The Witch Hunter
Answer as if your job depends on it
They look at me as if it’s a trick. It is, of course; just not the one they imagine.
I repeat the question. “Be honest. Do you really like working here?” Then a pause, that essential pause, whose duration is mastered only with practice. “You won’t lose your job if you say no. I promise.”
My official title is “Efficiency Coordinator”, but I know my true role. I’m a witch hunter.
There have been witch hunters as long as humans have been mistrustful. Of this I am certain. It took me a little while to recognise my calling, a first few months in which I clumsily tried to serve as one of Hong Kong’s many human resources professionals, but the moment of recognition set me free. One day, my boss hinted that I should set myself a healthy target of redundancies. She did not say so outright, nothing so crude. She merely suggested we find some sort of quantifiable performance target … and what other number could I possibly produce?
Even at that moment, the penny had not quite dropped. It still teetered on the precarious ledge of my remaining credulity.
I ventured a question: “What makes an employee disposable? Undesirable?”
She looked at me uncomfortably, but did her best to furnish a response. “I suppose it’s if they are somehow unsuitable … I mean … you know … a bad fit.”
My frown lifted. “Thank you,” I said, “that makes things much clearer.”
I got up to leave. She was clearly relieved the conversation was over. We witch hunters are indispensable, but we are not popular.
Records of past witch hunters have been most useful to me. I have studied the career of Matthew Hopkins in the English Civil War, the Salem Trials, and the Zulu sangoma; but the most effective witch hunters, like myself, do not go by that name. For true mastery of the art, one must look to the careers of Jacques Hébert and Jean-Paul Marat in the French Revolution, forever unmasking treachery in their newspapers and offering up fresh victims for Madame Guillotine. Or one might turn to Senator Joe McCarthy, or the Red Guards, or the many other stripes of morality police. Nowadays, of course, one has only to visit Twitter to find innumerable denouncers, some of them very gifted craftsmen.
But, to return to my own area of witch hunting. How am I to judge the sheep from the goats? Truly lousy employees are rare; they are let go swiftly through the usual channels, and with no help from me. Rather, it is my job to winnow out inefficiency—a much more nebulous goal.
I have met some fellow witch hunters whose methodologies are frankly appalling. One openly admitted to me, “I fire the fat ones.” As you can probably imagine, though, we witch hunters generally try to avoid each other’s company. It’s unpleasant to see our mirror image and be reminded of our fundamentals. There’s no justification for what we do, and we all know it. In fact, it is precisely the illogic of our work which makes it sustainable. The idea that we ever find anything truly rotten is absurd—that would be to validate Matthew Hopkins and all his witch-dunking insanity. No, that won’t do at all—I’m not a monster. Still, I do need to have some people fired. Who? How to decide?
I said earlier that our profession is indispensable, and I believe it. Humans are fearful; communities need cohesion. We need reassurance that we are not being weakened, undermined, betrayed by bad actors. But who are the bad actors? It’s difficult to say. Each of us has a unique character and is drawn to or repelled by different personalities—hence the familiar pantomime of office politics. Yet a small amputation every now and again can resolve our inherent factionalism, reassure us that what was once threatened is now restored. It doesn’t really matter who the scapegoat is; there must simply be one.
Well enough for the community, but that still leaves me with a difficult choice. How am I, an ethical 21st century avocado eater, to decide who stays and who goes?
After that meeting with my boss, I vowed a policy of complete honesty, to myself and my colleagues. I would be truthful (though not transparent). The way forward was clear: I needed a question. One simple question to decide who is a fit, and who is not.
I build up with a series of other, trivial questions before I bring out the clincher.
Sometimes they come right out with it.
“No. I need the money.”
I would hug these souls—they are my kind of people—but a witch hunter must preserve his unemotional mystique. In any case, they have passed the test with flying colours.
Usually, they are more hesitant, more cagey. Very often, they lie. “Yes, I enjoy it here. I really feel part of the team.” Sometimes they use the word “exciting”, a dead giveaway. Some try repeatedly to wriggle out of answering, as if the question wasn’t clear. That only confirms my suspicion: they’re okay.
But every so often—not very often, thank goodness, or I’d develop a fearful reputation—they answer with a simple, guileless “Yes.”
I look into their eyes. “You work at an insurance company, Douglas.” Always use their name at this point; their situation is grave. “There’s no reason for you to love your job.”
“But I do.” The sheer simple heresy of it never fails to shock. I now know I am looking at a madman.
Sometimes, out of sheer pity, I try to throw them a lifeline. “Put it this way: if you had a trust fund and no family pressure, would you still be here, in your cubicle?”
Sadly, they only ever give one of two answers, both wrong: “I would,” or, worse, “I am.”
I smile and thank them for their time, but their time is up. They are not like the rest of us. They do not fit here, and I have sniffed them out.
Sam Powney is an editor based in Hong Kong. He writes comic verse, poetry, and other pieces for fun, and is a longstanding fixture at Peel Street Poetry.
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