We spend to pretend that we're upper class. And when the dust

Host: The evening light was dying slowly, bleeding its last gold into a horizon heavy with smog. In the distance, the city skyline looked like a mirage — glittering, unreachable, built of the kind of dreams that came with a receipt.

The diner they sat in was the same one they always came to when the weight of modern life felt too absurd to bear — all chrome edges and neon reflections, the jukebox humming faintly like a relic from a time when people still believed in savings and stability.

Jack sat in the corner booth, sleeves rolled up, the light glancing off his watch — an old one, scratched but genuine. His gray eyes watched the cars outside flash by like silent currency. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her coffee, her face lit by the faint pulse of the neon sign that read OPEN — as if the word itself were a dare to hope.

Jeeny: (quietly) “J. D. Vance once said, ‘We spend to pretend that we’re upper class. And when the dust clears — when bankruptcy hits or a family member bails us out of our stupidity — there’s nothing left over. Nothing for the kids’ college tuition, no investment to grow our wealth, no rainy-day fund if someone loses her job.’”

Jack: (leaning back, exhaling) “That’s the most accurate obituary ever written for the middle class.”

Jeeny: (sadly smiling) “It’s the tragedy of wanting more than we can afford — and mistaking imitation for arrival.”

Host: The rain began again outside, soft and steady, washing the reflections of streetlights into the pavement. A couple laughed as they passed, clutching glossy shopping bags like trophies. The world was performing prosperity, and everyone had a role to play.

Jack: “It’s not even about greed anymore. It’s theater. People buy the costume because the character looks happy.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We spend not to live, but to look like we’re living better than we are. It’s social camouflage.”

Jack: (bitterly) “And the camouflage costs more than the truth ever did.”

Jeeny: “Because the truth feels too ordinary. Nobody wants to look like they’re surviving — they want to look like they’re thriving. Even if it kills them.”

Host: The waitress passed, refilling their mugs, her face tired but kind. Her hands moved automatically, the rhythm of routine keeping her afloat. On her wrist was a simple watch — practical, unadorned. It looked like freedom in disguise.

Jack: “You ever notice how debt became patriotic? Like, if you’re not drowning in it, you’re un-American.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “We replaced discipline with delusion. Savings accounts became shameful. Modesty became mediocrity.”

Jack: “And the system loves it. A nation of dreamers with credit cards is easier to control than a nation of savers.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because savers can say no.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling the diner windows, carrying with it the scent of wet asphalt and gasoline — the perfume of civilization in overdrive. Jeeny’s reflection in the glass seemed to merge with the passing cars — her face momentarily part of the consumer stream, a ghost in the glow of neon temptation.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, my dad used to fix things instead of buying new ones. Our toaster lasted fifteen years. Now, if it breaks, people don’t repair — they replace. And if they can’t afford the replacement, they put it on credit.”

Jeeny: “Because repair doesn’t signal status. It signals humility. And humility doesn’t sell.”

Jack: (sighing) “We spend to belong. And then we go broke to prove we belonged.”

Jeeny: “Until the bill arrives. Then the dream collapses under its own price tag.”

Host: The diner door opened, the sound of rain swelling for a brief moment before it closed again. A man in an expensive coat walked in, drenched, his watch gleaming, his eyes hollow. He ordered coffee, no food — perhaps because even the illusion had limits.

Jeeny: (watching him) “Do you ever think we’ve built an economy of insecurity? Everyone pretending to be richer than the person next to them, terrified of being found out.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what it is. A pyramid scheme built on fear. Fear of being seen as less.”

Jeeny: “And the irony? The people we’re trying to impress are just as broke as we are — just hiding it better.”

Jack: (half-laughing) “A masquerade of debt. Everyone dancing, no one paying the piper.”

Host: The rain intensified, the sound filling every silence between them. Jeeny looked at her reflection — her eyes softened, her voice lowered.

Jeeny: “We used to measure worth by what we built. Now we measure it by what we buy. But you can’t build a life out of receipts.”

Jack: (quietly) “You can build an illusion, though. And for some people, that’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Until it isn’t. Until the car gets repossessed, or the mortgage cracks, or the credit card hits its limit — and then they realize they never owned anything real, not even their own peace.”

Jack: “Peace doesn’t fit in a shopping bag.”

Jeeny: (softly) “No. But neither does dignity. And we’ve sold both too cheaply.”

Host: The storm outside raged, battering the diner with sheets of rain, as if the world itself was trying to wash away its own excess. Inside, the two of them sat in the glow of a single neon sign that now read only one word — OPEN — the rest of it short-circuited by the weather.

Jack: (after a pause) “You think there’s a way back?”

Jeeny: “There has to be. But it starts small — with gratitude. With enough. With learning that real wealth isn’t in possessions, but in security, in simplicity.”

Jack: “So what — we trade our wants for wisdom?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Yes. Or we keep trading our lives for lies.”

Host: The camera of the soul pulled back, the diner now a tiny island of light in the roaring darkness. Outside, the city glistened — beautiful, tragic, unsustainable.

And as the storm eased, J. D. Vance’s words echoed — no longer merely economic, but existential:

That pretension is the most expensive currency.
That status bought on credit
is the quickest path to collapse.

That when we trade authenticity for appearance,
we bankrupt not only our wallets,
but our souls.

And that one day,
when the dust clears,
we’ll remember too late
that the only wealth worth keeping
was the kind that couldn’t be bought —
contentment, community, and truth.

Host: The rain stopped. The world outside steamed, the air glowing faintly with the residue of renewal.

Jack looked up at Jeeny, his expression softened, the edge in his voice gone.

Jack: “You know, maybe living within our means isn’t small thinking. Maybe it’s freedom.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Exactly. The truest luxury is being able to sleep at night.”

Host: The last neon flicker dimmed, leaving the room bathed in quiet amber. The storm was over, but the truth — like the city — was still awake.