What we Americans go through to pick a president is not only

Host: The city was alive that night — not with joy, but with noise, with neon, with the heavy hum of a country arguing with itself. From the tall screens of Times Square, a thousand smiling faces flickered — politicians, pundits, promises. The rain had turned the streets into a mirror of chaos, where red, white, and blue reflections bled together into a weary kind of gray.

Inside a narrow diner tucked between two billboards, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other, a chipped table between them and the heavy silence of exhaustion. The TV above the counter buzzed with the latest poll numbers; the newscaster’s voice was syrupy with urgency, as if the world would collapse if one more vote didn’t fall in the right column.

Jeeny’s hair was damp, strands clinging to her cheeks. Her eyes, though tired, burned with that moral light that never quite went out. Jack, his jacket still wet from the storm, stirred his coffee slowly, staring at the swirling darkness in his cup as though it might explain something about the world.

Host: The quote had come up as soon as the news anchor had spoken the words “record campaign spending.” Jeeny had looked at Jack then — that look she always gave when the absurdity of things made her half furious, half heartbroken.

Jeeny: “Matt Taibbi wasn’t exaggerating,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “It is abusive. We’ve turned choosing a leader into a circus of manipulation and hate. Every four years, they don’t just campaign — they wound us.”

Jack: “Abusive?” He let out a low, humorless laugh. “You make it sound like we’re hostages. No one forces anyone to vote, Jeeny. People line up willingly. That’s democracy — messy, loud, imperfect.”

Jeeny: “Messy, sure. But this isn’t imperfection, Jack. It’s corruption wrapped in confetti. Hundreds of millions poured into ads that do nothing but pit one neighbor against another. It’s not democracy anymore — it’s psychological warfare.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the windows, blurring the neon world outside into a soft, trembling smear. A passing car splashed through a puddle, the sound sharp as a slap. Jack’s eyes lifted, calm but cold.

Jack: “You act like this is new. It’s always been a game of influence. The Romans did it with bread and circuses. The kings did it with divine right. We do it with marketing budgets and hashtags. The tools change — the power doesn’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. We call it progress, but it’s just repackaged control. We’ve built the most powerful propaganda machine in history and convinced ourselves it’s freedom. Tell me, Jack — when’s the last time someone ran for office by telling the truth instead of selling it?”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t sell,” he said simply. “People don’t want truth — they want validation. They want someone who tells them they’re right and the other side’s evil. That’s not the politicians’ fault; it’s ours.”

Host: The waitress passed by, refilling their cups without asking. The steam rose between them, curling like smoke, like an unspoken thought.

Jeeny: “So that’s it, then? You’re just fine with it? With billions wasted while people sleep under bridges? With fear turned into entertainment?”

Jack: “Fine with it? No. But I understand it. Hatred moves people, Jeeny. Empathy doesn’t get ratings. Hope doesn’t trend. You can’t win a campaign on nuance.”

Jeeny: “You could try.”

Jack: “And lose. Every time.”

Host: The words fell like stones. Outside, a siren wailed — distant, lonely. Jack leaned back in the booth, his face half-lit by the red glow of a campaign ad flashing across the television.

Jack: “Politics is theater. Always has been. You sell emotion, not policy. Look at history — Kennedy’s smile beat Nixon’s sweat. Obama sold hope, Trump sold outrage. Either way, they sold something. It’s not about governance — it’s about seduction.”

Jeeny: “And we just let it happen,” she said bitterly. “We watch, we click, we argue online, and we pretend it’s participation. But really, we’re just the audience. The actors take our applause and our money — then leave us to clean up the wreckage.”

Jack: “You think it’s so different from anything else? That’s how the whole world works. Corporations sell fear to move products. Governments sell safety to win power. Everyone’s selling something, Jeeny — even you, when you talk about hope.”

Jeeny: “At least I’m not selling despair.”

Host: The air between them crackled. Jack’s jaw clenched. Jeeny’s eyes glistened with frustration — not anger, but sorrow for a system she could no longer defend. The rain softened now, like the night itself was tired of listening.

Jack: “You think I like it this way? I don’t. But I’ve stopped pretending the system’s broken. It’s not broken — it’s built this way. Every ad, every debate, every slogan — it’s designed to keep people mad, not thinking. Because thinking doesn’t fill ballots.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s our job to remind them to think,” she said fiercely. “Maybe the only rebellion left is remembering that politics isn’t supposed to feel like war.”

Jack: “War’s what keeps them watching.”

Jeeny: “And empathy’s what could make them change.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly on that last word. Empathy — it sounded almost foreign in that diner, surrounded by screens screaming poll numbers and scandals. A commercial came on, promising a new America. The music swelled, heroic, manipulative.

Jack: “Do you really believe empathy can compete with anger?”

Jeeny: “It has to. Otherwise, what’s the point? If we keep feeding this machine, it’ll eat everything — our faith, our civility, our children’s hope. The power brokers win because we mistake rage for strength.”

Host: Jack said nothing. He just stared at the reflection of the campaign ad flickering in his cup, his face twisting faintly in its distorted glow.

Jack: “You sound like one of those idealists who think people can be better if they just try harder.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone who’s given up.”

Host: Her words hit him harder than she meant them to. The fan hummed overhead. Jack looked at her, the steel in his eyes melting into something weary, vulnerable.

Jack: “Maybe I have. Maybe I just got tired of hoping people want better when all they seem to want is to win.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why the system stays the same. They exhaust us. They make us cynical so we stop believing we can change it. That’s the final abuse, Jack — not the hatred they sell us, but the hopelessness they leave behind.”

Host: The clock above the counter ticked toward midnight. The TV volume lowered for a commercial break, and for a brief moment, the diner was silent except for the drizzle outside. The city seemed to exhale.

Jack: “You really think it can change? That one day people will see through it all?”

Jeeny: “Not everyone. But some will. They always do. The civil rights movement started with a few who were tired of being lied to. The Berlin Wall fell because people stopped believing in its permanence. Power’s fragile, Jack — it just hides behind noise.”

Host: Jack exhaled, long and slow. He rubbed his temple, the lines on his face deepening in the flicker of the TV’s light.

Jack: “You always find a way to make cynicism sound like cowardice.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. You call it realism, but I think it’s just fear in a suit.”

Host: A small smile tugged at his mouth — not of amusement, but recognition. He looked at her, really looked this time, and saw that beneath her exhaustion, she still believed. And that belief, ridiculous as it was, made her glow like something the rain couldn’t wash away.

Jack: “You know,” he said softly, “maybe that’s the only real campaign left — people like you, trying to convince the rest of us that we’re not doomed.”

Jeeny: “And people like you reminding us how close we are.”

Host: The neon lights outside flickered again, catching on the rain-speckled window. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from somewhere down the street — not cruel, not political, just human.

Jeeny: “Maybe someday we’ll learn,” she whispered. “That democracy isn’t about who wins, but about who we become trying to choose.”

Jack: “Maybe,” he murmured, his eyes softening. “Or maybe we’ll just keep spinning the same wheel until it breaks.”

Jeeny: “Then let it break,” she said. “Maybe only then will we remember that we were meant to build something better — not something louder.”

Host: The rain stopped. The streets glistened under the lamps, calm for the first time all night. The TV flickered one last time with breaking news, then faded to a commercial for medication — irony too subtle to matter anymore.

Host: Jack and Jeeny sat there in the quiet aftermath, two souls caught between faith and fatigue, between the wreckage of politics and the stubborn hope that humanity might still outgrow its own noise.

Host: And outside, beneath the emptying sky, the city breathed again — weary, fractured, but still alive — proof, perhaps, that even in madness, something human still endures.