I didn’t see it coming. It was a day like any other day, filled with useless fucking morons, clueless rednecks, and yelling bitches. Then a friendly message from my boss pops up on the screen, “Yearly review after your call.” Um, okay. I end the call by telling the genius that because the bill reads $35 they in fact do owe $35. The guy next to me happens to be off the phone, which is rare, so I ask him what these reviews are. “Oh, they’re just these dumb evaluations they do each year.” “Sounds stupid,” I reply, right when my boss appears at my cube. “Well, let’s see if it is,” he says. Timing was never my thing.
We go into the empty, dark, cold office in the back of the bullpen. Since no one has an office, we all go to this ugly fucking place for stupid shit like meetings and evaluations. My boss sits me down and slowly shuts the door. He pulls out a manila folder and pretends he’s in the damn CIA or something.
To me, an evaluation doesn’t mean a fucking thing. Since I’m working in the shithole known as Telescreen, I could give two fucks what they think about my performance. The fact that I haven’t jumped off the top of a tall building should be enough to warrant a high evaluation.
Performance is graded on a number system, and they measure your performance based on a score of ten, with categories such as results, customer service, initiative, blah, blah, blah. My boss goes through my performance and everything is positive. He raves that I’m one of the top employees in the department and hails my wonderful stats, because that’s all that really matters around there. I forgot to stop him and tell him how sad it is that a guy who makes a blog humiliating customers and the management at Telescreen is doing “such a great job.” The positive feedback was nothing to be proud of, it actually made me a bit ashamed. It just proves that a retarded monkey can perform my job to a high degree. Great, I have the performance level of a “special” monkey.
After all the bullshit feedback, my boss hands me the evaluation to sign. I look at the top for overall performance, which reads “7/10: Meets Expectations.” Wait a minute, if I’m a top dog, and I get a fucking C, how do you get an A? “Oh, you don’t, they never give those out, it’s impossible,” advised my boss. What kind of performance scale is out of 10 but only let’s you go to 7? “Well, I’ve seen people get 8’s, but that was like one time in the three years I’ve been here,” he explains.
I chuckle at the absurdity of the situation, hand back the signed eval, and get ready to go meet a new moron on my phone line. As I stand up, my boss stops me and says, “Wait, I have even more good news, you earned a raise!” At a place like Telescreen, I thought that was impossible. Considering most of the people I work with have second jobs, it was really impossible. Considering Big Brother is one of the richest men in the country and his employees are the lowest paid in the industry, it was really, really impossible.
My boss then gets all sly. He somehow thinks we’re in the back of an Italian restaurant making a mob deal and the piece of paper in his hands is briefcase full of cash. Instead of telling me the amount, he slides the paper over slowly, looking to the side with a smug smile. I look down at the paper in front of me and read the circled figure: 33 cents.
Holy shit! I got a 33 cent an hour raise! What am I going to do with myself? If I work all day with a little bit of overtime that will turn into three dollars! You know what I can buy with three dollars? You guessed it, not a fucking thing.
“Wow,” I reply, in awe that there was so much hype for 33 cents. “I know,” he responds, “That’s one of the highest raises we offer.”