Corporate Geometry

The notification on my iphone lit up at 3 AM—another email from Marcus, as if time zones didn't exist for people like him. I stared at the ceiling, Sarah's breathing rhythmic beside me, and thought about how the corporate pyramid scheme worked: those at the top never slept, and those at the bottom never woke up.

By noon, I was poolside at the hotel in Scottsdale, the annual sales conference already draining my soul. Marcus stood near the cabana, wearing that ridiculous straw hat he'd bought in Cabo last year, holding court with three VPs who laughed too loudly at everything he said. His golden retriever, Buster—the one he brought to the office every single day—sprawled beneath the table, waiting for scraps.

"Join us, David!" Marcus waved me over, already three margaritas deep. "We were just talking about Q4 projections. Very exciting stuff."

I sat, ordering a whiskey I didn't want. Across the pool, I saw Sarah's text: "Pack your things." We'd fought before I left—something about how I'd become someone else, someone who measured worth in quarterly targets and stock options instead of moments that mattered.

"You know what the problem is with millennials?" Marcus was saying, Buster now awake and nuzzling his hand. "No grit. No hunger. They want everything handed to them."

I thought about the pyramid scheme of it all: Marcus extracting value from everyone below him, hoarding credit and compensation while selling us on dreams of eventual ascension. I thought about the iphone in my pocket, another email dinging, the tether that kept me chained to this manufactured reality.

"David?" Marcus prompted. "You with us?"

I looked at him—the hat, the dog, the confident smile of a man who'd never questioned his right to take up space. Then I looked across the pool, where someone had pushed a floating drink into the water, watching it drift.

"Actually," I said, standing up, "I think I'm done climbing."

"What?"

"The pyramid." I smiled, pulling my phone from my pocket and placing it on the table. "I don't want to be at the top anymore. I don't even want to be in it."

I walked away, leaving Marcus confused, leaving Buster still waiting for scraps, leaving the whiskey untouched. The Arizona sun blazed overhead, and for the first time in years, I didn't check my messages.

Sarah was right. Some things matter more than the climb.