There are three tiers to the pyramid: bronze, silver, gold. And I’ve been working hard to move up the ranks, tier by tier. No point in being bronze. Silver isn’t good enough either. I can’t even begin to think of anything less than gold.

The trick is to always wear a carefully ironed shirt and well-fitted suit. Firm handshake. Be infectious. Avoid the sly, Mona Lisa smile. Otherwise they won’t fall for it. I mean, I won’t convince them (That’s how we say it at the Pyramid). Otherwise, I’ll end up not making it to gold. And then what? Am I going to work in office-and-print at Staples? I mean, we’re talking rude customers (because the customer is always right), and getting written up for punching in at 9:01 (never mind the MTA. Once, someone jumped in the tracks at 34th street—manager didn’t really care). And paper cuts. Dear God, paper cuts!

So here’s how I reel them in. I start off by telling them that the Pyramid is about selling coffee. That they can make a ton of money by selling coffee. And then I tell them that the money isn’t really in selling coffee. The money is in getting other people to sell coffee. And then if they really, really want to make money, then of course they get those people to get other people to get other people. You get me? So, that’s how I’m making it to gold. Many have told me that it is a Ponzi scheme. You cannot, must not, listen to them. These are the nay-sayers. They know nothing. Will amount to nothing and die that way. People like us, are different. All I think of is gold, and you should too. Because, what? Do I look like I’m going to become a barista at Starbucks with a name tag that says “Zachary”? I mean, we’re talking thirteen twenty-five per hour. Standing on my feet the whole eight-hour shift. And I can’t even afford Dr. Scholl’s. What are my legs made out of ? Steel? And then there’s over time. Can you imagine? Me, standing on my feet overtime as if they’re made out of steel. And then I feel like I want to walk bare-foot to Brooklyn; stopping at Duane Read to buy Heinz Vinegar for two forty-nine plus tax and essential oils for four eighty- nine plus tax. More than half an hour’s wage is how much it costs to soak my feet.

All it takes is focus on signing people up. And getting these people to sign up other people. Bronze. Silver. And then gold. Just sign up enough people to get to gold. And then, keep pushing and I’ll be driving a Porsche like me. What do you think I’m going to do? Drive an Uber. Is that what you think? Do you know how much insurance costs for a car rental? I can’t be curling up my spine into a macaroni all day. Making stops at Starbucks until I’m best friends with Zachary, the barista. And on the day that I miss my cup of coffee I’m falling asleep after dropping off the first person in the Uber pool. Yes, there’s another stop to make and I’m falling asleep and rear-ending some guy driving a Porsche. Dear God, do you not know how much insurance costs for a car rental?

People doubt and I reaffirm each anxiety. People worry and I address each concern. Often, I hear a lot of rubbish. The Eye of providence. Illumanti. Beyonce. Madonna. Obama. Tupac. Freemasonry conspiracy. And, “take a look at our currency.” Some say that the pyramid is a metaphor; the pyramid is slavery; the pyramid is capitalism. The pyramid is—

And then again, the pyramid was built by Pharaoh. Or better yet, Pharaoh forced the slaves to build the pyramid. And that Bernie Sanders is trying to be Moses except he can’t—at least he tried to—part the red sea.

But the pyramid is harmless. It has a square base (which is where I don’t want to be at) and four triangular sides that meet and merge to the apex (and of course slavery was triangular back in the day). Because what? Am I going to become a nurse? There’s blood. Some kid is coughing up phlegm and the mother is cussing me out for amoxicillin. Some drunk guy walks into the E.R., iPhone in the back pocket sounds like a boom box blaring tracks from Lemonade, with a knife stuck in his right eye. And there’s blood. And phlegm. And dear God, where is the eye?

I always think of gold. Dream of it. Read about it. Think and grow rich. The Greatest Salesman in the World. I think about it right before sleep and then dream of it. I pray that it comes—like a blessing or a curse, but that it comes period. This business isn’t for everyone. I stay motivated with a monomaniac focus on getting gold and silence all the nay-sayers.

Every day I think about how I got into this business. I once had a six figure salary at an accounting firm. Someone told me about the pyramid and that I can make six figures while sitting at home. All I had to do was get people to sell coffee. And get them to get others to sell coffee. Quit my job and never looked back. And now I sit home and collect my checks. Soon, I’ll be driving that Porsche.

Now all we need for you to start, is your very own fish story. Maybe you can be that guy who worked as an optometrist and left because a patient had blood in his eye and you hate blood. Because, what are you going to have a fear of ? Eyes? No one will believe that. Or you can be that guy who had a job at the bank until you saw the difference between Zachary’s direct deposits and the account balance of the man who drives a Porsche. What? You think this is immoral? How else will I convince people to join the pyramid? And how will I be at the apex instead of being at the base?

It’s not like I can work a regular nine-to-five job, trapped in a cubicle. Or running around in circles on the twenty-eighth floor of some god-forsaken vertical prison with no chance of a promotion. Or spelling every other customer’s name wrong on the coffee cup until my shitty boss, Zachary, who has a name tag—“Assistant Manager since yesterday” threatens to fire me. Chances are I’ll get paid peanuts. And what can I do with peanuts? Nothing. And then I realize, that I left one pyramid to be part of something else that is shaped like a pentagon. Shaped like a bunch of vertical prisons in Manhattan. Shaped like a cuboid with a dome and painted white (wasn’t that also built by slaves?). Or a cuboid with a dome and a cross at the very top. Any shape to disguise the pyramid that underlies. Wake up and smell the coffee!

The only way out is to probably be a starving artist writing about the pyramid. Painting, singing, dancing meringue around the pyramid. it’s not like I’m ever going to be like Beyonce? Tupac? Madonna? Don’t be funny and say Obama (not in this era). What I’m talking about is endless rejections. Sharing a room in Crown Heights with four other artists, eating ramen noodles and watching DVD’s from the local library because I can’t afford cable or AMC. Until I have to move to Brownsville because rent’s gone up. Until. And then—

Now, how about that pyramid. I’m talking fooling people, giving false hope, poison disguised as promise. You in?