Today's business climate is not for me.

Host: The night had fallen over the city like a velvet curtain, heavy and thick with the hum of distant traffic and the buzz of neon lights. A small café on the corner of an old brick street stood half-empty, its windowpanes trembling from the wind that crept through cracks in the walls. Inside, a dim light from a single lamp spilled across a wooden table, where two figures sat in quiet contemplation.

Jack’s coat was creased, his tie loosened, his hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. Jeeny, across from him, stirred her tea absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the steam as if it were a portal to another time.

Outside, a billboard flickered with the face of a smiling entrepreneur, the words “Innovate or Die” burning in blue light.

Jack sighed, his voice low and tired.
Jack: “Today’s business climate is not for me. Berry Gordy said that once, didn’t he? The guy who built Motown from nothing — even he couldn’t stand what this world’s become.”

Jeeny’s eyes lifted, her expression soft but piercing.
Jeeny: “He said it because he came from a time when music meant soul, Jack. When business wasn’t just about metrics and market share. But it doesn’t mean he gave up on the world — maybe he just didn’t fit in its rhythm anymore.”

Host: The lamp flickered, casting shadows across their faces. A moment of silence hung between them, filled with the sound of rain beginning to fall outside.

Jack: “Fit in? Jeeny, look around. The whole damn system’s about speed, data, and disruption. You either scale or you sink. People aren’t building anything that lasts anymore — they’re just flipping ideas for profit. Berry Gordy built an empire on talent and vision, not on algorithms.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the same complaint every generation makes? The world changes, and people say it’s lost its soul. The truth is, the soul just moves to a different place. Maybe it’s not in record stores anymore, but it’s in the voices of independent artists, the ones who upload their music from bedrooms and reach millions.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, splashing against the window, blurring the lights of the city into a canvas of motion and color. Jack watched it, his jaw tight, his thoughts grinding behind grey eyes.

Jack: “You think that’s the same? A kid in his bedroom, buried under a pile of streaming contracts and sponsorships? They’re not free, Jeeny — they’re owned by the platforms, by the algorithms that tell them what to write, how to sound, when to release. Motown was music; this is marketing.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those same platforms gave voice to people who never would’ve been heard before. A girl in Ghana, a boy in Brazil — they can share their art with the world. Isn’t that what Berry Gordy wanted too? To make music that crossed borders, races, languages?”

Host: Jack leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his weight. His eyes narrowed, the light catching the faint lines on his face — traces of dreams once held, now weathered by reality.

Jack: “Maybe. But Gordy’s world had principles. He cared about craftsmanship. He believed that talent should be shaped, mentored, refined — not just consumed by the crowd. Today, the crowd is the producer. Everyone’s a brand, and authenticity is a currency. It’s not art, it’s advertising dressed as expression.”

Jeeny: “You sound like one of those old painters who said photography wasn’t art. And yet, look what photography became — a new way to see the world. Every era finds its own medium. What you call advertising, someone else calls survival. The artists today don’t have a Berry Gordy to protect them, so they become their own.”

Host: The rain eased, softening into a steady rhythm. The café owner turned down the lights, leaving only the lamp above their table — a small sun in a universe of shadows. The air smelled of coffee and electricity.

Jack: “You really think survival is the same as art? That making do is the same as making meaning?”

Jeeny: “Meaning is what you choose to give it. The struggle itself becomes the art. Think of Van Gogh — he sold almost nothing, yet his truth lived beyond his time. Today’s creators might not have the same market, but they have the same fire. Maybe the business climate isn’t for everyone — but that doesn’t mean it’s soulless.”

Jack: “That’s romantic. But tell me, where’s the dignity in a world that forces artists to beg for views, to compete in a popularity contest? Gordy would’ve hated this. He fought for control, for ownership, not validation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe control isn’t the only form of freedom, Jack. Maybe connection is. You see desperation, I see democracy. The gatekeepers are gone. The system you call cold might just be the most open it’s ever been.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, glowing with quiet defiance. Jack’s eyes flickered, not with anger, but with something softer — a memory. The memory of a younger self, perhaps, one who had once believed that dreams could be made, not bought.

Jack: “When I started my company, I thought I was going to change something. Build a brand that actually mattered. But it all turned into metrics and investors and pitches. Nobody cared about the why, only the ROI. That’s what I mean when I say — this business climate isn’t for me.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re not meant to adapt to it, Jack. Maybe you’re meant to remind it of what it’s lost.”

Host: The wind pressed against the window, rattling it gently, like a knock from the past. Jack looked up, his expression caught between weariness and wonder.

Jack: “Remind it? You think the world listens to people like us anymore?”

Jeeny: “It always does — eventually. Every cycle needs its counterpoint. Gordy said that because he refused to compromise his values, not because he’d given up. Maybe that’s your place too. Not to fit in, but to stand apart.”

Host: A pause. Then a slow smile crept onto Jack’s face, faint but real. The rain had stopped, and a pale light from a streetlamp spilled through the glass, painting them in a quiet glow.

Jack: “You always make it sound so damn simple, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “It’s never simple, Jack. But it’s still possible.”

Host: The café fell into silence again. The neon signs outside flickered, reflected in the puddles like broken stars. Jack finished his coffee, his eyes drifting toward the window — toward the world that still spun, indifferent, yet somehow still alive.

Jeeny stood, wrapped her scarf around her neck, and smiled — the kind of smile that holds both sorrow and faith.

Jeeny: “The climate changes, Jack. But the soul of what we do — that’s weatherproof.”

Host: Jack nodded, his breath visible in the cold air. For the first time that night, his eyes seemed a little less grey, a little more human. Outside, the city gleamed — not as a machine, but as a mosaic of light, dreams, and endurance.

And as they stepped out into the wet street, the rain began again — this time, gentle, like an applause from the sky.