Ninety minutes into our four-hour shifts, Derek—who must have been about 40, average height and weight, thin black hair cut short, red face pitted with acne scars—would emerge from the storage closet he called his office, take a drag from his Marlboro, squint his eyes, and scream, “Spin ’em around!” It was a daily ritual. On days we were selling well, the speeches were short, but on one particularly slow day in June at the end of the millennium, he delivered what would be his masterpiece:

There are two kinds of people in the world. Fuckers and fuckees. Which are you? Are you a fucker? Or are you someone who gets fucked? Look. We’re having a shit day. Tuck, what’s the tally? The tally’s shit. You bastards aren’t selling shit. You say it’s June, no one’s home, no one’s thinking about their furnace. Lemme tell you a secret. You making a sale, it has nothing to do with furnace and duct cleaning. It’s about one thing. Are you a fucker? Or do you bend over for the bitch on the other end of the line and get fucked? You say the sheets are bad, you have a shitty neighborhood. Look. You making a sale, it has nothing to do with who’s on the other end of the line. They own a home, they have a furnace, you make a sale. End of story. It has zero to do with the sheets. It has to do with precisely one thing. Are you a fucker? Or are you a little bitch who gets fucked? You let him hang up on you? You got fucked. You let him check in with his wife? You got fucked. Tell him, does he ask his wife before he mows the lawn? Does he ask her before he jerks off in the basement? Tell him, I’ve got a sweet little opening for Tuesday at three, how’s that? Wanna know a secret? I’ve owned a home for fifteen years. How many times do you think I’ve got my furnace and ductwork cleaned? Sawchuk? Sinykin? Boehmer? How many times? Twice? Fuck you. Zero. Zero times. You think it matters, what we’re selling? You think it matters, the product? The product is shit. Only one thing matters. Those people on the other end of the line, they’re weak. They’re waiting for you. They pick up the phone and there you are. You tell ’em, Here I am. You say, I’ve come for you. You—you—are fuckers. You are fuckers. And you fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck and fuck.