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Chapter 11: Performance Review

Dear Journal

Today marks my 6 month anniversary here at Centrifico Technologies, and wow has it passed “quickly”, painstakingly, mind-numbingly “quickly”. To mark this momentous occasion I am supposed to be having my first performance review with Mr Berkley.

I have been waiting in the review room for about 30mins now waiting for his podgy little frame to walk through the door. When he eventually does arrive he seems oddly sombre as if he is the bearer of ill news. I can’t imagine what he bad he could say about my work since I haven’t really been given anything to do except TPR forms and alphabetising reports.

In all honesty if it weren’t for building booby traps in my cubicle, trying to converse with the evil wizard in the airduct and destroying printer suppliers to ensure the printer girl returns, I don’t know what I’d spend my day doing.

He starts off by saying that he is content with what he has seen from me, at which point I am not certain whether he is referring to the TPR forms or my other extra-curricular activities. However, he is concerned that I am not “living up to my potential”.

“Christopher, my boy” he wheezes as he rattles on in a condescending tone, “you need to be more like Eddie or Jimmy”.
“Sure they take about an hour to do what you manage to complete in about 15minutes, and it’s usually laden with all sorts of mistakes and irregularities, and in Eddie’s case the odd coffee spill here or there.”
“But they try hard and at the end of the day isn’t that more important than simply getting the job done?”

“No. No it isn’t” I replied, but this was met with the staple response of “I don’t expect you to understand” (well I was easily meeting his expectations here).

He then pulled his chair closer to the table, perched his stumpy little elbows on the faux wood surface, leant in and looked me dead in the eyes as he said “You have a lot of potential, my boy. Why you remind me of me at your age.”

I was torn between several conflicting emotions. Most prevalent were those of utter despair at the prospect of turning out like Mr B, relative anger at the insulting insinuation that he and I were in any way similar, but most of all an uncontrollable nausea as his breath wafted into my defenceless nostrils and oozed down my throat.
It was ghastly and thick, I could taste it. Like year old milk and ashtrays.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. All I could do to prevent passing out was to vomit all over myself, the faux wooden table and Mr B.

The performance review ended pretty much immediately at that point.
I wonder how I did.

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Posted by on June 3, 2011 in journal

 

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