Author’s note: The name of the business is fake. The rest is true.
Not many people know this, but there is a frequency that moves the pyramids. I’m one of the few who know about it. I heard it from a guy named Tim. Tim knew all kinds of amazing things, but this particular snippet from the library of esoteric knowledge held within his skull was one he considered to be particularly important. Pinned to the wall of his work cubicle was a piece of paper with a crude digital drawing of an Egyptian pyramid floating over a flat desert. He’d written the message in the white space in the upper left-hand side, next to the pyramid and above the sand: “There is a frequency that moves the pyramids.”
Tim worked at Perfect Positions, an internet marketing agency that sold Google AdWords services to small businesses. Perfect Positions was the kind of place you went if you wanted your paid ad to appear on the first page of a Google search, or if you thought you could convince enough people that was what they wanted to make a living at it. Tim had worked at Perfect Positions for many years, and during that time he had carved out a comfortable place for himself as the company’s top salesperson. When new hires in the sales department were being shown to their desks, they were often taken along a path that passed by Tim’s desk so they could be introduced to the company wunderkind and learn a few of his techniques.
“I can get you on the top of Google,” he would say flatly to every potential customer he called, most of whom were lawyers because legal keywords got a lot of traffic and that meant lawyers had to pay more for their ads to show up on the first page of a Google search. Plastic surgeons were his second favorite type of customer, followed by real estate agents.
“I can get you to the top of Google. I can do that for you.”
He said it with a confidence that dared the person on the other end of the line to challenge his assertion. That was another reason Tim liked to cold call lawyers: they liked to act tough, but their instinct for making deals was usually enough to get them to take the cocky salesman up on his challenge.
“How’s it going today, Timmy Boy!”
Scott, Perfect Position’s Vice President of Sales, would shout this every morning as the telemarketers returned to their desks after the morning meeting that started every workday. Scott’s desk was perched on a raised platform from which he could survey the floor and shout at his underlings. When shouting wasn’t enough, he would bound off the platform in a single leap and rush across the office to wherever he felt he was needed. On days when sales were not coming in fast enough to keep him placated, he would prowl the walkways between the cubicles, huffing and yelling, “WHERE ARE MY SALES? I WANT MY SALES, PEOPLE!”
“I’m calling more lawyers today,” Tim would respond with a smile. Where Scott was short and wiry like a coiled spring, Tim was tall and lanky and walked with the slow confidence of someone who knew his place in life was secure and that he had the knowledge to keep it that way. Tim had every reason to be confident: his ability to make high dollar sales week after week guaranteed him the freedom to disregard most of Perfect Position’s policies regarding employee behavior without finding himself on the wrong end of one of Scott’s rages.
“That’s my boy!” Scott would shout and clap his hands. “Tim knows how things work!”
Scott often forced his telemarketers to rotate desks on a semi-regular basis, lest they became too friendly and give into the distraction of human interaction that did not take place through a headset. As was often the case Tim was exempted from this rule. The one time Scott insisted he comply with the policy and change desks, Tim had been so disturbed by the idea of taking the pyramid drawing with its cryptic message down he refused to go back to work until Scott relented. Scott was not usually one to back down in a fight, especially not where his employees could see him, but this time he didn’t even raise his voice.
“This is what you want?” Scott asked. His voice was calm and inquisitive.
Tim nodded. He was slouching in his chair, a fedora covering his face and his legs sticking out into the walkway.
“Ok. Go back to work.”
Tim pulled himself up in his chair and reached for the phone on his desk in one smooth motion. He was dialing before Scott had finished storming out of the building.
“I can get you on the top of Google. People will click on your site more than anyone else’s.”
Tim wasn’t supposed to say that. The cold machine will of Google’s algorithm meant there was no way to guarantee a permanent spot on the top of any page, and there was no way to see how many people were clicking on someone else’s site. Whenever any of the other telemarketers at Perfect Positions tried to get away with telling a customer something different, Scott and his assistant manager, Allen, would descend upon them and castigate them in front of their coworkers. When it came to Tim’s flexible understanding of Perfect Position’s abilities, however, Scott and Allen took a much different approach. As Tim regaled his targets with promises of glory and infinite clicks, Scott and Allen would creep around his desk with greedy eyes.
“I can get you on the top of Google.”
“That’s it, Timmy Boy! Get ‘em!” Scott would shout, pumping his fist.
“Yeah, buddy!” Allen would agree, grinning as Scott looked to him for confirmation.
Once Tim had convinced a skeptical minnow he really believed he could do what he said, other questions would follow. Tim did not know the answers to these questions, and he did not pretend to know them. Despite working at Perfect Positions for many years, he knew very little about how the services he sold work, or even what those services were. The things he did know were far more important than that. He knew he could double your sales. In a month. You’ll get twice as many clients as you had before. Three times more. He can do that. He’s done it for all his clients. Yes, all of them. The only reason his clients cancel is because they have more customers than they can handle. No one has ever cancelled because they are unhappy. They call him all the time to tell him how happy they are. Yes, all of them. He spoke with one of them yesterday. He’s a lawyer in Los Angeles, and we talked about the shapeshifting lizardmen who control the government. Yes, the ones who used to live on the moon.
Scott knew about the lizardmen, just like he knew about the frequency that moves the pyramids. He had been one of the first people Tim told about these things, and from that moment Scott had taken it upon himself to guard the sacred knowledge stored in his top salesman’s head as jealously as possible, no matter how eager Tim was to share. This was one of the reasons he would stalk Tim’s desk whenever he had someone on the line, ready to throw himself between his employee and his future customers the instant Tim’s blazing mind could no longer contain the secrets within. Scott didn’t want his customers to hear about the lizardmen, and he definitely didn’t want them getting any ideas about calling Tim’s former clients.
Once Scott had snatched the phone, Tim would stand next to his cubicle while his boss sat in his chair and sealed the deal by explaining which of the things his best salesman had just promised were true. Twirling his fedora, Tim would bask in the adulation of his coworkers.
“Great job, Tim,” a tired-sounding female voice would say with little enthusiasm.
“Wow, another one,” a male voice whose distinct note of sarcasm always earned a disapproving glare from Allen would follow.
“What can I say?” Tim would beam. “I’m just that good. Right, Allen?”
“Yeah, buddy!” Allen would say, the dull halogen lights reflecting off his toothy grin and blank eyes.
In addition to being an expert salesman, Tim was also an amateur archaeologist. He approached his hobby with the same confidence he used to charm divorce lawyers and plastic surgeons, and his hunger for the hidden relics of the world’s secret history was so great he would bring new finds into the office almost every day. Of all his discoveries, it was his collection of fossils he was most proud of.
“They’re not rocks,” he said, pointing to the collection of ovular stones piling up on his desk. “People say they look like rocks, but they’re not.”
Tim was more than a mere collector. He understood the value of his discoveries, even if other people didn’t.
“I’m going to talk to a different guy this time,” he assured the disinterested coworkers he was sharing the small outdoor gazebo set aside for smoke breaks with. “Not like that guy at Humboldt State. He didn’t know what he was talking about. This guy is in Fresno. I told him all about my fossils. He’s really excited.”
When Tim wasn’t at his desk, he could be found at the gazebo. Unlike the regular salespeople or the assistants and technicians who were tasked with making Tim’s impossible promises to his clients come true, Tim was allowed to slip out whenever wanted. Sometimes he did not even wait for Scott to finish closing one of his sales before heading out for a victory cigarette. He would wait under the gazebo, twirling his fedora and waiting for his coworkers to pass by.
“Got another one!” he would shout to any coworkers passing by or using their break to talk to their families on the phone. “Scott’s closing it for me right now.” Even sitting, his stance was triumphant.
Making a sale had a way of putting Tim in the mood for talking. This was when he was most likely to share the things he knew, usually while pacing around the office and distracting the assistants and technicians. If Tim made too many sales in a single day he usually had to be sent home before his enthusiasm for enlightening his coworkers about the things he’d learned overwhelmed the office.
It was during one of these moods Tim decided to tell me more about the frequency that moves the pyramids. He was pacing the gazebo, waiting for someone to come by and give him a cigarette, when he decided to enlighten me as to what that enigmatic phrase meant.
“There’s a frequency that moves the pyramids. That’s how they were moved to where they are now.”
Once he’d managed to get a second cigarette off me, he opened up even more.
“My neighbor knows about my fossils.”
He leaned in close, like what he was about to share would unlock the puzzle of his success.
“He knows about my fossils. That’s why I nailed all of my windows shut.”