The Goal: a process of Ongoing Improvement

tell anybody?’’
I say.
"See, the whole thing was re-scheduled on short notice,’’ says Bob. "Since
you and Scott weren’t around, she went ahead on her own, cleared it with the
union, and made all the arrangements. She sent around a memo, but nobody
got a copy until this morning.’’
"Nothing like initiative,’’ I mutter.
He goes on to tell me about how Hilton’s crew proceeded to set up in front of
one of the robots—not the welding types, but another kind of robot which
stacks materials. It soon became obvious there was a problem, however: the
robot didn’t have anything to do. There was no inventory for it, and no work
on its way.
In a videotape about productivity, the robot, of course, could not simply sit
there in the background and do nothing. It had to be 
producing. 
So for an
hour, Donovan and a couple of assistants searched every corner of the plant
for something the robot could manipulate. Meanwhile, Smyth became bored
with the wait, so he started wandering around, and it wasn’t long before he
noticed a few things.

---

"When we got back with the materials, Hilton started asking all kinds of
things about our batch sizes,’’ says Bob. "I didn’t know what to tell him,
because I wasn’t sure what you’ve said up at headquarters and, uh . . . well, I
just thought you ought to know.’’
I feel my stomach twisting. Just then the phone rings. I pick it up at my desk.
It’s Ethan Frost at headquarters. He tells me he’s just had a talk with Hilton
Smyth. I excuse myself to Bob, and he leaves. When he’s gone and the door
is shut, I talk to Frost for a couple of minutes and afterwards go down to see
Lou.
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