The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement, page 13
"I just feel you owe me some explanation,’’ I say. "How many times have you been late, or out of town, or who knows where?’’ she asks.
"But that’s business,’’ I say. "And I always tell you where I’ve been if you ask. Now I’m asking.’’
"There’s nothing to tell,’’ she says. "All that happened was I went out with Jane.’’
"Jane?’’ It takes me a minute to remember her. "You mean your friend from where we used to live? You drove all the way back there?’’
"I just had to talk to someone,’’ she says. "By the time we’d finished talking, I’d had too much to drink to drive home. Anyway, I knew the kids were okay until morning. So I just stayed at Jane’s.’’
"Okay, but why? How did this come over you all of a sudden?’’ I ask her.
"Come over me? All of a sudden? Alex, you go off and leave me night after night. It’s no wonder that I’m lonely. Nothing suddenly came over me. Ever since you got into management, your career has come first and everyone else takes whatever is left.’’
"Julie, I’ve just tried to make a good living for you and the kids,’’ I tell her.
"Is that all? Then why do you keep taking the promotions?’’ "What am I supposed to do, turn them down?’’ She doesn’t answer.
"Look, I put in the hours because I have to, not because I want to,’’ I tell her.
She still doesn’t say anything.
"All right, look: I promise I’ll make more time for you and the kids,’’ I say. "Honest, I’ll spend more time at home.’’ "Al, it’s not going to work. Even when you’re home, you’re at the office. Sometimes I’ve seen the kids tell you something two or three times before you hear them.’’
"It won’t be like that when I get out of the jam I’m in right now,’’ I say.
"Do you hear what you’re saying? ‘When I get out of the jam I’m in right now.’ Do you think it’s going to change? You’ve said all that before, Al. Do you know how many times we’ve been over this?’’
"Okay, you’re right. We have been over it a lot of times. But, right now, there’s nothing I can do,’’ I say.
She looks up at the sky and says, "Your job has always been on the line. Always. So if you’re such a marginal employee, why do they keep giving you promotions and more money?’’ I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"How do I make you understand this,’’ I say. "I’m not up for another promotion or pay raise this time. This time it’s different.
Julie, you have no idea what kind of problems I’ve got at the plant.’’
"And you have no idea what it’s like here at home,’’ she says. I say, "Okay, look, I’d like to spend more time at home, but the problem is getting the time.’’
"I don’t need all your time,’’ she says. "But I do need some of it, and so do the kids.’’
"I know that. But to save this plant, I’m going to have to give it all I’ve got for the next couple of months.’’
"Couldn’t you at least come home for dinner most of the time?’’ she asks. "The evenings are when I miss you the most. All of us do. It’s empty around here without you, even with the kids for company.’’
"Nice to know I’m wanted. But sometimes I even need the evenings. I just don’t have enough time during the day to get to things like paperwork,’’ I say.
"Why don’t you bring the paperwork home,’’ she suggests.
"Do it here. If you did that, at least we could see you. And maybe I could even help you with some of it.’’
I lean back. "I don’t know if I’ll be able to concentrate, but . . . okay, let’s try it.’’
She smiles. "You mean it?’’
"Sure, if it doesn’t work, we can talk about it,’’ I say. "Deal?’’ "Deal,’’ she says.
I lean toward her and ask, "Want to seal it with a handshake or a kiss?’’
She comes around the table and sits on my lap and kisses me. "You know, I sure missed you last night,’’ I tell her. "Did you?’’ she says. "I really missed you too. I had no idea singles bars could be so depressing.’’
"Singles bars?’’
"It was Jane’s idea,’’ she says. "Honest.’’
I shake my head. "I don’t want to hear about it.’’ "But Jane showed me some new dance steps,’’ she says. "And maybe this weekend—’’
I give her a squeeze. "If you want to do something this weekend, baby, I’m all yours.’’
"Great,’’ she says and whispers in my ear, "You know, it’s Friday, so... why don’t we start early?’’
She kissed me again.
And I say, "Julie, I’d really love to, but . . .’’
"But?’’
"I really should check in at the plant,’’ I say.
She stands up. "Okay, but promise me you’ll hurry home tonight.’’
"Promise,’’ I tell her. "Really, it’s going to be a great weekend.’’
13
I open my eyes Saturday morning to see a drab green blur. The blur turns out to be my son, Dave, dressed in his Boy Scout uniform. He is shaking my arm.
"Davey, what are you doing here?’’ I ask.
He says, "Dad, it’s seven o’clock!’’
"Seven o’clock? I’m trying to sleep. Aren’t you supposed to be watching television or something?’’
"We’ll be late,’’ he says.
"We will be late? For what?’’
"For the overnight hike!’’ he says. "Remember? You promised me I could volunteer you to go along and help the troopmaster.’’
I mutter something no Boy Scout should ever hear. But Dave isn’t fazed.
"Come on. Just get in the shower,’’ he says, as he pulls me out of bed. "I packed your gear last night. Everything’s in the car already. We just have to get there by eight.’’
I manage a last look at Julie, her eyes still shut, and the warm soft mattress as Davey drags me through the door.
An hour and ten minutes later, my son and I arrive at the edge of some forest. Waiting for us is the troop: fifteen boys outfitted in caps, neckerchiefs, merit badges, the works.
Before I have time to say, "Where’s the troopmaster?’’, the other few parents who happen to be lingering with the boys take off in their cars, all pedals to the metal. Looking around, I see that I am the only adult in sight.
"Our troopmaster couldn’t make it,’’ says one of the boys.
"How come?’’
"He’s sick,’’ says another kid next to him.
"Yeah, his hemorrhoids are acting up,’’ says the first. "So it looks like you’re in charge now.’’
"What are we supposed to do, Mr. Rogo?’’ asks the other kid.
Well, at first I’m a little mad at having all this foisted upon me. But then the idea of having to supervise a bunch of kids doesn’t daunt me—after all, I do that every day at the plant. So I gather everyone around. We look at a map and discuss the objectives for this expedition into the perilous wilderness before us.
The plan, I learn, is for the troop to hike through the forest following a blazed trail to someplace called "Devil’s Gulch.’’ There we are to bivouac for the evening. In the morning we are to break camp and make our way back to the point of departure, where Mom and Dad are supposed to be waiting for little Freddy and Johnny and friends to walk out of the woods.
First, we have to get to Devil’s Gulch, which happens to be about ten miles away. So I line up the troop. They’ve all got their rucksacks on their backs. Map in hand, I put myself at the front of the line in order to lead the way, and off we go.
The weather is fantastic. The sun is shining through the trees. The skies are blue. It’s breezy and the temperature is a little on the cool side, but once we get into the woods, it’s just right for walking.
The trail is easy to follow because there are blazes (splotches of yellow paint) on the tree trunks every 10 yards or so. On either side, the undergrowth is thick. We have to hike in single file.
I suppose I’m walking at about two miles per hour, which is about how fast the average person walks. At this rate, I think to myself, we should cover ten miles in about five hours. My watch tells me it’s almost 8:30 now. Allowing an hour and a half for breaks and for lunch, we should arrive at Devil’s Gulch by three o’clock, no sweat.
After a few minutes, I turn and look back. The column of scouts has spread out to some degree from the close spacing we started with. Instead of a yard or so between boys, there are now larger gaps, some a little larger than others. I keep walking.
But I look back again after a few hundred yards, and the column is stretched out much farther. And a couple of big gaps have appeared. I can barely see the kid at the end of the line.
I decide it’s better if I’m at the end of the line instead of at the front. That way I know I’ll be able to keep an eye on the whole column, and make sure nobody gets left behind. So I wait for the first boy to catch up to me, and I ask him his name.
"I’m Ron,’’ he says.
"Ron, I want you to lead the column,’’ I tell him, handing over the map. "Just keep following this trail, and set a moderate pace. Okay?’’
"Right, Mr. Rogo.’’
And he sets off at what seems to be a reasonable pace. "Everybody stay behind Ron!’’ I call back to the others. "Nobody passes Ron, because he’s got the map. Understand?’’
Everybody nods, waves. Everybody understands.
I wait by the side of the trail as the troop passes. My son, Davey, goes by talking with a friend who walks close behind him. Now that he’s with his buddies, Dave doesn’t want to know me. He’s too cool for that. Five or six more come along, all of them keeping up without any problems. Then there is a gap, followed by a couple more scouts. After them, another, even larger gap has occurred. I look down the trail. And I see this fat kid. He already looks a little winded. Behind him is the rest of the troop.
"What’s your name?’’ I ask as the fat kid draws closer.
"Herbie,’’ says the fat kid.
"You okay, Herbie?’’
"Oh, sure, Mr. Rogo,’’ says Herbie. "Boy, it’s hot out, isn’t it?’’
Herbie continues up the trail and the others follow. Some of them look as if they’d like to go faster, but they can’t get around Herbie. I fall in behind the last boy. The line stretches out in front of me, and most of the time, unless we’re going over a hill or around a sharp bend in the trail, I can see everybody. The column seems to settle into a comfortable rhythm.
Not that the scenery is boring, but after a while I begin to think about other things. Like Julie, for instance. I really had wanted to spend this weekend with her. But I’d forgotten all about this hiking business with Dave. "Typical of you,’’ I guess she’d say. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get the time I need to spend with her. The only saving grace about this hike is that she ought to understand I have to be with Dave.
And then there is the conversation I had with Jonah in New York. I haven’t had any time to think about that. I’m rather curious to know what a physics teacher is doing riding around in limousines with corporate heavyweights. Nor do I understand what he was trying to make out of those two items he described. I mean, "dependent events’’ ... "statistical fluctuations’’—so what? They’re both quite mundane.
Obviously we have dependent events in manufacturing. All it means is that one operation has to be done before a second operation can be performed. Parts are made in a sequence of steps. Machine A has to finish Step One before Worker B can proceed with Step Two. All the parts have to be finished before we can assemble the product. The product has to be assembled before we can ship it. And so on.
But you find dependent events in any process, and not just those in a factory. Driving a car requires a sequence of dependent events. So does the hike we’re taking now. In order to arrive at Devil’s Gulch, a trail has to be walked. Up front, Ron has to walk the trail before Davey can walk it. Davey has to walk the trail before Herbie can walk it. In order for me to walk the trail, the boy in front of me has to walk it first. It’s a simple case of dependent events.
And statistical fluctuations?
I look up and notice that the boy in front of me is going a little faster than I have been. He’s a few feet farther ahead of me than he was a minute ago. So I take some bigger steps to catch up. Then, for a second, I’m too close to him, so I slow down.
There: if I’d been measuring my stride, I would have recorded statistical fluctuations. But, again, what’s the big deal?
If I say that I’m walking at the rate of "two miles per hour,’’ I don’t mean I’m walking exactly at a constant rate of two miles per hour every instant. Sometimes I’ll be going 2.5 miles per hour; sometimes maybe I’ll be walking at only 1.2 miles per hour. The rate is going to fluctuate according to the length and speed of each step. But over time and distance, I should be averaging about two miles per hour, more or less.
The same thing happens in the plant. How long does it take to solder the wire leads on a transformer? Well, if you get out your stopwatch and time the operation over and over again, you might find that it takes, let’s say, 4.3 minutes on the average. But the actual time on any given instance may range between 2.1 minutes up to 6.4 minutes. And nobody in advance can say, "This one will take 2.1 minutes... this one will take 5.8 minutes.’’ Nobody can predict that information.
So what’s wrong with that? Nothing as far as I can see. Anyway, we don’t have any choice. What else are we going to use in place of an "average’’ or an "estimate’’?
I find I’m almost stepping on the boy in front of me. We’ve slowed down somewhat. It’s because we’re climbing a long, fairly steep hill. All of us are backed up behind Herbie.
"Come on, Herpes!’’ says one of the kids.
Herpes?
"Yeah, Herpes, let’s move it,’’ says another.
"Okay, enough of that,’’ I say to the persecutors.
Then Herbie reaches the top. He turns around. His face is red from the climb.
"Atta boy, Herbie!’’ I say to encourage him. "Let’s keep it moving!’’
Herbie disappears over the crest. The others continue the climb, and I trudge behind them until I get to the top. Pausing there, I look down the trail.
Holy cow! Where’s Ron? He must be half a mile ahead of us. I can see a couple of boys in front of Herbie, and everyone else is lost in the distance. I cup my hands over my mouth.
"HEY! LET’S GO UP THERE! LET’S CLOSE RANKS!’’ I yell. "DOUBLE TIME! DOUBLE TIME!’’
Herbie eases into a trot. The kids behind him start to run. I jog after them. Rucksacks and canteens and sleeping bags are bouncing and shaking with every step. And Herbie—I don’t know what this kid is carrying, but it sounds like he’s got a junkyard on his back with all the clattering and clanking he makes when he runs. After a couple hundred yards, we still haven’t caught up. Herbie is slowing down. The kids are yelling at him to hurry up. I’m huffing and puffing along. Finally I can see Ron off in the distance.
"HEY RON!’’ I shout. "HOLD UP!’’
The call is relayed up the trail by the other boys. Ron, who probably heard the call the first time, turns and looks back. Herbie, seeing relief in sight, slows to a fast walk. And so do the rest of us. As we approach, all heads are turned our way.
"Ron, I thought I told you to set a moderate pace,’’ I say.
"But I did!’’ he protests.
"Well, let’s just all try to stay together next time,’’ I tell them.
"Hey, Mr. Rogo, whadd’ya say we take five?’’ asks Herbie.
"Okay, let’s take a break,’’ I tell them.
Herbie falls over beside the trail, his tongue hanging out. Everyone reaches for canteens. I find the most comfortable log in sight and sit down. After a few minutes, Davey comes over and sits down next to me.
"You’re doing great, Dad,’’ he says.
"Thanks. How far do you think we’ve come?’’
"About two miles,’’ he says.
"Is that all?’’ I ask. "It feels like we ought to be there by now. We must have covered more distance than two miles.’’ "Not according to the map Ron has,’’ he says.
"Oh,’’ I say. "Well, I guess we’d better get a move on.’’ The boys are already lining up.
"All right, let’s go,’’ I say.
We start out again. The trail is straight here, so I can see everyone. We haven’t gone thirty yards before I notice it starting all over again. The line is spreading out; gaps between the boys are widening. Dammit, we’re going to be running and stopping all day long if this keeps up. Half the troop is liable to get lost if we can’t stay together.
