Cause for Termination

An absurdist mystery. Why was he fired?

         I never actually knew when the mystery began. One day, I was captain of my own ship, or rather, my cubicle, which featured a chair, a personal calendar, and a pencil that was always kept sharp. Midway through the next day, I was told my services were no longer required. No explanation was given. No arguments were had. No warning had been leveled against me. All I had was a typed note on my desk: "You have been terminated. Sorry for the inconvenience." Unsigned. Unexplained.
         I sat there a long time, staring at the note as the fluorescent lights flickered overhead. "Sorry for the inconvenience." What kind of an apology was that? I imagined an equivalent situation: a doctor applying a Band-Aid to a gaping wound.


         I left the building quietly, the skies gray and the air chill, and wandered the streets with no place to go in mind. Even home didn't bring comfort.


         My questions at the office yielded nothing. My supervisor simply grumbled, "Corporate reasons," eyes glued to the floor and ear glued to the phone. HR was even less explanatory. "You know why," someone whispered, almost too softly to hear. I did not know. The strange problem gnawed at me, so I began to search.


         I returned to the office under the pretense of retrieving some files. I stood listening at doorways, then followed fleeting glances and watched conversations dissolve as I entered. Something was happening behind the smiles and polite words, but I could not determine exactly what. I began to notice a pattern.


         On one of the empty desks, a sticky note, carefully placed, I noticed a number. Another day, a folded scrap with a symbol I had seen before, in the corner of a calendar page. Each mark was subtle and seemingly meaningless, yet I felt compelled to follow them. They led me from floor to floor, office to lobby, going along a trail of which no one else seemed aware.


         Finally, the scavenger hunt of sorts ended at an unremembered storage closet. Inside, behind a stack of untouched binders, sat a single envelope. Yellowed and unmarked, addressed to me in looping penmanship I did not recognize. It bore no postmark indication.


         I took it home with trembling hands, whence I finally opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded carefully. The words were neat, deliberate, and measured:


         "It has been observed, with meticulous attention, that your work has consistently exceeded expectations. Reports are complete, schedules are followed, and tasks are executed with a precision and timeliness that, while exemplary, disrupt the ordinary rhythm of operations. Therefore, it has been decided that your position is no longer sustainable, not for failure, nor for deficiency, but for being, in the most literal sense, too efficient."


         I read the sentence twice. Too efficient. After weeks of wandering in confusion, listening to vague replies and observing cryptic behaviors, the truth was astonishingly simple. My diligence, my consistency, my competence had become my undoing.


         To be perfectly honest, I must admit that I do not recall what my job title and responsibilities were at the building, much less what the company was called.