It’s that damn review.
They were always punctual, but not this one. You see, it was to be my final appraisal before the company would confirm me as a permanent staff. The past sessions indicated that I had been doing well, but faint ripples were already punctuating still waters. “Sales have been terrible,” I heard an exasperated voice say. “Did you hear? Some people upstairs had already been let go,” said another. My heart wasn’t still either. I would trust the horse’s mouth, I reassured myself. Then the review date came and went. Not a word. A day passed, then three. “Let me check and get back to you.” First red flag.
I remember the day like it was two weeks ago, because it really was. My girlfriend and I both felt extremely lethargic in the morning; perhaps that should have been the second red flag. 9:30am came, then, “Please head downstairs for a very important meeting.” A text popped up on our phones. My stomach lurched.
Level 2, Recreation Centre
Perhaps the most ironic place to hold an urgent meeting of that gravity was right in front of the karaoke room, games room, and billiard table. That space was better remembered with endless stockpiles of beer, snacks, and fanfare. That day (Tuesday), it was deathly silent. Everyone settled down quickly; there was no time for pleasantries. It seemed like everyone got the unspoken memo. Our CEO broke the silence, not with his voice, but with the unrolling of a projection screen, which was probably scarier. On it, a single graph showing how bad sales were. He explained how many options had already been exhausted, and this was their last resort. Aha, things were starting to add up, and I didn’t like the final sum — 26 people would be let go over the course of the day. With that, we were dismissed to contemplate our individual fates. There were plenty of worried faces, as was mine. I could hear my proverbial clock ticking down. A t.A.T.u song popped up in my head. White Robes. In the music video, Lena was preparing herself for her end at the hands of a firing squad. So was I.
Level 4, Office
We were all sat in our places, unable to digest the reality of the situation. Up till that point, retrenchment was an exercise only recounted to us by other people. You could cut the tension with a knife; if only it was just the tension that was being cut. An hour later, our manager entered the room. “Kevin.” A single word rang out, not a loud command, but everyone knew what it meant. Kevin, our accounts manager who only joined a little over three months ago, got up, glanced briefly around, and left without a word. The culling had begun, and we, the selected pigs, would be led off to the slaughter. A short time later, he returned and started packing, also without a word (Kevin was one of those loudmouths who never shied from an opinion). 30 minutes later, “Jin Wen.” The only time the corporate machine ran without a hitch was when it drew blood.
Another 30 minutes passed, then an hour, then two. A small part of me wondered if the culling had ended, but I knew better than to celebrate an undetermined victory. My anxiety heightened, then simmered. If I had to go, I had to go. Those words barely left my head when my manager came up to me. “Benjamin.”
Level 4, waiting
Surprisingly, I was calm. The anxiety-fuelled preempting worked. As my manager and I waited for the elevator, he knew he didn’t need to tell me what was about to happen. He lowered his head and with all the solemness he could muster, said, “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay!” I chirped, sounding surprisingly upbeat; it was almost fake. We went back to the recreational centre which was converted into a makeshift abattoir by then. One meeting room was earmarked for the “talk”, and in it were the CEO, GM, and my manager, who took his place beside both of them. All three of them wore their best “I’m sorry” expressions. Something was said about the need to regain the trust of those who remained, a group I clearly would not have a further part in. Something something we’re very sorry, something something wish you all the best. I felt like a deportee at airport customs, going to different stations, handing over office belongings, clearing data, exiting group chats. It was methodical yet extremely unprofessional; on the table, near the letter of retrenchment I had to sign, was a list of people — full names included — scheduled for the chop. There it was, clear as day, my name, with a tick beside it.
To further weigh in on the politics and cattiness involved in the entire process would warrant another article. For now, I found myself walking out of the compound to have lunch with my girlfriend for the last time as colleagues. More than the work I had done, I was very proud and thankful for the opportunity to work alongside her, and in doing so, strengthen our relationship. We cried together that afternoon, but more importantly, we’re looking forward to what the next chapter brings.
Nomadic Affair 
Leave a comment