What the Pyramid Demands

The baseball sat on his desk like an accusation. Rawlings, official league, signed by someone whose name he couldn't remember anymore. It had been his father's, part of a collection that filled the spare room they'd always called the study, though no studying ever happened there. Just accumulation.

Marcus adjusted his hat—a Yankees cap his father had bought him twenty years ago, when corporate pyramids were something you climbed, not something that crushed you. The brim was fraying now. Everything was.

"They want you in the conference room," Sarah said, leaning against his doorframe. She'd cut her hair again. Short, practical. The way it had been when they'd both been hired, back when they believed hard work equaled advancement. Now she was just tired. They both were.

"The restructure?"

"The pyramid demands its sacrifices, Marcus. You know how it goes."

The pyramid. That's what they called the org chart, though everyone knew it was really a tomb. You climbed until you couldn't climb anymore, then they sealed you in with the other middle managers who'd stopped being useful years ago. His father had been one of them. Sixteen years at the same company, two months of severance, and a baseball collection his son didn't want.

"I found this," Marcus said, picking up the ball. "Dad got it signed at some game. Spring training, maybe. He talked about it like it was religious. Like meeting a saint."

Sarah's expression softened. "Your dad loved baseball."

"He loved what baseball represented. Simpler times. Clear winners and losers. None of this..." He gestured at the fluorescent lights, the cubicle walls, the everything. "None of this gray area where everyone loses eventually."

She came closer, touched his shoulder. Her fingers were warm. "You should go to a game. Take the hat. Sit in the sun."

"And what? Pretend I'm twelve again?"

"Pretend you're happy. Sometimes that's enough."

The conference room door opened. A group of executives filed out, laughing about something. They wore expensive suits and good shoes. They had hair that hadn't started thinning yet. They were still climbing.

Marcus turned the baseball over in his hands. The signature had faded almost completely, just a ghost of blue ink on white leather. Like his father's voice in his head. Like his own ambition.

"After," he said. "I'll go after."

"You won't," she said gently. "You never do."

She was right. He placed the baseball back on the desk, adjusted his fraying hat, and walked toward the conference room where they'd explain his new position on the pyramid. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the windows, beyond the parking lot, a ballpark was filling up. The season was starting. Somewhere, someone was still young enough to believe it mattered.