The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement, page 32
I walk though the door and start to tap dance.
Two days later, an audit team from headquarters arrives at the plant. The team is headed by the division’s assistant controller, Neil Cravitz, a fiftyish man who has the most bone-crushing handshake and the most humorless stare of anyone I’ve ever met. They march in and take over the conference room. In hardly any time at all, they’ve found we changed the base for determining the cost of products.
"This is highly irregular,’’ says Cravitz, peering at us over the tops of his glasses as he looks up from the spreadsheets.
Lou stammers that, okay, maybe it wasn’t exactly according to policy, but we had valid reasons for basing costs on a current two-month period.
I added, "It’s actually a more truthful representation this way,’’
"Sorry, Mr. Rogo,’’ says Cravitz. "We have to observe standard policy.’’
"But the plant is different now!’’
Around the table, all five accountants are frowning at Lou and me. I finally shake my head. There is no sense attempting to appeal to them. All they know are their accounting standards.
The audit team recalculates the numbers, and it now looks as if our costs have gone up. When they leave, I try to head them off by calling Peach before they can return, but Peach is unexpectedly out of town. I try Frost, but he’s gone too. One of the secretaries offers to put me through to Smyth, who seems to be the only manager in the offices, but I ungracefully decline.
For a week, I wait for the blast from headquarters. But it never comes. Lou gets a rebuke from Frost in the form of a memo warning him to stick to approved policy, and a formal order to redo our quarterly report according to the old cost standards and to submit it before the review. From Peach, there is nothing.
I’m in the middle of a meeting with Lou over our revised monthly report early one afternoon. I’m crestfallen. With the numbers based on the old cost factor, we’re not going to make our fifteen percent. We’re only going to record a 12.8 percent increase on the bottom line, not the seventeen percent Lou originally calculated.
"Lou, can’t we massage this a little more?’’ I’m pleading.
He shakes his head. "From now on, Frost is going to be scrutinizing everything we submit. I can’t do any better than what you see now.’’
Just then I become aware of this sound outside the offices that’s getting louder and louder.
Wuppa-wuppa-wuppa-wuppa-wuppa-wuppa-wuppa-wuppa. I look at Lou and he looks at me.
"Is that a helicopter?’’ I ask.
Lou goes to the window and looks out.
"Sure is, and it’s landing on our lawn!’’ he says.
I get to the window just as it touches down. Dust and brown grass clippings are whirling in the prop wash around this sleek red and white helicopter. With the blades still twirling down to a stop, the door opens and two men get out.
"That first one looks like Johnny Jons,’’ says Lou.
"It is Johnny Jons,’’ I say.
"Who’s the other guy?’’ asks Lou.
I’m not sure. I watch them cross the lawn and start to walk through the parking lot. Something about the girth and the striding, arrogant swagger of the huge, white-haired second man triggers the recollection of a distant meeting. It dawns on me who he is.
"Oh, god,’’ I say.
"I didn’t think He needed a helicopter to get around,’’ says Lou.
"It’s worse than God,’’ I say, "It’s Bucky Burnside!’’
Before Lou can utter another word, I’m running for the door. I dash around the corner and into Stacey’s office. She, along with her secretary and some people she’s meeting with, are all at the window. Everybody is watching the damn helicopter.
"Stacey, quick, I need to talk to you right now!’’
She comes over to the door and I pull her into the hallway.
"What’s the status on Burnside’s Model 12’s?’’ I ask her.
"The last shipment went out two days ago.’’
"It was on time?’’
"Sure,’’ she says. "It went out the door with no problems, just like the previous shipments.’’
I’m running again, mumbling "thanks’’ over my shoulder to her.
"Donovan!’’
He’s not in his office. I stop at his secretary’s desk.
"Where’s Bob?’’ I ask her.
"I think he went to the men’s room,’’ she says.
I go sprinting in that direction. Bursting through the door, I find Bob washing his hands.
"On Burnside’s order,’’ I ask him, "were there any quality problems?’’
"No,’’ says Bob, startled to see me. "Nothing I know about.’’ "Were there any problems on that order?’’ I ask him.
He reaches for a paper towel and dries his hands. "No, the whole thing came off like clockwork.’’
I fall back against the wall. "Then what the hell is he doing here?’’
"Is who doing here?’’ asks Bob.
"Burnside,’’ I tell him. "He just landed in a helicopter with Johnny Jons.’’
"What?’’
"Come with me,’’ I tell him.
We go to the receptionist, but nobody is in the waiting area.
"Did Mr. Jons come through here just now with a customer?’’ I ask her.
She says, "The two men in the helicopter? No I watched them and they went past here and into the plant.’’
Bob and I hustle side by side down the corridor and through the double doors, into the orange light and production din of the plant. One of the supervisors sees us from across the aisle and, without being asked, points in the direction Jons and Burnside took. As we head down the aisle, I spot them ahead of us.
Burnside is walking up to every employee he sees and he’s shaking hands with each of them. Honest! He’s shaking hands, clapping them on the arm, saying things to them. And he’s smiling.
Jons is walking with him. He’s doing the same thing. As soon as Burnside lets go of a hand, Jons shakes it as well. They’re pumping everybody in sight.
Finally, Jons sees us approaching, taps Burnside on the shoulder, and says something to him. Burnside dons this big grin and comes striding up to me with his hand extended.
"Here’s the man I especially want to congratulate,’’ says Burnside in a growling kind of voice. "I was saving the best for last, but you beat me to it. How are you?’’
"Fine, just fine, Mr. Burnside,’’ I tell him.
"Rogo, I came down here because I want to shake the hand of every employee in your whole plant,’’ growls Burnside. "That was a hell of job this plant did on our order. A hell of a good job! Those other bastards had the order for five months and still couldn’t get it down, and here your people finish the whole thing in five weeks. Must have been an incredible effort!’’
Before I can say anything, Jons jumps into the conversation and says, "Bucky and I were having lunch today, and I was telling him how you pulled out all the stops for him, how everybody down here really gave it everything they had.’’
I say, "Ah... yeah, we just did our best.’’
"Mind if I go ahead?’’ asks Burnside, intending to continue down the aisle.
"No, not at all,’’ I say.
"Won’t hurt your efficiency, will it?’’ asks Burnside.
"Not one bit,’’ I tell him. "You go right ahead.’’
I turn to Donovan then and out of the corner of my mouth say, "Get Barbara Penn down here right away with the camera she uses for the employee news. And tell her to bring lots of film.’’
Donovan goes trotting off to the offices, and Jons and I follow Bucky up and down the aisles, the three of us shaking hands with one and all.
Johnny, I notice, is virtually atwitter with excitement. When Burnside is far enough ahead that he can’t hear us, he turns to me and asks, "What’s your shoe size?’’
"Ten and a half,’’ I tell him. "Why?’’
"I owe you a pair of shoes,’’ says Jons.
I say, "That’s okay, Johnny; don’t worry about it.’’
"Al, I’m telling you, we’re meeting with Burnside’s people next week on a long-term contract for Model 12’s—10,000 units a year!’’
The number just about sends me reeling backwards.
"And I’m calling in my whole department when I get back,’’ Jons continues as we walk. "We’re going to do a new campaign pushing everything you make down here, because this is the only plant we’ve got in this damn division that can ship a quality product on time. With your lead times, Al, we’re going to blow everybody out of the market! Thanks to you, we’ve finally got a winner.’’
I’m beaming. "Thanks Johnny. But, as it turned out, Burnside’s order didn’t take any extra effort at all.’’
"Shhhh! Don’t let Burnside know,’’ Johnny says.
Behind me, I hear two hourly guys talking.
"What was that all about?’’ asks one.
"Beats me,’’ says the other. "Guess we musta done somthin’ right.’’
On the eve of the plant performance review, with presentation rehearsed and ten copies of our report in hand, and with nothing more to do except imagine what could go wrong, I call Julie.
"Hi,’’ I tell her. "Listen, I have to be at headquarters for a meeting tomorrow morning. And because Forest Grove is more or less on the way, I’d like to come up and be with you tonight. What do you think?’’
"Sure, it sounds great,’’ she says.
So I leave work a little early and hit the highway. As I head up the Interstate, Bearington is spread out to my left. The "Buy Me!’’ sign on top of the high-rise office building is still in place. Living and breathing within the range of my sight are 30,000 people who have no idea that one small but important part of the town’s economic future will be decided tomorrow. Most of them haven’t the slightest interest in the plant or what we’ve done here—except if UniWare closes us, they’ll be mad and scared. And if we stay open? Nobody will care. Nobody will even know what we went through.
Well, win or lose, I know I did my best.
When I get to Julie’s parents’ house, Sharon and Dave run up to the car. After getting out of my suit and into some "offduty’’ clothes, I spend about an hour throwing a frisbee to the two kids. When they’ve exhausted me, Julie has the idea the two of us should go out to dinner. I get the feeling she wants to talk to me. I clean up a little and off we go. As we’re driving along, we pass the park.
"Al, why don’t we stop for awhile,’’ says Julie.
"How come?’’ I ask.
"The last time we were here we never finished our walk,’’ she says.
So I pull over. We get out and walk. By and by, we come to the bench by the river, and the two of us sit down.
"What’s your meeting about tomorrow?’’ she asks. "It’s a plant performance review,’’ I say. "The division will decide the future of the plant.’’
"Oh. What do you think they’ll say?’’
"We didn’t quite make what I promised Bill Peach,’’ I say. "One set of numbers doesn’t look as good as it truly is because of the cost-of-products standards. You remember me telling you about some of that, don’t you?’’
She nods, I shake my head momentarily, still angry at what happened as a result of the audit.
"But even with that, we still had a good month. It just doesn’t show up as the fantastic month we really had,’’ I tell her.
"You don’t think they’d still close the plant, do you?’’ she asks.
"I don’t think so,’’ I say. "A person would have to be an idiot to condemn us just because of an increase in cost of products. Even with screwed-up measurements, we’re making money.’’
She reaches over to take my hand and says, "It was nice of you to take me out to breakfast that morning.’’
I smile and say, "After listening to me ramble on at five o’clock in the morning, you deserved it.’’
"When you talked to me then, it made me realize how little I know about what you do,’’ she says. "I wish you had told me more over the years.’’
I shrug. "I don’t know why I haven’t, I guess I thought you wouldn’t want to hear it. Or I didn’t want to burden you with it.’’
"Well, I should have asked you more questions,’’ she says.
"I’m sure I didn’t give you many opportunities by working those long hours.’’
"When you weren’t coming home those days before I left, I really took it personally,’’ she says. "I couldn’t believe it didn’t have something to do with me. Deep down, I thought you must be using it as an excuse to stay away from me.’’
"No, absolutely not, Julie. When all those crises were occurring, I just kept thinking you must know how important they were,’’ I tell her. "I’m sorry. I should have told you more.’’
She squeezes my hand.
"I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said about our marriage when we were sitting here last time,’’ she says. "I have to say you’re right. For a long time, we have just been coasting along. In fact, we were drifting apart. I’ve watched you get more and more wrapped up in your job as the years have gone by. And to compensate for losing you, I got wrapped up in things like decorating the house and spending my time with friends. We lost sight of what was important.’’
I look at her in the sunlight. The awful frosting in her hair which she had when I came home the day the NCX-10 went down is finally gone. It’s grown out. Her hair is thick and straight again, and all the same dark brown.
She says, "Al, the one thing I definitely know now is that I want more of you, not less. That’s always been the problem for me.’’
She turns to me with her blue eyes, and I get a long-lost feeling about her.
"I finally figured out why I haven’t wanted to go back to Bearington with you,’’ she says. "And it isn’t just the town, although I don’t like it very much there. It’s that since we’ve been living apart, we’ve actually spent more time being together. I mean, when we were living in the same house, I felt as though you took me for granted. Now you bring me flowers. You go out of your way to be with me. You take time to do things with me and the kids. Al, it’s been nice. I know it can’t go on this way forever—I think my parents are getting a little tired of the arrangement—but I haven’t wanted it to end.’’
I start to feel very good.
I say, "At least we’re sure we don’t want to say good-bye.’’
"Al, I don’t know exactly what our goal is, or ought to be, but I think we know there must be some kind of need between us,’’ she says. "I know I want Sharon and Dave to grow up to be good people. And I want us to give each other what we need.’’
I put my arm around her.
"For starters, that sounds worth shooting for,’’ I tell her. "Look, it’s probably easier said than done, but I can certainly try to keep from taking you for granted. I’d like you to come home, but unfortunately, the pressures that caused all the problems are still going to be there. They’re just not going to go away. I can’t ignore my job.’’
"I’ve never asked you to,’’ she says. "Just don’t ignore me or the kids. And I’ll really try to understand your work.’’
I smile.
"You remember a long time ago, after we got married and we both had jobs, how we’d come home and just talk to each other for a couple of hours, and sympathize with each other about the trials and tribulations we’d suffered during the day?’’ I ask. "That was nice.’’
"But then there were babies,’’ says Julie. "And, later, you started putting in extra hours at work.’’
"Yeah, we got out of the habit,’’ I tell her. "What do you say we make a point to do that again?’’
"That sounds terrific,’’ she says. "Look, Al, I know that leaving you must have seemed selfish on my part. I just went crazy for a little while. I’m sorry—’’
"No, you don’t have to be sorry,’’ I tell her. "I should have been paying attention.’’
"But I’ll try to make it up to you,’’ she says. Then she smiles briefly and adds, "Since we’re walking down memory lane, maybe you remember the first fight we had, how we promised afterwards we’d always try to look at a situation from the other’s point of view as well as our own. Well, I think for the past couple of years we haven’t been doing that very often. I’m willing to try it again if you are.’’
