The Case of the Performance-Based Termination
Sherlog Gnomes had not moved from his terminal in nine hours. When I entered with his seven percent
solution—cold brew, precisely measured—he did not look up.
"Send her in, Hotchkiss. This one interests me."
I set aside the vintage IBM Model M I had been cleaning—my forty-third, acquired from a defunct
insurance firm in Hartford—and opened the door.
The young woman who entered our offices at 221B Deployment Lane carried herself with the bearing of
one who had recently discovered that the corporate world operates on principles entirely divorced
from logic. She was an account executive—recently former—at a prominent cloud-fortress whose name
adorns half the infrastructure of the modern internet.
"Four months employed," she said, taking the seat I offered. "Three in ramp-up. Two HR
representatives I had never met. And when I asked why—"
"They could not tell you." Gnomes swiveled to face her. "They spoke of 'performance' but cited no
specifics. When pressed, they retreated to procedural language. 'We're not able to go into
specifics, and we won't.' Yes?"
Her eyes widened. "How did you—"
"Because there are no specifics." He steepled his fingers. "Tell me: did your manager attend
the call?"
"No. Just the two strangers from HR."
"And your performance reviews?"
"I never received one. Three months was ramp-up. The fourth month I was—"
"Terminated for performance that was never measured. Fascinating." He rose and paced to the window.
"Hotchkiss, what do you observe?"
I considered. "A young professional dismissed without cause or documentation."
"You see but you do not observe. This is not a termination. It is theatre." He turned
sharply. "The company hired aggressively. The market shifted. Headcount became liability. But
'layoff' implies error—their error. 'Performance-based termination' implies yours."
"Then my performance—"
"Was never the issue. You were a line item. The meeting was designed to foreclose inquiry, not to
inform. Two strangers reading from scripts. No manager present to answer questions."
"But surely," I interjected, "documentation must exist. Some record of deficiency—"
"None, Hotchkiss. None exists because none was needed." He fixed the young woman with a look. "The
cruelty is not incidental. It is load-bearing. If they admitted the truth—that you were
simply surplus—they would owe severance, unemployment, perhaps litigation. By making it about
you, they owe nothing but platitudes."
The young woman sat very still. "What do I do?"
"You already did it." For the first time, something like warmth entered his voice. "You asked
questions they could not answer. You demanded specifics they could not provide. And when they would
not speak your name—when they hid behind process and procedure—you spoke it yourself. 'Why is
she being let go?' you asked. In the third person. Forcing them to confront that they were
not terminating a performance problem. They were terminating a person."
I observed her shoulders drop—not in defeat, but in release. The tension of self-doubt, unwinding.
"You made the machine reveal its own emptiness," Gnomes concluded, more quietly now.
She departed with somewhat lighter step. Not hope—I did not think she carried hope. But the
particular relief of one who has finally been told: the fault was never yours.
Gnomes returned to his terminal.
✦ ✦ ✦
"A satisfying resolution, Gnomes?"
"A dispiriting one, Hotchkiss." He did not turn from his screen. "She asked every correct question.
Exposed every procedural void. And not one answer will be forthcoming. Not one policy will change."
He reached for his cold brew. "You will recall the Case of the Phantom Requirements—the product
manager terminated for failing to meet specifications that were never written?"
"Vividly."
"Different company. Different coast. Identical architecture." He took a long draught. "The system is
not broken, Hotchkiss. It is functioning precisely as designed. That is what makes it so difficult
to repair."
RACE COMMENTARY:
The MG MARVEL R delivered a performance for the ages, requiring its pilot to navigate no fewer than seven submenus whilst hurtling down the motorway. During the winning run, the driver had sufficient time to: miss two exits, reconsider career choices, and compose a short letter to loved ones.
The BMW iX, favoured by many for its German pedigree, put in a strong second-place showing. Officials noted that its infotainment system contains more features than any human could reasonably require, buried beneath layers of interface so complex they may constitute a form of abstract art.
The TESLA MODEL 3, representing California, could not match the leaders' commitment to burying essential functions beneath minimalist design, settling for a respectable but distant third.
The elderly VOLVO V70, representing the 2005 vintage class, was ultimately disqualified after officials discovered it possessed physical knobs connected directly to mechanical systems—a clear violation of modern design principles.