Too many people say to their brokers, I can't deal with this.

Host: The office overlooked the city like a glass fortress. The skyline shimmered beneath a tired sun — the kind that burned without warmth. Below, the traffic crawled like veins pulsing through steel and smoke. Inside, the air was cool, clinical — the faint hum of computers mixing with the whisper of money moving invisibly through screens.

Jack sat at the long mahogany table, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp, a man who lived by numbers. Beside him, Jeeny — smaller, poised, a quiet contrast to his restless energy. She held a cup of black coffee that had long gone cold. The day’s trading screens blinked faintly behind them, rows of red and green flickering like signals from another world.

On the wall, in gold letters, a quote hung framed between two charts:

“Too many people say to their brokers, I can’t deal with this. Take my money. Do what you want. That’s the worst attitude you can have.”
— Maria Bartiromo

Jeeny looked at the quote, her brow creased slightly.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what that really means, Jack? ‘Take my money. Do what you want.’ It’s not just about finance. It’s about surrender — about people handing away their power because they’re afraid to understand it.”

Jack: “Afraid? No. Just realistic. Not everyone can handle complexity, Jeeny. You hire experts for a reason. You don’t tell your surgeon how to cut or your pilot how to fly.”

Host: His voice was low, confident, but under the cool tone there was a hint of irritation — the kind that comes from defending a belief worn smooth by habit.

Jeeny: “But this isn’t surgery, Jack. It’s trust. It’s people’s lives, their work, their savings. You can’t just hand that over and say, ‘Wake me when I’m rich.’ That’s not realism — that’s abdication.”

Jack: “You sound like a moralist in a business suit. You think everyone has time to study markets between feeding their kids and paying bills? People delegate because they have to.”

Jeeny: “Delegating is one thing. Blind faith is another. That’s how people get taken. That’s how empires fall.”

Host: The air conditioner hummed louder, filling the pause. Outside, a single pigeon landed on the glass, its reflection split by the city’s shadow.

Jack: “You’re quoting headlines, Jeeny. Most people don’t get scammed — they just get what they paid for. Risk. That’s the price of playing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The price of playing should be risk. But too often it’s ignorance. People don’t lose because they gamble — they lose because they never learn the rules.”

Jack: “And what’s your solution? Teach everyone to be a stock analyst? The world runs because people specialize. You think Maria Bartiromo got rich doing her own plumbing?”

Jeeny: “She got rich because she paid attention. Because she asked questions. That’s the whole point of the quote. Responsibility doesn’t mean doing everything yourself — it means understanding what’s being done in your name.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice carried a quiet edge now, her eyes fierce in the dim light. Jack smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jack: “You sound like one of those activists who think awareness solves everything. You can’t eat awareness. You can’t hedge it against inflation.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you can live with yourself because of it. You can look in the mirror and know you weren’t complicit in your own exploitation.”

Host: Her words struck harder than she intended. Jack’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering toward the framed quote again. The city’s reflection shimmered in the glass behind it — capitalism and conscience staring at each other.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? People don’t want to be free. Freedom means responsibility. And responsibility means blame. They’d rather lose quietly than admit they made a choice.”

Jeeny: “Then they don’t deserve the wealth they chase. You can’t demand reward without risk, or comfort without control.”

Host: The sunlight hit the glass just then, scattering through the office in fractured beams, lighting dust that drifted like suspended time.

Jack: “You talk like money’s moral. It’s not. It’s a tool. It doesn’t care how it’s used.”

Jeeny: “And yet it exposes us. It shows who we trust, what we value, what we ignore. That’s why money is moral — because it reflects everything we are.”

Jack: “Then maybe that reflection’s just ugly. Maybe people don’t want to see it.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s the real poverty — not knowing what your money does while it defines your life.”

Host: Silence fell again, heavier this time. Jack rubbed his temple, the weight of years of pragmatism pressing behind his eyes.

Jack: “You sound like you think the whole system can be redeemed by people suddenly giving a damn.”

Jeeny: “Not redeemed. But maybe less corrupt. You can’t reform greed, but you can teach awareness. You can remind people that ignorance is a luxury the world can’t afford anymore.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder. Each sound seemed to echo off the glass — time reminding them of its own currency.

Jack: “I used to believe that,” he said finally. “When I started in this business. I thought if people learned how it worked, they’d stop being taken. But they didn’t want to learn. They wanted comfort, not truth.”

Jeeny: “And you gave up on them?”

Jack: “I adapted.”

Jeeny: “That’s just a cleaner word for surrender.”

Host: His eyes met hers. For a moment, the steel broke. He looked almost human — a man who’d once cared, now pretending not to.

Jack: “What about you, Jeeny? You think you can beat the system by caring harder?”

Jeeny: “No. But I can stay awake inside it. That’s the difference.”

Jack: “Awake?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Awake to what’s mine, to what I choose, to what I let others control. That’s what Maria meant. ‘Don’t hand over your agency.’ Not to brokers, not to bosses, not to fear.”

Host: Her words lingered like the aftertaste of truth. Jack turned to the window. The skyline blazed gold against the dying light — skyscrapers gleaming like altars to a restless god.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “my first client lost everything in ’08. I told him I’d take care of it — that I knew what I was doing. He signed the papers without reading them. When the crash came, he called me crying. Said, ‘I trusted you.’ And I didn’t have an answer. Maybe I never should’ve asked for that trust.”

Jeeny: “You didn’t fail him because you made a bad call. You failed him because you let him stop thinking.”

Host: The words landed softly — not as blame, but as truth. Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly, the tension leaving his shoulders like a storm easing over the sea.

Jack: “So what do we do, Jeeny? Teach the world to care again?”

Jeeny: “No. Just start with one person. One decision. Every act of awareness is a rebellion.”

Host: The city lights began to flicker on — each one a small, glowing admission of night. Jack looked down at the framed quote again, the gold letters now catching the artificial light.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the worst attitude isn’t ignorance — it’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “And the best?”

Jack: “Curiosity.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The hum of the trading screens faded into quiet. Outside, the skyline stood sharp against the darkening sky — glass and concrete gleaming like thought itself.

Jeeny finished her cold coffee and smiled faintly. “So, what will you do now?”

Jack: “I think I’ll start reading my own contracts again.”

Jeeny: “That’s a start.”

Host: The two sat in stillness, watching the reflection of their faces in the glass — small against the vast machinery of the city, but awake within it.

And as the office lights dimmed, the quote above the table seemed to shimmer with new meaning — not as advice about money, but as a quiet manifesto for life itself:

Never say, “I can’t deal with this.”

Because the moment you stop dealing — you stop living.