The Performance Review

On the limitations and misuses of employee handbooks

Nicki had spent many nights scanning flashcards, memorising answers to questions like: How do you, in your role as an Assurance Officer, exhibit the value of ‘courage’? The day of the performance review she hid those flashcards on her lap and laid her evidence-base in a three-by-three grid on the table. Only one obstacle now stood between Nicki and a deserving promotion: her manager.  

Victor had only just finished admiring the Division Head, so he arrived late to the meeting room. He’d been off doing that thing where he stalks the office and informs everyone he had just spoken with Allan, before refusing to reveal what he and their fearless leader had discussed; it was always football. 

In his left-hand Victor still clutched a Canberra Times cutout of the weekend’s football scores. Every week he recited the scores to Allan along with injury updates and trade news, all of which he passed off as his own masculine insight. Victor, a despiser of all sports, called the process T.I.E or ‘Tailored Interpersonal Engagement’. He wanted to fit in but he wasn’t the brightest; he often recited the bylines by accident. 

Phase 3 of T.I.E was called ‘destroy the evidence’. Leaning against the doorframe, Victor lobbed the newspaper clipping into his mouth like a breath mint. He now resembled a cow chewing cud. “Allan’s fled for the afternoon… as usual,” he said. “Let’s move your performance review to his office, noting it’s more private.”

Nicki had booked that exact meeting room three days in a row to rehearse her review. She imagined Victor beneath that exact whiteboard, committed to memory the way his scalp would glisten like a car bonnet under this exact lighting. She was a footballer who had visualised a post-siren set only to find—ball at the ready—that the goal posts had moved. (Note: shifting goal posts is strictly a corporate phrase.)

‘If my commands don't suit you, Ms Boyd,’ said an impatient Victor, ‘then you can just try to reschedule, noting my calendar is mostly full until June… 2028.’ 

Victor punctuated this threat by force-gulping the newspaper cutout (T.I.E Phase 4). And as he began to choke to death (T.I.E Phase 5)—his face turning purple, fingers clawing at his shirt collar—Nicki glimpsed her potential future.  

Despite being the puppy-side of thirty, she had already been left behind. Her friends were now managers or section heads. Of those same friends, most were married or at least had partners, while one was even an ultramarathon reporter. (Nicki was prone to grasping at straws during her bouts of self-pity.) 

By contrast Nicki felt she was—to misquote a Nat King Cole song—forgettable. She could dally naked and shaved down Lonsdale Street without drawing an eye, not even from the chronic masturbators at the You-Know-Which Department. There was even one time when she stared into a mirror and couldn’t see her own reflection. Now, the mirror turned out to be a window (she was a little drunk), an open window (okay, very drunk), but the fear was real: Nicki felt invisible. She worried she would end up like Victor, stuck at the same level for seventeen years and choking, albeit figuratively in her case. She needed to sail ahead, and now! 

So while Victor gasped a life-saving breath (T.I.E Phase 6), Nicki gathered her supporting documents without dissension. What’s the worst that could happen? They were only changing rooms. 

Under the skills section of her resumé Nicki could now put ‘biting her tongue’. Corporate synonyms include: tact, nuance, influence, political nous, and the catch-all ‘emotional intelligence’. These are fantastic ‘soft skills’ because, not only are they well-respected, they also carry the twin benefits of demanding less honesty and lowering personal risk. It’s what the pros on the corporate circuit call a ‘win-win’.

In the office, Victor marched to Allan’s private closet and hung up his jacket. He then sat behind the wooden desk and fiddled with the levers on Allan’s ergonomic chair until his comfort demands were met; the chair would never be the same. 

Victor at the helm was a strange sight. The rear office wall was decorated with framed photographs of Allan and foreign dignitaries, not Victor. The name plaque read Allan J.T. Delahue, not Victor Sink, and it was Allan in the desk photo with Bob Hawk (not Bob Hawke). The repeated images of Allan combined with the presence of Victor gave the impression the office belonged to a two-faced man. 

‘So, Ms Boyd,’ began Victor. ‘Today we will try to attempt to endeavour to begin completing your entire performance review in its entirety, noting the completion of the entire process in its entirety may be an obligation of the entire process, noting…’ Victor fell silent, brought on by an apparent overdose of nuance. His attention only returned after a rather violent stomach rumbling.  

‘You know, Nicki,’ he continued, ‘middle management isn’t just about technical skill; soft skills are important too. Resilience, for example, is pivotal. Perhaps that would be a good place to start the review: your emotional resilience, or lack thereof. Allan and I have observed that at times you can be quite… emotional.’

In a workplace context, ‘nuance’ often takes the form of not reacting to insults. It’s a strange self-preservation mechanism that has flourished almost exclusively in white-collar environments. It’s also the easiest way to separate corporate folk from organic, free-range humans, but that doesn’t mean it comes easy. 

To stop herself from reacting, which would have supported Victor’s claim—it was a clever trap—Nicki squeezed the employee handbook tight against her chest. The binder’s laminate edge dug into her left arm and the sharp pain helped her focus. She recalled her best option—to use another sports analogy—was to return serve and hope Victor made an unforced error. 

‘Victor, I’m sorry,’ she said, smiling. ‘Can you please elaborate? I’m not grasping your meaning.’

‘Clearly. Resilience is one of the fourteen values decreed by Jesús in the employee handbook.’ Victor pointed at Nicki's handbook, its cover warping under the squeezing force. ‘You believe in the handbook, don’t you, in the notion that performance should be measured objectively? Wait… you do believe in Jesús?’

The employee handbook, known affectionately as the Integrated and Empathic Leadership Vortex Performance Management Framework, was developed by Jesús Perez. He was the division’s human resource lead and, according to LinkedIn, a human resource ‘ninja’. (Being a Spanish HR ninja wasn’t the reason for the scant sightings of Jesús though; he was currently on secondment with the ATO, though some believed he would return any day.) The handbook outlined everything an employee must do to perform their role; or put another way, it articulated all the ways an employee could fall short. This is the reality of most corporate documents espousing values, criteria, frameworks… They exist to justify or reverse-engineer pre-ordained managerial decisions. Nicki understood immediately: Victor sought to block her promotion—again—and was appealing to the handbook to keep his hands free of blood.   

Nicki’s first reaction was to prepare a retaliatory attack. If Victor wanted a war, they would have one: corporate style.

Maybe Nicki would raise the time she caught Victor syphoning Allan’s cologne and ask which value that behaviour was championing. She might remind Victor of the many occasions he missed important meetings while chained to a toilet, ridding his bowels of unwanted football scores (T.I.E Phase 7). More than anything though—more than a war—she wanted to know why he wouldn’t support her. And then it hit her, as clear and well-laid out as the leadership vortex visual on page 95: this wasn’t about her; it was about him.   

Across the table Victor opened his V.S monogrammed leather notebook. Wearing a pleasant smile, he scanned the pages of handwritten notes outlining Nicki’s many faults. He had come prepared. When he appraised the younger employee, his direct report, in his burning eyes it was clear this was more than a simple management process; this was a life-affirming ritual—self-respect gained through judgement. Victor wasn’t just pathetic; he was a bottom-feeder, an immortal middle-manager, and she was his prey, his yearly feast.      

‘Answer me,’ he said. ‘Or are there some other criteria by which you should be judged?’

Nicki gazed back at the tie-wearing face of a monster, a cruel beast of the carpet swamps. Her career path had suddenly become opaque, covered in thick fog. In her chair she slumped forward so the handbook pressed against her throat and her pulse thumped. Again Victor demanded an answer, but before Nicki could respond, the loud pop of a gunshot sounded down the corridor, followed by another, and another… 

There was now irrefutable proof that the farewell shindigs held in the kitchenette for departing staff were not—as Maureen from Level 3 had complained—louder than armed terrorists storming the building. At first the cracks of semi-automatic fire sounded like a steady drum, but as the screaming died down the shots became sparse. The assailants now had to find their targets: under desks, behind keyboards, licking cat posters. They had to hunt their kills, which they were well-trained to do.

During that opening volley, Victor had remained behind Allan’s desk, looking more forlorn than afraid. His half-Windsor was loosened, his shirt top button open. His chin, which by that time of day felt like sandpaper, was melting over his palm. He resembled the morose Division Head of the world’s most unhappy workplace, a leader who might, against all logic and proof, say something extremely nuanced like, “Let’s wait for the staff morale survey results before jumping to conclusions about the employees’ screaming, and yes, the gunfire.” 

On the desk before him was Nicki’s handbook. In her hasty retreat to the closet, she had tossed the laminate folder and by some Jesús miracle it landed open on the leadership vortex visual, page 95. The top layer of the vortex comprised five values: empathy, courage, accountability, assertiveness and professionalism. Victor traced those values with his index finger and then stared out the window towards the ATO. 

‘Why me?’ he mumbled. ‘I can’t face this… This isn’t my fault… You know what, I’m going to sit here and hope it all works out... Fuck these terrorists. I bet they’re foreign. Poo-fuck-clit-shit-dick-fuck-fuck!’

Nobody knows whether it was the Call to Leadership, or the gunfire burst close to Allan’s office that prompted a change of heart, but either way Victor sprung to his feet, covered his head and sprinted to the closet. 

Regarding the terrorists’ origins, Victor couldn’t have known the armed men were homegrown. Behind those black balaclavas were the stern faces of local libertarian extremists. These were hardened men who justified their use of violence on a way-too-literal interpretation of U.S Republican Ron Paul’s plea to ‘reduce government headcounts’. The belief that governments require gastric-band surgery is common among peaceful libertarians; to members of the Canberra Libertarian Front, however, the words act like a battle cry. (Whether their violent actions that day suggest a broader problem with libertarianism remains the remit of Richard Dawkins and the opposable thumb crowds on Twitter.) 

Inside the closet, the door flew open and Victor barged in. Given the closet’s size the two colleagues were forced to touch. This was worse for Nicki, who now had to endure the warm lumps of Victor’s breasts and stomach against her like globs of jelly wrapped in Egyptian cotton. Only the gunfire and threat of death saved her from being physically ill. In terms of inappropriate conduct though, she needn’t fear; Victor was all business. 

‘Nicki,’ he whispered, before waiting for the latest bout of screaming and shooting to stop. ‘Do you think we should start with your personal growth goals for next year?’ 

Nicki freed her chin from Victor’s armpit to glimpse his face. He was holding his iPhone aloft to use its torch and in the harsh light he looked stern, focused. His furrowed brow resembled an accountant seconds before EOFY. Again he resembled some kind of monster but given the context he didn’t seem cruel or petty, just stupid. 

‘Are you fucking serious?’ whispered Nicki. ‘You fucking idiot. You fucking-clit-shit-dick-fuck-fuck.’

‘You’re totally right,’ whispered Victor, smacking himself on the forehead. ‘It’s far too early for that. We should start with some of my observations. Nicki, you’re a valued member of the team. I should have said that at the outset. I also shouldn’t have called the alleged terrorists “foreign”. Who can even define that? Anyway, owning mistakes is one of the values in the handbook so I’ll champion that right this second. Now, let’s discuss your communication skills, shall we?’ 

The response to Victor’s proposal came in the form of a prolonged, blood-curdling shriek. The sound was so loud it must have originated from the cubicle bay just outside Allan’s office. The men were close. 

‘In terms of communication,’ continued Victor, ‘you could attempt to work on potentially speaking louder at times, at projecting your voice. Women often-’  

Nicki aggressively cupped Victor’s mouth with her palm, which is the only known method to stem the flow of someone in a state of heightened nuance. ‘I don’t want to fucking die in this closet because of you,’ she whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Allan isn’t here. Drop the shit. Having you as a manager has been a nightmare, and if you get me killed I will fucking kill you first, so help me…”  

Her rant was interrupted by the thud and whack of a door being kicked in. Nicki and Victor both shot their gaze to the tiny vent in the closet corner that connected to the nearby storage rooms and bathroom. Through the vent grills they heard: footsteps echoing on bathroom tiles, a stall door creak open, and a voice cry out: ‘No, please… don’t!’ Nicki gasped; the voice belonged to James, a friend from her graduate year. 

James must have been less than a metre away but, by fate, on the wrong side of a wooden wall. James was no older than Nicki yet killed on a toilet. The gunshot that killed James also seemed to pierce a delusion in Nicki’s mind. She now understood there was nowhere left for the men to search, and no special privilege for ex-graduates, not when the scary libertarians come to town. 

When the footsteps in the bathroom faded, after the ex-graduate’s corpse slumped by the toilet brush, that’s when Nicki removed her hand from Victor’s mouth and whispered, ‘They’re coming.’ 

If one were to peruse the hand-written, colour-coded and red-margined documents called Nicki Boyd’s Five-Year Plans, they would find no mention of the Canberra Libertarian Front, not one. They would, however, find a bank savings forecast and a list of dream cities to live in one day (Paris, New York, etc.). To be fair to Nicki though, no one includes the Canberra Libertarian Front in their plans. No one lights a sparkler at midnight as the fireworks glow and announces this will be the year they meet the mythical Canberra libertarians. Nor does anyone expect the CLF to visit their friends, their family, parent or dog, and yet there they were: thirty paces from Allan’s door, rendering the only exit useless on what started as a normal day. 

In the closet, Nicki and Victor held each other. Victor’s hot breath caressed Nicki’s brow like a car AC before it gets going, and she held his shirt sleeves twisted in her fists, the cotton wound so tight it creaked like a rope set to snap. ‘Victor,’ she whispered, seeking his eyes, failing to catch them. 

James getting shot seemed to suck the air out of Nicki’s lungs and make it hard to modulate whispering and breathing. After every word she had to pause to catch a breath. ‘Victor,’ she whispered again. ‘What about… what about my soft skills?’ 

In the iPhone glow Victor gazed down at her face, wide and pale like the cratered moon. He knew immediately what she was doing because he’d been doing it his whole life. And it wasn’t that Nicki now wished for decades in a castle made of handbooks, masoned with processes and hierarchy, it was that focusing on such things kept the libertarians away; those pointless things made life—in its sweetness—seem like it could last forever. And who was Victor to deny her that last distraction? 

‘Your soft skills need a lot of work,’ he whispered. ‘Are you aware of Myers-Briggs? Good. Next FY we will send you to a Myers-Briggs seminar. Learning about introverts and extroverts is a wonderful use of time. There’s no better use really, none at all. How does that sound?’

‘Next year… okay. I will be here next year. I will go to the Myers-Briggs seminar… next year.’ 

The door to Allan’s office opened. Multiple men entered. Their steps on the carpet were slow, measured, like the sound of their breathing. The Canberra Libertarian Front had arrived. 

Nicki and Victor were locked in a state of manager-employee delusion. But the sounds of the men checking among the flags and under the desk broke the spell. Any second now—any moment—they would die.  

In this state of new clarity, Victor appraised Nicki—eyes clamped tight, nose screwed up, mouth twisted—and as he stared, a foreign thought and feeling and physical sensation enveloped him. It was like a new handbook had been printed, laminated, socialised-for-comment in his brain. He knew what needed to be done. 

The crack of light under the door was soon blocked by the shadows of men. Inside the closet, Victor seized Nicki by the arms and pressed her backwards until a loose coat hanger knocked her skull. He then parted the suits quietly and gestured for Nicki to slip into the thin crevice—a place he could not hope to fit. Then he kicked a file-box to conceal her legs and feet and placed another atop the first just to be sure. 

As his final act, Victor put the phone to his ear and said aloud, ‘I’ve always wondered.’ 

The door flung open and Nicki’s eyes adjusted in time to catch the edge of Victor’s smile as faced what stood before him. Then two shots rang out and her manager collapsed in the doorway. An armed man stepped over Victor’s body and scanned the closet with his flashlight. The light beam hovered on the suit rack for a moment—a moment longer—and then moved on.  

The image of the bloodied Victor Sink in the doorway, and his final words, would stay with Nicki forever. He would be with her long after the football scores stopped digesting, and the jeers from his colleagues fall silent, beyond when his pedantic red-pen edits fade to black, and after his petty power-tripping ways are crushed under the weight of time. Victor was a fool, a suck-up, a part-time bully, and he had saved her life. Nicki never figured out how to judge Victor, for judgement requires some element of reduction, but she knew one thing for sure: whatever letter grade should be ascribed to his performance here on earth, it will not be found between the covers of an employee handbook. 

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Short stories, fiction. Original absurd, satire and humour writing. Influences include Pynchon, DeLillo, Vonnegut, Adams, and Norm Macdonald (all lovers of SEO).