Those who govern, having much business on their hands, do not

Host: The city hall clock struck eight, its metallic chime echoing through the narrow streets. The rain had just ended, leaving the asphalt shimmering like a mirror. Inside a dimly lit bar, tucked between old government buildings, two figures sat opposite each other — Jack and Jeeny. The neon sign outside flickered, casting brief flashes of red and blue across their faces.

Jack nursed a half-empty glass of whiskey, his coat still damp from the rain, while Jeeny sipped her tea, her hands cupped around the mug for warmth. There was tension in the air, not from anger, but from the weight of thoughts waiting to be spoken.

Jack: “Franklin was right, you know. Governments, boards, leaders — they only act when cornered. Innovation doesn’t come from planning, it comes from panic.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s something to be proud of? That we only change when we’re forced to?”

Host: Jack looked out the window, where the reflection of passing cars bent across the wet glass like ribbons of light. His voice was low, deliberate.

Jack: “It’s not about pride, Jeeny. It’s just truth. Look at history — the New Deal didn’t happen because politicians were visionary. It happened because America was collapsing. World War II pushed the world into technology faster than any peaceful year could have. Humans don’t evolve from wisdom, we evolve from crisis.”

Jeeny: “That’s the saddest kind of truth, Jack. If we only move when hurt, then we’re not governed, we’re just reacting. A society without foresight is like a ship without a compass — it doesn’t sail, it drifts.”

Host: The bartender polished a glass in the background, his motions slow, almost mechanical. A faint song from the radio — an old jazz tune — floated through the room, softening the edges of their words.

Jack: “You’re too idealistic. Leaders don’t have the luxury of philosophy. They have deadlines, budgets, voters, scandals. You expect them to sit around and daydream about the next revolution?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they should. Revolutions don’t always start with guns, Jack. Sometimes they start with questions. With imagination. With one person who dares to think before the fire starts.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, her voice steady, but her hands trembled slightly as she spoke. The rain began again, softly, like the sound of a pencil writing across paper.

Jeeny: “Franklin saw it — how leaders, once comfortable, stop thinking. They call it stability, but it’s really fear of being wrong. So they wait until the walls crack, until the people scream. Only then do they move.”

Jack: “Because that’s how the world works. You don’t fix the roof when it’s sunny, Jeeny. You wait until the rain gets in. Urgency is the only teacher that humans listen to.”

Jeeny: “But by then, the house is already flooded.”

Host: The lights inside the bar dimmed slightly as the power flickered, the storm outside gathering strength. Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes catching the faint glow of the streetlight.

Jeeny: “Think of climate change, Jack. We’ve had decades of warnings, science, data — and still, we wait. The oceans rise, the fires burn, and the leaders call it an ‘unexpected crisis.’ That’s not necessity teaching us. That’s ignorance pretending to be wisdom.”

Jack: “And yet, when the fires came, when the storms hit, we acted. The technology for renewable energy, the policies, the activism — all of it exploded in the face of disaster. See? The occasion forced the measure. Exactly what Franklin said.”

Jeeny: “And what did it cost us to learn that way, Jack? Lives, forests, homes. Wisdom gained through suffering is still stupidity in disguise.”

Host: Jack sighed, his fingers drumming lightly against the glass. The whiskey glowed amber under the bar light, catching tiny bubbles that rose and vanished, like thoughts surfacing and sinking again.

Jack: “So what’s your solution, Jeeny? You think if we all just meditate hard enough, we’ll start governing wisely? People don’t plan for what they can’t feel. They change when the pain becomes real. That’s human nature.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe human nature is the problem.”

Jack: “It’s the only thing we’ve got.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, almost alive. The rain was now a steady drum on the roof, and every drop seemed to echo their thoughts.

Jeeny: “You call it nature, I call it laziness. We’ve made a virtue of being reactive. We build committees to study the obvious, reports to delay action. It’s not that we can’t see the future, Jack. It’s that we’re too comfortable in the present.”

Jack: “Comfort keeps the machine running. You start questioning everything, and the whole system collapses.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it should.”

Host: The bar light flickered again, and for a moment, their faces were half in darkness, half in light — as if even the room couldn’t decide whose truth to follow.

Jack: “You really think chaos is better than order?”

Jeeny: “When order means stagnation, yes. When obedience kills creativity, yes. The French Revolution, the Civil Rights Movement, even democracy itself — all were chaos that gave birth to progress. Without disorder, we’d still be subjects, not citizens.”

Jack: “And yet, every revolution breeds a new ruler. Every ideal becomes another system that forgets its origin. That’s the cycle Franklin saw — wisdom rarely guides, only necessity does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer is to stay awake — to remember why we fought in the first place. To not wait for the fire, but to smell the smoke and move.”

Host: The storm had reached its peak now. Thunder rolled, shaking the windows. Jack watched the lightning, its white flash reflecting in his grey eyes.

Jack: “You sound like a revolutionary.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m just tired of crisis being our only teacher.”

Host: The bartender turned up the radio, and a voice — old, crackled, confident — began to speak about economy, war, and reform. It was almost as if the world itself was listening to them.

Jack: “You know, Franklin probably didn’t mean it as a criticism. Maybe he was just observing human nature — the way necessity drives innovation, like a flame under a blacksmith’s forge. Without pressure, the iron never hardens.”

Jeeny: “And without foresight, the iron breaks. Pressure isn’t the same as wisdom, Jack. One reacts. The other prepares.”

Host: Her words hung between them, heavy but calm, like the air after lightning. Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes from recognition, not defeat.

Jack: “Maybe the truth’s somewhere in the middle. Maybe we need both — the pain of the moment and the vision to use it.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’m saying. Wisdom born from necessity doesn’t have to die there. We can still learn, we can still plan, even after the storm.”

Host: The rain had stopped again, leaving behind a deep silence that felt like clarity. The neon sign outside buzzed, its light now steady. Jack raised his glass, the last of the whiskey catching the light like molten gold.

Jack: “To Franklin then — for reminding us that even when wisdom is forced, it’s still wisdom.”

Jeeny: “And to the day when we won’t need to be forced to be wise.”

Host: Their glasses clinked, a soft, melancholic sound, almost drowned by the distant echo of the thunder.

Outside, the streets gleamed, washed clean by the storm, as if the world itself had just learned something — not through planning, but through the occasion that demanded it.

The camera would pan out, rising above the bar, the city, the wet rooftops, until only the sound of rainwater dripping from the gutters remained — steady, rhythmic, inevitable.

Like the pulse of a world that only moves when it must.