What's the subject of life - to get rich? All of those fellows

Host: The subway tunnel was alive with a low, mechanical hum. The last train had just left, and the station lay nearly empty, save for two figures sitting on a cold metal bench under a flickering fluorescent light.

Jack leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a faint cigarette glow tracing his profile. Jeeny sat beside him, a thermos of coffee between her hands, its steam spiraling upward, soft against the harsh city air.

Outside, above ground, the world was still awake — the towers of downtown Manhattan blazing with the feverish light of those who hadn’t yet finished chasing their dreams.

Paul Volcker’s voice echoed from a small radio left on the bench, caught mid-interview: “What’s the subject of life — to get rich? All of those fellows out there getting rich could be dancing around the real subject of life.”

Jeeny: “He said it like it was a sermon. You can almost hear the disbelief in his tone.”

Jack: “Volcker? He was a man of numbers, not sermons. But maybe that’s why it hits harder coming from him. He spent his life inside the machinery of money — and still saw through it.”

Jeeny: “That’s what makes it tragic, isn’t it? We spend decades building systems that promise happiness, then wake up one morning realizing we’ve built cages instead.”

Jack: “I wouldn’t call wealth a cage. Maybe it’s a necessary illusion. A language everyone understands.”

Jeeny: “A language that forgets how to speak about joy.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, flickered, then returned, painting their faces with alternating shadow and glare — like truth and denial taking turns.

Jack: “You talk like money poisons the soul.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it?”

Jack: “No. It’s neutral. It’s what you do with it that matters. Volcker was wrong about one thing — life’s not about rejecting wealth, it’s about managing its madness.”

Jeeny: “Managing madness doesn’t make it meaning.”

Jack: “Meaning’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “And emptiness is fashionable, right?”

Host: Her voice was calm but sharp, cutting through the stale air like a violin string drawn too tight.

Jack smirked, took another drag, and watched the smoke spiral toward the ceiling.

Jack: “You really think the poor are happier? That virtue lives in scarcity?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think the rich have mistaken comfort for peace.”

Jack: “Peace is a privilege.”

Jeeny: “No — peace is a practice.”

Host: A distant rumble from the tunnel broke their rhythm. Somewhere in the dark, a maintenance cart passed, its headlights briefly sweeping across the tile walls, revealing graffiti that read: “DREAMS SOLD HERE.”

Jeeny pointed at it.

Jeeny: “There. That’s our century in three words.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing poverty again.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m criticizing greed. There’s a difference. The world runs on the assumption that accumulation equals evolution. But look closer — we’re not evolving, we’re exhausting.”

Jack: “You sound like you’d trade capitalism for chaos.”

Jeeny: “Maybe chaos is more honest. At least it doesn’t hide behind balance sheets and brand slogans.”

Jack: “Come on. Volcker could afford to say that. He’d already climbed the mountain. People at the bottom don’t have the luxury to question the mountain.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the mountain’s built on their backs. That’s what he meant — that the climb itself might be a distraction from the real ascent.”

Jack: “The ‘real ascent’? You mean morality?”

Jeeny: “No. Humanity.”

Host: The radio crackled, briefly returning to static, then silence. The echo of dripping water filled the space. The bench beneath them vibrated faintly from the city’s heartbeat.

Jack: “You think humanity and wealth are opposites?”

Jeeny: “Not opposites. Just... estranged. Like old friends who stopped calling each other.”

Jack: “You’re good with poetry, Jeeny. But you forget how the world works. Try telling a single mother working three jobs that she’s dancing around the ‘real subject of life.’ She’ll laugh in your face.”

Jeeny: “You’re right. Because she’s not dancing around it — she’s living it. The ones Volcker talked about, the ones chasing wealth for wealth’s sake — they’re the dancers. The rhythm’s fast, the music loud, and they think motion is purpose.”

Jack: “And you think standing still is better?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes stillness is the only way to hear your own heart beating.”

Host: The station clock ticked toward midnight, its hands trembling like old bones. The air carried that metallic scent of rain seeping in from the streets above.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? Volcker lived a full life in the system he criticized. He ran the Fed, influenced policy, shook the markets — all while warning people not to worship money. Doesn’t that make him a hypocrite?”

Jeeny: “Or a witness. Sometimes you have to live inside the machine to see the monster.”

Jack: “He was part of the monster.”

Jeeny: “So are we. Every paycheck, every purchase, every time we choose comfort over conscience — we feed it.”

Jack: “And what’s your solution? Go live off the grid? Grow tomatoes and meditate?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe just remember that money’s a tool, not a god.”

Jack: “But people need gods. Even bad ones. They give direction.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the subject of life is to outgrow the need for gods.”

Host: The train tunnel sighed — a gust of air rising from the depths like the city’s subconscious exhaling.

Jack turned, eyes narrowing.

Jack: “You really think life has a single subject? That there’s a right answer hiding behind the economy?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the subject keeps changing — like the seasons. But chasing money makes it stop evolving. It traps us in one stanza of the poem.”

Jack: “Then what’s the next stanza, Jeeny? Enlightenment? Love? Art?”

Jeeny: “Gratitude.”

Jack: “That’s too easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s the hardest thing in the world.”

Host: The lights overhead began to dim — the signal that the station was closing soon. The city above them pulsed faintly through the grates, the sound of rain, of footsteps, of ambition.

Jeeny stood, pulling her coat tighter around her.

Jeeny: “Volcker wasn’t condemning success, Jack. He was warning us. That you can win the game and still lose yourself.”

Jack: “And you think I’m losing myself?”

Jeeny: “I think you’re afraid to ask what winning really means.”

Jack: “Winning means not worrying about the rent.”

Jeeny: “No — winning means not selling your soul to pay it.”

Host: Jack laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion — the kind that comes from knowing too many truths.

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

Jeeny: “Not simple. Just clear.”

Host: A train horn echoed from the far end of the tunnel — distant, fading, like a reminder that time doesn’t stop for philosophy.

Jack: “You think Volcker ever found his ‘real subject of life’?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. Maybe he found it in the quiet moments — not the headlines, not the markets. Maybe he realized that the true wealth is knowing when enough is enough.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I’m still learning to stop dancing.”

Host: The camera would follow them now — walking up the stairs toward the streetlight, where the rain had softened into a fine mist. The city’s towers loomed like glittering altars, built for the gods of gain.

As they emerged, the neon reflected on the wet pavement, doubling every light, every illusion.

Jack turned to Jeeny.

Jack: “So what’s your subject of life?”

Jeeny: “To remember it’s not a subject at all. It’s a verb — to feel, to give, to be.”

Host: Jack paused, his expression softening, as if he’d just been handed something fragile — not an answer, but an echo.

Behind them, the city continued to glow, a theater of pursuit and forgetting.

And in that moment, under the soft rain, with the ghost of Volcker’s voice fading in the distance, they both understood — that perhaps the real subject of life wasn’t to get rich, but to stay awake.