Getting fired from a German startup (part 1)
… or How I Got the Company Urinal Named After Me
It is a lot easier to get sacked in Germany than you think. The following is a condensed account and how I fought back and ended up earning me some cash and a monumental legacy.
All events in this three-part series took place between post-Brexit and pre-Trump. Places and names have been altered to protect the innocent.
Tuesday, Mid July, 9:18 am
Ace and Gary, the owners and managing directors of PhuccSchitt Systems, called me for a meeting as I ran through the figures for my department.
“We have decided to let you go as we are currently experiencing financial difficulties.” Ace announced to me in a eerily gung-ho and optimistic tone.
I asked for the usual details. The nonchalant Gary started putting on his reading glasses and recited invisible text from a blank piece of paper.
“You are to remain on duty until the end of our 90-day the notice period, during which you will show me everything you know and turn over all your business contacts. As we are low on cash reserves, we are unable to offer you any severance payments, and …”
Ace quickly interrupted Gary and took over the conservation. “Since you are smart and capable. I am sure you can find something new in a few weeks. But don’t forget send us contacts of your new work so that we can do business together!”
Ace and Gary were so euphoric and enthusiastic in the meeting, I almost mistook it as some kind of sick prank. I asked for the rest of the day off, and they agreed. On my way out, I dropped by the office of Ernest and Bertram from sales, as well as Janice from accounting. We went to a café across the street.
Tuesday, Mid July, 9:30 am
“Did you know?” I asked Ernest, a fellow American.
“WHAT?” he exclaimed in disbelief. Janice added looking perplexed. “There is a dip in our revenue lately, but we are still in good shape.”
“Maybe it was the urinal.” Bertram said, referring to the incident where we shot down Gary’s plan to install a full stall urinal for 7,000 € as I suggested that money would be better spent on marketing.
“Gary fired our head of engineering over a god damn pissoir?” Ernest cut in. “That’s fucking ridiculous!” But Bertram lectured him, “he took his piss very seriously.” Then Bertram turned to me. “And he’s been thinking of getting rid of you ever since.”
Ernest contemplated for a few seconds, then he looked at me. “If you have any more business contacts …”
“It’s too late,” I said. As I called my wife and told her I was coming home, I rushed back to my office and took my Rolodex with me.
Tuesday, Mid July, 10:15 am
My wife was hysterical. As I passed probation just three months ago, she reasoned, something like this would have been unthinkable in Germany. The why, what, and how of it no longer mattered. We called our friend, Milhouse, an employment attorney. After asking a few questions on PhuccSchitt’s organizational and financial activities, he concluded with little hesitation.
“Though I cannot speak with absolute certainty, you have a very strong case should you seek judicial closure.”
As soon as we got off the phone, the shock of the firing finally overcome me. I collapsed on my bed.
Wednesday, Mid July, 11:11 am
I woke up in a pool of my own cold sweat to a loud buzzing ring of my doorbell.
“Be quiet,” my wife whispered as I put on my bath robe, making a poor impression of The Dude.
“It’s Gary and he has a letter on his hand.” He couldn’t wait and came to fire me personally at my home.
He kept ringing for the next few minutes while we held our breath. As he gave up and left, my wife saw a blond woman walking with him.
“It’s Janice,” I hushed. She drove me home once a few months ago and she still knew the way.
“Judas,” My wife mumbled.
Wednesday, Mid July, 1:00 pm
My phone rang. It was one of the developers. He wanted to express his sadness about my firing and begged me to return to office. I thanked him but told him I was too overwhelmed to return. He also offered his one business contact to help me look for work before he hung up.
In the next two hours or so, I was bombarded by calls from every single coworker. Each of them wanted to express the same sadness, to beg me to return, and to offer me the exact same business contact. Each call became a vivid and cynical reminder of how I was fired, how I was told it was easily to find new work, and how quickly I would bring back new business to Ace and Gary. I took solace in the fact that was now only 11 of them.
I gathered enough strength to return to work the next day. Ace promptly handed me the termination notice, the one that was on Gary’s hand. By the end of the week, Ace would spent his holidays at his family summer estate in Tuscany, while Gary flew over to Paris with his wife and three kids. It was their well-deserved reward for saving their company from supposed financial ruin.
Monday, Late July, 6:08 am
I went into the office. I welcomed the usual silence, but no longer for focus and concentration; I couldn’t bear to be seen as a walking wounded, a defeated soul, a broken man. As people trickled in, they tried to avoid talking to me. Some ducked their head. Some smirked with a modicum of satisfaction. Some pretended I was not there.
The first to show up in my department was Moritz, who shared the same birthday with Gary. The interns, Pedro and Amir, came in shortly later. Farid, our newest edition from Pakistan, was last. We held our weekly group meeting half and hour before lunch break.
“Is this necessary? I’d rather get some work done before lunch” Moritz asked right off the bat. “Yes,” I replied, “I still run this department.”
“I would say no. Gary already told us to report to him directly instead.” confronted Pedro. Amir and Farid watched in silence.
After a short, awkward silence, I decided to adjourn. As if getting fired was not humiliating enough, I had to see everything I created over the year crumble in less than a week. Even an intern felt entitled to kick me in the ass.
I left office through the back door at exactly 2:08 pm. This tortuous routine would repeat itself every work day at the same time for the exactly eight hours. No more, no less.
Thursday, Late July, 7:00 pm
Milhouse wanted to follow up with us on his drive home. “These idiots didn’t even bother to cover their tails.” He tried to out speak the road noise.
“They could have legally fired you for stealing their electricity for your cell phone,” he said. “Or they could corroborate on some bogus sexual misconduct charge,” hinting at a recent case involving exactly that.
“So I assume you want to ask for damages?” He followed.
“I just want my job back. I am not out for blood.” I responded, feeling a little disgusted.
“But as your attorney I recommend against reinstatement. They won’t want to see you back.” Sensing disappointment, Milhouse went on. “They will change the locks, call the police for trespassing, or fire you again, this time legally … Money is the only way to go.”
I acquiesced, “but should we inform them we’ll be seeking legal action? Maybe they would change their mind and prevent all these?”
“The judge would see this favorably, but I don’t think they budge at all.”
Milhouse also reminded me this before he got off, “since they are now the defendants, I advise you cease all conversation with all persons at your company surrounding your termination and this case. It’s war.”
Our notice arrived on the desks of Ace and Gary in a few days, and the lawsuit followed a few days after. They would only receive both after returning from their luxury holidays two and a half weeks later. Ace wanted to see me pronto, and Gary wanted to see me tout de suite.