Those who trust to chance must abide by the results of chance.

Host: The night hung heavy over the harbor, its silence broken only by the creak of ropes and the distant hum of a freight ship. Streetlights flickered in the mist, painting the dockside in patches of amber and shadow. Jack stood near the edge, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, its smoke curling into the salt air. Jeeny sat on a wooden crate, her coat pulled tight, her eyes reflecting the shimmer of the black water. The world around them seemed paused, like a frame held too long — waiting for something to break the stillness.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, Calvin Coolidge once said, ‘Those who trust to chance must abide by the results of chance.’”
Her voice was soft but steady, carried by the breeze. “It’s a warning, isn’t it? That we can’t just throw our lives into the wind and call it freedom.”

Jack: (exhales a thin line of smoke) “Or maybe it’s just reality. If you let chance decide, you can’t complain when chance takes it all away. It’s not a warning, Jeeny — it’s math.”

Host: The harbor light blinked, once, twice — then went dark for a moment. The wind picked up, tossing a plastic bag down the pier, as if even trash was searching for meaning.

Jeeny: “But do you ever think, Jack… that chance is part of what makes life beautiful? That control isn’t everything? People fall in love, people find miracles, not because they planned it — but because something unseen guided them.”

Jack: (dry laugh) “That’s what people say when they don’t want to admit they’re lost. ‘Something unseen.’ You call it fate. I call it randomness. The universe doesn’t owe us symmetry.”

Host: Jack’s eyes glinted in the dim light, like steel catching flame. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her mug of coffee, the steam swirling like a ghost between them.

Jeeny: “You always think in terms of what can be measured, don’t you? But life isn’t an equation. Think of Vincent van Gogh — he painted, failed, and died believing he was worthless. And yet, the world now calls him a genius. Was that chance, or something more?”

Jack: “It was chance — the market changed, people’s taste shifted, and suddenly, he became valuable. That’s not fate, that’s timing. He didn’t get his miracle, Jeeny. He just got lucky posthumously.”

Host: A train horn echoed across the water, long and mournful, as if the night itself sighed. The fog rolled in, swallowing the lights one by one, until only their voices remained.

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack. What’s the point of trying, if it’s all just luck and chance? Why do you even bother to get up every morning?”

Jack: (pauses, looking toward the horizon) “Because chance isn’t everything. You can tilt the odds. You can prepare, plan, work your way closer to the edge of luck. But you can’t ever escape it. And that’s the cruel part. The man who studies for years might still fail. The fool might stumble into fortune. Coolidge was right — if you trust in chance, you have to live with its whims.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just it — maybe it’s not trusting chance, but accepting it. Maybe peace comes from knowing we can’t control everything.”

Host: The tension between them shifted, subtle as the movement of tidewater. Jack turned, his jawline catching a faint trace of light. Jeeny’s voice grew quieter, yet her words seemed to vibrate through the air.

Jeeny: “When I was a child, my mother used to buy lottery tickets. Not because she was greedy, but because she believed in a small spark of hope — that maybe the world would finally say, ‘You’ve suffered enough, here’s a gift.’ Was she a fool for that?”

Jack: “No. But she was gambling. There’s a difference between hope and strategy. One gives you direction; the other gives you a false sense of it. And when the numbers didn’t come up, what did she do?”

Jeeny: (softly) “She cried. And then she laughed. She said, ‘Well, maybe next week, the stars will be in a better mood.’”
She smiled faintly. “That kind of faith isn’t about winning. It’s about enduring.”

Host: The mist curled tighter around them. The sea lapped against the pier, each wave sounding like a heartbeat against the wood. The city behind them buzzed faintly, like a machine refusing to sleep.

Jack: “Enduring is fine. But I’d rather build something than wait for the stars. Look at Coolidge himself — he wasn’t a man of luck. He was a man of discipline, of quiet, steady work. He didn’t trust to chance — he calculated it. That’s how he became President. The man barely even spoke, but when he did, it mattered.”

Jeeny: “And yet, even he couldn’t control everything. His son died from a simple blister that turned infected. The President of the United States — powerless before chance. You can prepare, Jack, but you can’t protect yourself from the unpredictable.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, like fog pressing into lungs. Jack’s hands trembled slightly, though he hid them in his pockets. The sound of gulls pierced the distance, harsh and lonely.

Jack: (low voice) “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t understand what it means to lose something you thought you could control?”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then why keep fighting chance, Jack? Maybe you need to make peace with it.”

Host: A light rain began to fall, soft and uneven. The drops landed on the metal railing, each one a tiny percussion in the symphony of night. Jack didn’t move. Jeeny watched him, her eyes filled with both sorrow and understanding.

Jack: “Because if I stop fighting, I’ll start believing that everything is meaningless. That it’s all just dice rolled by a cosmic drunk. And I can’t live like that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not meaningless. Maybe the dice aren’t drunk — maybe they’re just… wild. Maybe chance isn’t against us, Jack. Maybe it’s just testing how much we can trust ourselves to keep going.”

Host: The rain grew heavier. Water streamed off the edge of the pier, catching the light like molten glass. The air smelled of salt, iron, and truth.

Jack: (after a long pause) “So you’re saying, if I lose, I should just… abide by it?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because if you can’t abide by loss, you don’t deserve the win. That’s what Coolidge meant. Chance isn’t the enemy, Jack. It’s the teacher. It shows us whether our faith is real.”

Host: Jack looked at her, and for the first time that night, his expression softened. The harshness in his eyes gave way to something more fragile, more human. The rain had soaked through his jacket, but he didn’t care. He simply stood, letting it wash the tension from his face.

Jack: “You always find a way to make even chance sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe because I still believe that everything, even chaos, has its purpose.”

Host: A truck horn blared in the distance, breaking the spell. The rain began to ease, leaving behind the smell of wet earth and electric air. The fog began to lift, revealing the city lights again — dim, but still burning.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. I’ll give you this much. Maybe chance isn’t always the villain. But I still won’t bet my life on it.”

Jeeny: “No one’s asking you to bet, Jack. Just to live — and let the results come as they may.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back now — two silhouettes on a pier, framed by mist and light, the sea whispering secrets only they could hear. Somewhere beyond, a ship’s horn sounded again — a low, steady note, like the heartbeat of the unknown.

The night did not give them answers. But it gave them peace. And perhaps, that was enough.