Pyramids in Our Throats

You climb the corporate pyramid one rung at a time, or so they told us at orientation. Sarah had made it three levels above me before she started running on empty. I'd see her at the office water cooler, eyes glassy, refillable plastic bottle in hand, draining it like she was trying to drown something living inside her chest.

"They changed the reporting structure again," she'd say, voice cracking. "Another pyramid to climb."

The water dispenser would gurgle sympathetically. I'd nod, already mentally calculating how many more years until I could escape this particular pyramid scheme of the soul. But Sarah was running faster than the rest of us—promotions, late nights, the whole spreadsheet of success.

Then came the Thursday she didn't show up. Found her apartment flooded, pipes burst, water seeping through the floorboards to the neighbors below. She'd been there three days, they said, just running water and watching it rise.

"She kept talking about pyramids," the landlord told me. "Ancient ones. How they were built on the backs of workers who didn't even know they were building tombs."

I stood in her ruined living room, water still dripping from the ceiling, and understood. Some pyramids are made of stone. Others are built from missed birthdays, sacrificed weekends, the slow erosion of relationships until you're standing alone at the top, surrounded by nothing but the thin air of achievement.

The water damage was extensive. They said it would take months to repair. I kept her plastic water bottle on my desk at work. Sometimes I'd catch myself running my thumb over the scratches on its surface, wondering how much water it would take to fill the empty spaces we carve inside ourselves reaching for heights that never actually existed.

"Another promotion opportunity," my boss said last week. I looked at the organizational chart—all those little boxes stacked into something that looked remarkably like a pyramid.

"No thanks," I said. "I think I'm done climbing."