Feedback

Feedback day comes around more frequently than my pay checks.

It started as a simple half yearly check-in, then changed to quaterly, monthly and now it’s every fortnight. Thats because Gorman Green is continually finding ways we can improve.

He loves the word improve and can find a way to fit it into nearly every sentence. He also loves hyphenated or compounded words like teamwork, problem-solving and time-management. He loves cliché phrases like help me to help you, and let’s circle back on that.

He opens with the line what do you think you’ve done well this fortnight? But before I can speak he says, here’s what I think. That’s because Gorman Green doesn’t care what we have to say. It’s the same predictable chat and list of improvements every fortnight. I’d like to give him a piece of my own feedback.

Rather than taking a lunch break, Gorman Green walks around the office checking on us. He squints and twinkles his pointer and middle fingers at our computer screens as he passes. If he likes what he sees he moves onto the next desk, if he thinks someone could be doing something better he crouches down next to them and says, so what are we doing here or is the the best use of your time?

He crouches because he says that eye-level communication is more clearly understood.

But no one understands Gorman Green.

Despite his last name, Green, Gorman Green only wears navy. A stiff navy suit and a crisp white shirt. He never takes his jacket off but I imagine there would be no sweat patches under his arms because his deodorant is smelt before he’s seen. Instead of taking a sip of coffee while he works like the rest of us, he uses his sticky roller up and down his sleeves and across his shoulders. His black shoes so shiny they look like they’re baptised in holy shoe shine and he protects them like relics. Last week when he was crouched down at Stephanies desk a blob of mayonnaise from her sandwich dropped onto his shoe. He limped to the kitchen as if his foot was broken to wipe it off, then returned chanting, ‘Tidy desk, tidy mind,’ and ‘Your workspace should reflect your work ethic’.

Eating at our desks is now banned because Gorman Green says we can’t expect to keep on top of tasks if we’re stopping to put things in our mouths.

The truth is, we are falling behind on tasks because we’re taken away from our work once a fortnight for Gorman Green’s feedback.

If this feedback day is as predictable as the rest have been, I won’t be fired. I’ll sit down opposite Gorman green and his meticulously ordered notes about me and everything he’s watched me do in the past fortnight. He will offer his feedback based on what he’s witnessed, suggestions on how I can be better and try to encourage me by telling me I have all the qualities of a star employee. Then I’ll sign the feedback declaration stating that I understand and agree to do better.

But today is not predictable. Gorman Green has arrived at work five minutes late. His shoes have lost their shine. His navy trousers are not pressed, and his shirt–fully visible for the first time–reveals sweat patches, with his jacket hanging limply over his arm. He looks small without his usual tailored armour.

Something has happened to Gorman Green.

We all stare as he passes our desks and shuts his office door. He shuffles around his office pulling papers out of his filing trays and leaving them scattered on his desk. He rubs the side of his face and pinches the bridge of his nose before he realises his blinds are open— then scrambles to shut them, leaving us to guess what’s going on.

No sound comes from behind his door for the next hour. Just as I start to wonder if feedback day has been cancelled he swings his door open and pops his head out.

“Right, I’ll have…you first,” he says to the person sitting closest.

I’ve never heard him say the word ‘right’—or address anyone as ‘you.’

All day, I switch my gaze between my computer and the office, watching employees emerge one by one from their feedback sessions. I search their faces for answers, but each one comes out shrugging.

“What’s going on? What did he say?” I ask my desk buddy when he returns.

“Nothing really. He said I’m doing a good job and to keep it up.”

I’m the last to be called in. I walk slowly, collecting good-luck wishes along the way. I close the door gently and sit down. He has no notes in front of him today—or perhaps they’re lost beneath the mess of papers he’s made on his desk.

“It’s just a quick one today,” he says, sighing.

I sit silently, waiting for him to finish. He’s staring out the window.

“You’re doing a good job.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He keeps staring out the window. Three minutes pass. I begin to wonder if he’s forgotten I’m still here.

“Is that all?” I ask.

“Sorry yes, that’s all.”

I hesitate.

“Do you have something you’d like to add?” he asks. But before I can answer he continues, “If not that will be all, I have a lot of work to get through—everyone is falling behind..”

He shuffles the papers around his desk. A sticky note floats to the floor.

“Your workspace should reflect your work ethic,” I say.

He stops shuffling. “this is the first time my desk has been out of order,” he says with strong conviction.

“Well, let’s circle back to that. Do you think teamwork would help get the job done?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Is there room for improvement in your time-management?”

But before he can answer, I get up, crouch down next to him and say,

“I’d like to give you some feedback.”