To me, job titles don't matter. Everyone is in sales. It's the

Host: The office was nearly empty, its fluorescent lights buzzing faintly over rows of desks like dying bees. Monitors still glowed with half-finished spreadsheets, mugs sat cold, and the air-conditioning hummed with a kind of sterile melancholy. Outside the glass walls, the city pulsed — neon and noise, deals being made in other towers, other rooms, other hearts.

At the far end, Jack stood by the window, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up, a file tucked under his arm. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a desk, her heels swinging, a half-empty coffee cup beside her.

It was past midnight, but neither had the energy to leave.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring out that window for ten minutes. Trying to see tomorrow’s profit margins in the skyline?”

Jack: “Just thinking about what Harvey Mackay said — ‘To me, job titles don’t matter. Everyone is in sales. It’s the only way we stay in business.’”

Jeeny: “Ah. The salesman’s creed.”

Host: Her voice carried a hint of amusement, but also curiosity. The rain outside started, a light tapping that sounded like a clock’s heartbeat.

Jack: “You know, I used to think that line was cynical. That everything being ‘sales’ meant the world had lost its soul. But now, I think it’s just realistic.”

Jeeny: “Realistic, maybe. But isn’t it also sad? That we have to sell — our ideas, our skills, our time — just to be seen?”

Jack: “That’s not selling, Jeeny. That’s surviving. You sell every time you convince someone to trust you, every time you explain your worth. We’re all pitching something — a product, a dream, a version of ourselves that we hope will stick.”

Host: Jack’s reflection in the window looked tired, but determined — the kind of face that had seen deals go wrong and still smiled through the contracts.

Jeeny: “So you’re saying even I’m in sales?”

Jack: “Of course. You sell your ideas to your team, your kindness to the world, your beliefs to yourself every morning when you get up. Every relationship, every project — it’s an exchange. It just depends on whether you’re trading truth or appearance.”

Jeeny: “That’s a bleak way of putting it, Jack. You make it sound like the world’s a marketplace.”

Jack: “It is. You just don’t like the word.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed, dark and fierce, like the city skyline behind her — glittering, beautiful, but edged in steel.

Jeeny: “If everything’s a transaction, where’s the heart in it? Are you saying compassion, art, teaching — all of it’s just sales?”

Jack: “Tell me this — why do artists paint? Why do teachers teach? Sure, they want to give, but they also want to reach someone. That’s sales too, Jeeny. Not for money, but for meaning. For connection. The currency just changes.”

Jeeny: “So we’re all merchants of meaning, then?”

Jack: “Exactly. You can hate it or accept it, but you can’t escape it. If you don’t sell your story, someone else will rewrite it for you.”

Host: The rain thickened, streaking the windows like liquid glass. The office lights reflected faintly in each drop, as if the world outside was full of tiny contracts waiting to be signed.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like a war. A war for attention, for recognition.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what it is. Look around — social media, politics, love, business — everyone’s negotiating visibility. Everyone’s pitching for space in someone else’s mind.”

Jeeny: “And yet, not everyone’s a liar, Jack.”

Jack: “No. The best salespeople aren’t liars. They’re listeners. They understand what someone needs before they speak it. It’s not about deception — it’s about connection.”

Host: A moment of silence hung between them, heavy as truth. The rain had turned into a steady drizzle, soothing, cleansing.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he meant. Not that everyone’s selling, but that everyone’s trying to be understood. Maybe ‘sales’ is just another word for persuasion, and ‘persuasion’ is just another word for hope.”

Jack: “Now you’re the one turning business into poetry.”

Jeeny: “No, I’m just trying to redeem it. You can’t run a world only on transactions. There has to be trust, or it all collapses.”

Jack: “And what’s trust, Jeeny, if not the most valuable product of all? We don’t sell things anymore — we sell belief. Every company wants you to believe in their story, every person wants to believe in their own.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walked to the window, joined him. Their reflections merged faintly in the glass, a blurred silhouette of two worldviews meeting halfway.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re defending capitalism with a soul.”

Jack: “No — I’m defending human nature. We’re wired to convince, to influence, to share. Babies cry to get attention — that’s their first sale. We just get more sophisticated with time.”

Jeeny: “That’s a dark kind of wisdom.”

Jack: “It’s the kind that keeps the lights on.”

Host: The city outside flashed, advertisements changing every few seconds — smiling faces, slogans, colors that beckoned and promised.

Jeeny: “You ever think about the cost, Jack? About what we lose when everything becomes a pitch?”

Jack: “All the time. But the cost of silence is higher. You can be the most brilliant person in the room, but if you can’t communicate, you’ll starve in the dark.”

Jeeny: “So what are you selling right now?”

Jack: “Conviction.”

Jeeny: “And me?”

Jack: “Doubt.”

Host: Their eyes met, a flicker of laughter breaking the tension, soft but genuine. The light from the window fell on their faces, half-shadow, half-truth — like everything in business, like everything in life.

Jeeny: “Maybe the trick is not to escape sales, but to elevate it — to make what we’re selling actually worth buying.”

Jack: “Now that, Jeeny, is the best pitch I’ve heard all week.”

Host: The clock on the wall clicked past midnight, and the office felt less like a workplace, more like a theater after the final act — the stage still lit, the audience gone, the actors left to reflect on the script they’d just lived.

They stood there, two souls in the business of being human, selling not for profit, but for purpose — to be heard, to be known, to be believed.

And as the camera pulled back, the city shone in the glass, a million tiny transactions of faith — every window, every voice, every sale — a quiet testament to Harvey Mackay’s timeless truth:

“We are all selling something — but the best of us sell what we truly believe.”