a whisper of wind. Beyond the platforms, the city pulsed with light — headlights flashing through mist, neon shimmering against puddles, the hum of restless motion.

Jack sat on a bench near the end of the platform, a newspaper folded in his lap, his grey eyes scanning the track as though waiting for something other than a train. Jeeny approached, her coat damp, her hair catching the glow of the overhead lamps. She carried a small notebook, always half-filled with questions.

Host: They met here often, in these in-between places — where movement and stillness collided, where humanity’s noise was swallowed by the rhythm of engines. Tonight, their conversation began before either of them spoke.

Jeeny: “Joe Biden once said, ‘This is absolutely bizarre that we continue to subsidize highways beyond the gasoline tax, airlines, and we don't subsidize, we don't want to subsidize a national rail system that has environmental impact.’”
She looked out at the empty track. “He’s right, Jack. It’s madness — we pour billions into the sky and the asphalt, but neglect the one system that could actually heal what we’ve broken.”

Jack: “You call it healing. I call it nostalgia.” He unfolded the paper, tapping the edge. “Rail systems were beautiful, sure — a century ago. Now people want speed, not conscience.”

Jeeny: “Maybe speed is the problem. Maybe what we need isn’t faster travel, but smarter travel. Rail isn’t nostalgia — it’s balance. It’s proof that progress and sustainability can share the same track.”

Jack: “Balance doesn’t sell tickets, Jeeny. Convenience does. Profit does. No one invests in patience anymore.”

Jeeny: “And no one survives without it.”

Host: The train horn sounded in the distance — low, mournful, eternal. It rolled across the night air like a sigh from the heart of civilization. The lights of an approaching train cut through the fog, long silver blades of purpose slicing the mist.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think about how symbolic it is? The train — it’s the only form of travel that still feels like the planet moving with you instead of against you.”

Jack: “Symbolism doesn’t keep it afloat. You think Congress funds poetry?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should.”

Jack: “Railroads lose money, Jeeny. Highways don’t. People drive because they can control the wheel. They fly because it feels like transcendence. But on a train — you surrender. And this culture hates surrender.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’ve just forgotten that surrender can be sacred. That letting go can also be alignment.”

Host: The train slowed to a halt before them, its brakes hissing, doors sliding open with the sound of breathing machinery. A few passengers disembarked — faces tired, eyes glazed with screens and sleeplessness. Others boarded in silence, carrying their private worlds in phones and headphones.

Jeeny: “It’s funny,” she murmured, “we subsidize the ways of travel that separate us from each other — tiny planes, private cars, metal boxes. But the one that makes us sit side by side, look out at the same horizon, breathe the same air — that one, we abandon.”

Jack: “Because we’re not built for collective experience anymore. We crave motion without contact, connection without proximity.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man describing loneliness as evolution.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. Maybe isolation is the price of progress.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the symptom of progress without direction.”

Host: The doors closed, and the train began to move again — slow at first, then steady, a mechanical heartbeat fading into the dark. The vibration beneath the platform hummed like a thought neither of them wanted to finish.

Jeeny: “You know, Biden’s quote isn’t just about transportation policy. It’s about priorities. What we choose to sustain reveals what we actually value.”

Jack: “We value independence. That’s what cars and planes are — freedom in steel form.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. They’re freedom with blinders on. They let us move fast without seeing where we are. Trains, though — trains force you to look. You watch the land you’re crossing, the rivers, the rusting towns. It’s humbling.”

Jack: “And depressing.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think stillness is failure.”

Host: The rain intensified, a gentle percussion on glass and steel. Inside the terminal, voices echoed — fragments of strangers’ lives caught mid-conversation. A child laughed near a vending machine; somewhere, a janitor hummed softly to himself.

Jack: “You know what this sounds like, Jeeny? Philosophy disguised as policy. You want trains because you think they symbolize community. But people don’t want community; they want convenience.”

Jeeny: “Then we’ve mistaken comfort for meaning. Highways and airports give you the illusion of control. But railways — they remind you that you’re part of something larger, slower, more ancient. They whisper, you belong to the earth, not the other way around.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly why no one listens. Because belonging feels too much like responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Biden called it bizarre — not because the economics don’t add up, but because the values don’t. We subsidize the habits that isolate us, and call it progress. We neglect the choices that connect us, and call it fiscal prudence.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight. The sound of a departing train echoed through the terminal, reverberating like a long-held truth finally spoken aloud.

Jack: “You ever wonder if it’s already too late? Maybe the rails were part of a world that cared more about where it was going than how fast it got there.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to bring that world back. Not because it’s old — but because it’s wise.”

Jack: “You think people will slow down voluntarily?”

Jeeny: “Not until the speed starts hurting them. And it already is — the planet’s breaking, the people are burning out. The faster we go, the less we arrive anywhere.”

Jack: “You make slowing down sound like salvation.”

Jeeny: “It might be. Every revolution begins by asking, What if we stopped?”

Host: The terminal lights dimmed slightly. Somewhere, a distant announcement echoed, but neither listened. Their conversation had become its own kind of journey — not toward destination, but toward understanding.

Jack: “You know, maybe Biden’s quote is more than a critique. Maybe it’s a confession — that we built our economy like a highway: endless, loud, and leading nowhere.”

Jeeny: “And rail,” she said softly, “is the forgotten road home.”

Host: The rain eased into mist. The last train of the night slid silently into the distance, leaving only the echo of its wheels against the wet tracks — a soft, rhythmic heartbeat in the bones of the city.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter. Jack looked up at her, something like a question lingering in his eyes.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe we keep subsidizing highways because we’re terrified of stillness. The rail asks us to travel with the world, not over it. To listen instead of conquer.”

Jack: “And listening’s the one thing we’ve forgotten how to do.”

Host: They walked out together into the damp air. The city glowed faintly through the fog — a living organism of steel, speed, and sleeplessness. Behind them, the tracks stretched into the dark — long, unwavering, waiting.

And for a brief moment, beneath the hum of streetlights and the whisper of rain, the world seemed to hold its breath — not to rush forward, but to remember what movement once meant.

Host: Because perhaps the true measure of progress
is not how far we go —
but whether, in all our motion,
we still know where we’re going.