What really went wrong is that General Motors has had this

Host: The garage was a cathedral of metal and dust. The air smelled of oil, iron, and the faint sweetness of nostalgia — the kind that hides inside machines long past their prime. Old neon signs flickered above rusted tools, half-dismantled engines, and an abandoned Chevy Impala, its once-proud chrome now dulled to a kind of melancholy gray.

A radio hummed in the corner — faint static, a voice lost somewhere between decades. The song was Bruce Springsteen’s “Factory.”

Jack sat beneath the hood of the car, sleeves rolled up, cigarette clenched between his teeth, his hands black with grease. Jeeny stood nearby, leaning against a tool bench, the blue light from the flickering sign cutting across her face like a question that never went away.

Her voice carried softly through the echo of the room, both weary and sharp:

“What really went wrong is that General Motors has had this philosophy from the beginning that what’s good for General Motors is good for the country. So, their attitude was, ‘We’ll build it and you buy it. We’ll tell you what to buy. You just buy it.’” — Michael Moore.

Jack looked up from the engine, wiped his hands on a rag, and snorted.

Jack: “That’s capitalism’s bedtime story right there — build, sell, repeat, and call it destiny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not destiny, Jack. It’s delusion. They mistook profit for patriotism.”

Host: The light from the neon sign sputtered again — red, blue, then white. Outside, a passing train wailed in the distance — the cry of industry, long and lonely.

Jack: “You can’t blame them for wanting control. Every empire wants to be the weather — not affected by it, but defining it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem. They thought they were the sky. But people aren’t storms — they’re drivers. You can’t tell them what road to take forever.”

Jack: “Maybe not forever. But for a long time, they did. Detroit wasn’t just a city — it was an altar. Steel and chrome were its gods.”

Jeeny: “And now? The altar’s rusted. The gods are dead. The prayers are offshored.”

Jack: smirking “You’ve got a poetic streak tonight.”

Jeeny: “No. Just memory.”

Host: The rain started outside — soft at first, then heavy, beating against the roof like applause for a tragedy. The Impala sat like a corpse of pride, its grill catching flashes of lightning.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? They sold the dream so well that people built their identities around it. ‘Buy this car, and you’re part of the story.’”

Jeeny: “The American story. Freedom on four wheels. Tail fins as symbols of status. Chrome as confession.”

Jack: “And debt as devotion.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It was never about cars. It was about obedience disguised as aspiration.”

Jack: “You sound like Moore himself.”

Jeeny: “Because he was right. GM didn’t just sell cars — they sold compliance. They built an illusion so shiny people forgot to ask who it was serving.”

Jack: “Until the illusion broke.”

Jeeny: “Until the jobs left. The factories closed. And the ones who gave their hands to the machines were left holding nothing.”

Host: The thunder rolled. Somewhere in the corner, a ratchet fell off a table, clattering like punctuation to her words. Jack picked it up absently.

Jack: “You ever been to Detroit, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Once. Years ago. You can still feel the ghosts there — not the glamorous kind. The ordinary ones. Men who clocked in and believed that loyalty bought them safety.”

Jack: “Loyalty’s a word the rich love. It’s free labor with a halo.”

Jeeny: “They called it the American Dream. But it was never a dream — it was a contract. Signed in sweat. Broken in silence.”

Jack: “Yeah. You build the car, they build the story, and in the end, both break down.”

Jeeny: “And both get replaced.”

Jack: “That’s progress, they’d say.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s amnesia.”

Host: The storm raged outside now, fierce and unapologetic. The neon flickered its last breath and died, leaving only the glow of Jack’s cigarette — a small, stubborn ember in the dark.

Jeeny: “You know, what Moore said wasn’t just about GM. It’s about every institution that forgets who it’s supposed to serve. Governments. Corporations. Even people in relationships.”

Jack: “Relationships?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Sure. The same arrogance. ‘I know what’s best for you. Just trust me. Just buy it.’”

Jack: “That’s cold.”

Jeeny: “It’s true. Love, like capitalism, goes wrong when it turns from exchange to command.”

Jack: “You really can make anything existential.”

Jeeny: “Everything is existential, Jack. Even engines.”

Jack: “Especially engines.”

Host: The silence stretched again. The only sound now was the steady drip of rain leaking from a hole in the roof. Jack leaned against the car, lighting another cigarette.

Jack: “You know, it’s ironic. They said, ‘What’s good for GM is good for America.’ But all it meant was, ‘What’s good for us is good for you.’ It’s the same philosophy every failing empire repeats before the fall.”

Jeeny: “Because every empire believes it’s eternal.”

Jack: “Until someone invents a better machine.”

Jeeny: “Or a fairer system.”

Jack: “That’s optimism.”

Jeeny: “It’s rebellion.”

Jack: exhaling smoke “Same thing, in the right light.”

Host: The lightning outside illuminated their faces — two silhouettes carved from fatigue and faith, staring at a dying car as if it were the last symbol of something too human to let go.

Jeeny: “Do you think we’ve learned anything from all this?”

Jack: “We’ve learned how to build faster. Cheaper. Colder.”

Jeeny: “That’s not learning. That’s forgetting with efficiency.”

Jack: “Then what’s the answer?”

Jeeny: “To remember. To rebuild without repeating. To create without consuming.”

Jack: “You sound like a sermon.”

Jeeny: “No. Just a woman who’s tired of watching beauty turn into profit margins.”

Host: The rain began to fade, replaced by the slow, fragile rhythm of dripping water. Jack stubbed out his cigarette on the concrete, the ember dying like a final punctuation mark.

He looked at the old Impala — silent, rusted, but somehow dignified.

Jack: “You think it ever knew how much faith people put in it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Machines have memories. Just not the kind we understand.”

Jack: “So this old car’s a ghost story?”

Jeeny: “Every piece of metal ever built by human hands is. Every invention carries a little piece of its maker’s hope.”

Jack: “And failure?”

Jeeny: “That too. But failure’s how the truth finally speaks.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two of them small inside the cavern of history and ruin, surrounded by the echoes of industry’s past glory.

Through the broken window, the first hint of dawn appeared — gray, uncertain, but honest.

And as the light crept in, the Impala’s rusted frame caught it — not gleaming, but glowing, as if it remembered what it once meant to move.

Jeeny’s voice, quiet but certain, broke the silence one last time:

“The real mistake,” she said, “is thinking the machine was ever meant to lead the people — when it was always supposed to serve them.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s time we rebuilt more than cars.”

Host: Outside, the storm had passed, and the road, though cracked and cold, waited — patient, endless, forgiving.

And in that silence, Michael Moore’s words hung in the air like an aftertaste of revolution —

that when power forgets its purpose, even steel forgets how to shine.