The Goal: a process of Ongoing Improvement

part that everyone needed so
desperately. Now they want to forget about it and set up for something else
instead? The hell with it! So Peach, always the diplomat, walks past my
supervisor and my foreman, and tells the master machinist that if he doesn’t

---

do what he’s told, he’s fired. More words are exchanged. The machinist
threatens to walk off the job. The union steward shows up. Everybody is
mad. Nobody is working. And now I’ve got four upset people greeting me
bright and early in front of an idle plant.
"So where is Bill Peach now?’’ I ask.
"He’s in your office,’’ says Dempsey.
"Okay, would you go tell him I’ll be in to talk to him in a minute,’’ I ask.
Dempsey gratefully hurries toward the office doors. I turn to Martinez
and the hourly guy, who I discover is the machinist. I tell them that as far as
I’m concerned there aren’t going to be any firings or suspensions—that the
whole thing is just a misunderstanding. Martinez isn’t entirely satisfied with
that at first, and the machinist sounds as if he wants an apology from Peach.
I’m not about to step into that one. I also happen to know that Martinez can’t
call a walkout on his own authority. So I say if the union wants to file a
grievance, okay; I’ll be glad to talk to the local president, Mike O’Donnell,
later today, and we’ll handle everything in due course. Realizing he can’t do
anything more before talking to O’Donnell anyway, Martinez finally accepts
that, and he and the hourly guy start walking back to the plant.
"So let’s get them back to work,’’ I tell Ray.
"Sure, but uh, what should we be working on?’’ asks Ray.
"The job we’re set up to run or the one Peach wants?’’ "Do the one Peach
wants,’’ I tell him.
"Okay, but we’ll be wasting a set-up,’’ says Ray. "So we waste it!’’ I tell
him. "Ray, I don’t even know what the situation is. But for Bill to be here,
there must be some kind of emergency. Doesn’t that seem logical?’’
"Yeah, sure,’’ says Ray. "Hey, I just want to know what to do.’’
"Okay, I know you were just caught in the middle of all this,’’ I say to try to

---

make him feel better. "Let’s just get that setup done as quick as we can and
start running that part.’’
"Right,’’ he says.
Inside, Dempsey passes me on his way back to the plant. He’s just come from
my office and he looks like he’s in a hurry to get out of there. He shakes his
head at me.
"Good luck,’’ he says out of the corner of his mouth.
The door to my office is wide open. I walk in, and there he is. Bill Peach is
sitting behind my desk. He’s a stocky, barrel-chested guy with thick, steely-
gray hair and eyes that almost match. As I put my briefcase down, the eyes
are locked onto me with a look that says 
This is your neck, Rogo.
"Okay, Bill, what’s going on?’’ I ask.
He says, "We’ve got things to talk about. Sit down.’’
I say, "I’d like to, but you’re in my seat.’’
It may have been the wrong thing to say.
"You want to know why I’m here?’’ he says. "I’m here to save your lousy
skin.’’
I tell him, "Judging from the reception I just got, I’d say you’re here to ruin
my labor relations.’’
He looks straight at me and says, "If you can’t make some things happen
around here, you’re not going to have any labor to worry about. Because
you’re not going to have this plant to worry about. In fact, you may not have
a job to worry about, Rogo.’’
"Okay, wait a minute, take it easy,’’ I say. "Let’s just talk about it. What’s the
problem with this order?’’

---

First of all, Bill tells me that he got a phone call last night at home around ten
o’clock from good old Bucky Burnside, president of one of UniCo’s biggest
customers. Seems that Bucky was having a fit over the fact that this order of
his (41427) is seven weeks late. He proceeded to rake Peach over the coals
for about an hour. Bucky apparently had gone out on a limb to sway the order
over to us when everybody was telling him to give the business to one of our
competitors. He had just had dinner with several of his customers, and they
had dumped all over him because their orders were late—which, as it
happens, was because of us. So Bucky was mad (and probably a little drunk).
Peach was able to pacify him only by promising to deal with the matter
personally and by guaranteeing that the order would be shipped by the end of
today, no matter what mountains had to be moved.
I try to tell Bill that, yes, we were clearly wrong to have let this order slide,
and I’ll give it my personal attention, but did he have to come in here this
morning and disrupt my whole plant?
So where was I last night, he asks, when he tried to call me at home? Under
the circumstances, I can’t tell him I have a personal life. I can’t tell him that
the first two times the phone rang, I let it ring because I was in the middle of
a fight with my wife, which, oddly enough, was about how little attention
I’ve been giving her. And the third time, I didn’t answer it because we were
making up.
I decide to tell Peach I was just late getting home. He doesn’t press the issue.
Instead, he asks how come I don’t know what’s going on inside my own
plant. He’s sick and tired of hearing complaints about late shipments. Why
can’t I stay on top of things?
"One thing I do know,’’ I tell him, "is that after the second round of layoffs
you forced on us three months ago, along with the order for a twenty percent
cutback, we’re lucky to get anything out the door on time.’’
"Al,’’ he says quietly, "just build the damn products. You hear me?’’
"Then give me the people I need!’’ I tell him.

---

"You’ve got enough people! Look at your efficiencies, for god’s sake!
You’ve got room for improvement, Al,’’ he says. "Don’t come crying to me
about not enough people until you show me you can effectively use what
you’ve got.’’
I’m about to say something when Peach holds up his hand for me to shut my
mouth. He stands up and goes over to close the door. Oh shit, I’m thinking.
He turns by the door and tells me, "Sit down.’’
I’ve been standing all this time. I take a seat in one of the chairs in front of
the desk, where a visitor would sit. Peach returns behind the desk.
"Look, Al, it’s a waste of time to argue about this. Your last operations report
tells the story,’’ says Peach.
I say, "Okay, you’re right. The issue is getting Burnside’s order shipped—’’
Peach explodes. "Dammit, the issue is not Burnside’s order! Burnside’s order
is just a symptom of the problem around here. Do you think I’d come down
here just to expedite a late order? Do you think I don’t have enough to do? I
came down here to light a fire under you and everybody else in this plant.
This isn’t just a matter of customer service. Your plant is losing money.’’
He pauses for a moment, as if he had to let that sink in. Then —bam—he
pounds his fist on the desk top and points his finger at me.
"And if you can’t get the orders out the door,’’ he continues, "then I’ll show
you how to do it. And if you still can’t do it, then I’ve got no use for you 
or
this plant.’’
"Now wait a minute, Bill—’’
"Dammit, I don’t have a minute!’’ he roars. "I don’t have time for excuses
anymore. And I don’t need explanations. I need performance. I need
shipments. I need income!’’

---

"Yes, I know that, Bill.’’
"What you may not know is that this division is facing the worst losses in its
history. We’re falling into a hole so deep we may never get out, and your
plant is the anchor pulling us in.’’
I feel exhausted already. Tiredly I ask him, "Okay, what do you want from
me? I’ve been here six months. I admit it’s gotten worse instead of better
since I’ve been here. But I’m doing the best I can.’’
"If you want the bottom line, Al, this is it: You’ve got three months to turn
this plant around,’’ Peach says.
"And suppose it can’t be done in that time?’’ I ask.
"Then I’m going to go to the management committee with a recommendation
to close the plant,’’ he says.
I sit there speechless. This is definitely worse than anything I expected to
hear this morning. And, yet, it’s not really that surprising. I glance out the
window. The parking lot is filling with the cars of the people coming to work
first shift. When I look back, Peach has stood up and is coming around the
desk. He sits down in the chair next to me and leans forward. Now comes the
reassurance, the pep talk.
"Al, I know that the situation you inherited here wasn’t the best. I gave you
this job because I thought you were the one who could change this plant from
a loser to . . . well, a small winner at least. And I still think that. But if you
want to go places in this company, you’ve got to deliver results.’’
"But I need time, Bill.’’
"Sorry, you’ve got three months. And if things get much worse, I may not
even be able to give you that.’’
I sit there as Bill glances at his watch and stands up, discussion ended.

---

He says, "If I leave now, I’ll only miss my first meeting.’’
I stand up. He walks to the door.
Hand on the knob, he turns and says with a grin, "Now that I’ve helped you
kick some ass around here, you won’t have any trouble getting Bucky’s order
shipped for me today, will you?’’
"We’ll ship it, Bill,’’ I say.
"Good,’’ he says with wink as he opens the door.
A minute later, I watch from the window as he gets into his Mercedes and
drives toward the gate.
Three months. That’s all I can think about.
I don’t remember turning away from the window. I don’t know how much
time has passed. All of a sudden, I’m aware that I’m sitting at my desk and
I’m staring into space. I decide I’d better go see for myself what’s happening
out in the plant. From the shelf by the door, I get my hard hat and safety
glasses and head out. I pass my secretary.
"Fran, I’ll be out on the floor for a little while,’’ I tell her as I go by.
Fran looks up from a letter she’s typing and smiles.
"Okey-dokey,’’ she says. "By the way, was that Peach’s car I saw in your
space this morning?’’
"Yes, it was.’’
"Nice car,’’ she says and she laughs. "I thought it might be yours when I first
saw it.’’
Then I laugh. She leans forward across the desk.

---

"Say, how much would a car like that cost?’’ she asks.
"I don’t know exactly, but I think it’s around 
sixty
thousand dollars,’’ I tell
her.
Fran catches her breath. "You’re kidding me! That much? I had no idea a car
could cost that much. Wow. Guess I won’t be trading in my Chevette on one
of those very soon.’’
She laughs and turns back to her typing.
Fran is an "okey-dokey’’ lady. How old is she? Early forties I’d guess, with
two teen-aged kids she’s trying to support. Her ex-husband is an alcoholic.
They got divorced a long time ago . . . since then, she’s wanted nothing to do
with a man. Well, almost nothing. Fran told me all this herself on my second
day at the plant. I like her. I like her work, too. We pay her a good wage . . .
at least we do now. Anyway, she’s still got three months.
Going into the plant is like entering a place where satans and angels have
married to make kind of a gray magic. That’s what it always feels like to me.
All around are things that are mundane and miraculous. I’ve always found
manufacturing plants to be fascinating places—even on just a visual level.
But most people don’t see them the way I do.
Past a set of double doors separating the office from the plant, the world
changes. Overhead is a grid of lamps suspended from the roof trusses, and
everything is cast in the warm, orange hues of sodium-iodine light. There is a
huge chain-link cage which has row after row of floor-to-roof racks loaded
with bins and cartons filled with parts and materials for everything we make.
In a skinny aisle between two racks rides a man in the basket of a forklift
crane that runs along a track on the ceiling. Out on the floor, a reel of shiny
steel slowly unrolls into the machine that every few seconds says "Ca-
chunk.’’
Machines. The plant is really just one vast room, acres of space, filled with
machines. They are organized in blocks and the blocks are separated by

---

aisles. Most of the machines are painted in solid Mardi Gras colors—orange,
purple, yellow, blue. From some of the newer machines, ruby numbers shine
from digital displays. Robotic arms perform programs of mechanical dance.
Here and there, often almost hidden among the machines, are the people.
They look over as I walk by. Some of them wave; I wave back. An electric
cart whines past, an enormous fat guy driving it. Women at long tables work
with rainbows of wire. A grimy guy in amorphous coveralls adjusts his face
mask and ignites a welding torch. Behind glass, a buxom, red-haired woman
pecks the keys on a computer terminal with an amber display.
Mixed with the sights is the noise, a din with a continuous underlying chord
made by the whirr of fans, motors, the air in the ventilators—it all sounds like
an endless breath. At random comes a BOOM of something inexplicable.
Behind me ring the alarm bells of an overhead crane rumbling up its track.
Relays click. The siren sounds. From the P.A. system, a disembodied voice
talks like God, intermittently and incomprehensibly, over everything.
Even with all that noise, I hear the whistle. Turning, I see the unmistakable
shape of Bob Donovan walking up the aisle. He’s some distance away. Bob is
what you might call a mountain of a man, standing as he does at six-foot-
four. He weighs in at about 250 pounds, a hefty portion of which is beer gut.
He isn’t the prettiest guy in the world ...I think his barber was trained by the
Marines. And he doesn’t talk real fancy; I suspect it’s a point of pride with
him. But despite a few rough edges, which he guards closely, Bob is a good
guy. He’s been production manager here for nine years. If you need
something to happen, all you do is talk to Bob and if it can be done, it will be
by the next time you mention it.
It takes a minute or so for us to reach each other. As we get closer, I can see
he isn’t very cheerful. I suppose it’s mutual.
"Good morning,’’ says Bob.
"I’m not sure what’s good about it,’’ I say. "Did you hear about our visitor?’’
"Yeah, it’s all over the plant,’’ says Bob.

---

"So I guess you know about the urgency for shipping a certain order number
41427?’’ I ask him.
He starts to turn red. "That’s what I need to talk to you about.’’
"Why? What’s up?’’
"I don’t know if word reached you yet, but Tony, that master machinist Peach
yelled at, quit this morning,’’ says Bob.
"Aw, shit,’’ I mutter.
"I don’t think I have to tell you that guys like that are not a dime a dozen.
We’re going to have a tough time finding a replacement,’’ says Bob.
"Can we get him back?’’
"Well, we may not want him back,’’ says Bob. "Before he quit, he did the
set-up that Ray told him to do, and put the machine on automatic to do its
run. The thing is, he didn’t tighten two of the adjusting nuts. We got little bits
of machine tool all over the floor now.’’
"How many parts do we have to scrap?’’
"Well, not that many. It only ran for a little while.’’
"Will we have enough to fill that order?’’ I ask him.
"I’ll have to check,’’ he says. "But, see, the problem is that the machine itself
is down and it may stay down for some time.’’
"Which one is it?’’ I ask.
"The NCX-10,’’ he says.
I shut my eyes. It’s like a cold hand just reached inside me and grabbed the

---

bottom of my stomach. That machine is the only one of its type in the plant. I
ask Bob how bad the damage is. He says, "I don’t know. They’ve got the
thing half torn apart out there. We’re on the phone with the manufacturer
right now.’’
I start walking fast. I want to see it for myself. God, are we in trouble. I
glance over at Bob, who is keeping pace with me.
"Do you think it was sabotage?’’ I ask.
Bob seems surprised. "Well, I can’t say. I think the guy was just so upset he
couldn’t think straight. So he screwed it up.’’
I can feel my face getting hot. The cold hand is gone. Now I’m so pissed off
at Bill Peach that I’m fantasizing about calling him on the phone and
screaming in his ear. It’s his fault! And in my head I see him. I see him
behind my desk and hear him telling me how he’s going to show me how to
get the orders out the door. Right, Bill. You really showed me how to do it.

---

2
Isn’t it strange to feel your own world is falling apart while those of the
people close to you are rock steady? And you can’t figure out why they’re
not affected the way you are. About 6:30, I slip away from the plant to run
home and grab some dinner. As I come through the door, Julie looks up from
the television.
"Hi,’’ she says. "Like my hair?’’
She turns her head. The thick, straight brown hair she used to have is now
a mass of frizzed ringlets. And it isn’t all the same color anymore. It’s lighter
in places.
"Yeah, looks great,’’ I say automatically.
"The hairdresser said it sets off my eyes,’’ she says, batting her long lashes at
me. She has big, pretty blue eyes; they don’t need to be "set off’’ in my
opinion, but what do I know?
"Nice,’’ I say.
"Gee, you’re not very enthusiastic,’’ she says.
"Sorry, but I’ve had a rough day.’’
"Ah, poor baby,’’ she says. "But I’ve got a great idea! We’ll go out to dinner
and you can forget all about it.’’
I shake my head. "I can’t. I’ve got to eat something fast and get back to the
plant.’’
She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. I notice she’s wearing a new

---

outfit.
"Well you’re a lot of fun!’’ she says. "And after I got rid of the kids, too.’’
"Julie, I’ve got a crisis on my hands. One of my most expensive machines
went down this morning, and I need it to process a part for a rush order. I’ve
got to stay on top of this one,’’ I tell her.
"Okay. Fine. There is nothing to eat, because I thought we were going out,’’
she says. "Last night, you said we were going out.’’
Then I remember. She’s right. It was part of the promises when we were
making up after the fight.
"I’m sorry. Look, maybe we can go out for an hour or so,’’ I tell her.
"That’s your idea of a night on the town?’’ she says. "Forget it, Al!’’
"Listen to me,’’ I tell her. "Bill Peach showed up unexpectedly this morning.
He’s talking about closing the plant.’’
Her face changes. Did it brighten?
"Closing the plant... really?’’ she asks.
"Yeah, it’s getting very bad.’’
"Did you talk to him about where your next job would be?’’ she asks.
After a second of disbelief, I say, "No, I didn’t talk to him about my next job.
My job is 
here—
in this town, at this plant.’’
She says, "Well, if the plant is going to close, aren’t you interested in where
you’re going to live next? I am.’’
"He’s only talking about it.’’

---

"Oh,’’ she says.
I feel myself glaring at her. I say, "You really want to get out of this town as
fast as you can, don’t you?’’
"It isn’t my home town, Al. I don’t have the same sentimental feelings for it
you do,’’ she says.
"We’ve only been here six months,’’ I say.
"Is that all? A mere six months?’’ she says. "Al, I have no friends here.
There’s nobody except you to talk to, and you’re not home most of the time.
Your family is very nice, but after an hour with your mother, I go crazy. So it
doesn’t feel like six months to me.’’
"What do you want me to do? I didn’t ask to come here. The company sent
me to do a job. It was the luck of the draw,’’ I say.
"Some luck.’’
"Julie, I do not have time to get into another fight with you,’’ I tell her.
She’s starting to cry.
"Fine! Go ahead and leave! I’ll just be here by myself,’’ she crys. "Like every
night.’’
"Aw, Julie.’’
I finally go put my arms around her. We stand together for a few minutes,
both of us quiet. When she stops crying, she steps back and looks up at me.
"I’m sorry,’’ she says. "If you have to go back to the plant, then you’d better
go.’’
"Why don’t we go out tomorrow night?’’ I suggest.

---

She turns up her hands. "Fine . . . whatever.’’
I turn, then look back. "Will you be okay?’’
"Sure. I’ll find something to eat in the freezer,’’ she says. I’ve forgotten about
dinner by now. I say, "Okay, I’ll probably pick up something on my way
back to the plant. See you later tonight.’’
Once I’m in the car, I find I’ve lost my appetite.
Ever since we moved to Bearington, Julie has been having a hard time.
Whenever we talk about the town, she always complains about it, and I
always find myself defending it.
It’s true I was born and raised in Bearington, so I do feel at home here. I
know all the streets. I know the best places to go to buy things, the good bars
and the places you stay out of, all that stuff. There is a sense of ownership I
have for the town, and more affection for it than for some other burg down
the highway. It was home for eighteen years.
But I don’t think I have too many illusions about it. Bearington is a
factory town. Anyone passing through probably wouldn’t see anything
special about the place. Driving along, I look around and have much the same
reaction. The neighborhood where we live looks like any other American
suburb. The houses are fairly new. There are shopping centers nearby, a litter
of fast-food restaurants, and over next to the Interstate is a big mall. I can’t
see much difference here from any of the other suburbs where we’ve lived.
Go to the center of town and it 
is
a little depressing. The streets are lined
with old brick buildings that have a sooty, crumbling look to them. A number
of store fronts are vacant or covered with plywood. There are plenty of
railroad tracks, but not many trains.
On the corner of Main and Lincoln is Bearington’s one highrise office
building, a lone tower on the skyline. When it was being built some ten years
ago, the building was considered to be a very big deal around here, all
fourteen stories of it. The fire department used it as an excuse to go buy a

---

brand new fire engine, just so it would have a ladder long enough to reach to
the top. (Ever since then, I think they’ve secretly been waiting for a fire to
break out in the penthouse just to use the new ladder.) Local boosters
immediately claimed that the new office tower was some kind of symbol of
Bearington’s vitality, a sign of re-birth in an old industrial town. Then a
couple of years ago, the building management erected an enormous sign on
the roof which says in red block letters: "Buy Me!’’ It gives a phone number.
From the Interstate, it looks like the whole town is for sale. Which isn’t too
far from the truth.
On my way to work each day, I pass another plant along the road to ours.
It sits behind a rusty chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top.
In front of the plant is a paved parking lot—five acres of concrete with tufts
of brown grass poking through the cracks. Years have gone by since any cars
have parked there. The paint has faded on the walls and they’ve got a chalky
look to them. High on the long front wall you can still make out the company
name; there’s darker paint where the letters and logo had once been before
they were removed.
The company that owned the plant went south. They built a new plant
somewhere in North Carolina. Word has it they were trying to run away from
a bad situation with their union. Word also has it that the union probably will
catch up with them again in about five years or so. But meanwhile they’ll
have bought themselves five years of lower wages and maybe fewer hassles
from the work force. And five years seem like eternity as far as modern
management planning is concerned. So Bearington got another industrial
dinosaur carcass on its outskirts and about 2,000 people hit the street.
Six months ago, I had occasion to go inside the plant. At the time, we
were just looking for some cheap warehouse space nearby. Not that it was my
job, but I went over with some other people just to look the place over.
(Dreamer that I was when I first got here, I thought maybe someday we’d
need more space to expand. What a laugh that is now.) It was the silence that
really got to me. Everything was so quiet. Your footsteps echoed. It was
weird. All the machines had been removed. It was just a huge empty place.
Driving by it now, I can’t help thinking, that’s going to be us in three

---

months. It gives me a sick feeling.
I hate to see this stuff happening. The town has been losing major employers
at the rate of about one a year ever since the mid-1970s. They fold
completely, or they pull out and go elsewhere. There doesn’t seem to be any
end to it. And now it may be our turn.
When I came back to manage this plant, the Bearington 
Herald
did a story on
me. I know, big deal. But I was kind of a minor celebrity for a while. The
local boy had made it big. It was sort of a high-school fantasy come true. I
hate to think that the next time my name is in the paper, the story might be
about the plant closing. I’m starting to feel like a traitor to everybody.
Donovan looks like a nervous gorilla when I get back to the plant. With
all the running around he’s done today, he must have lost five pounds. As I
walk up the aisle toward the NCX-10, I watch him shifting his weight from
one leg to the other. Then he paces for a few seconds and stops. Suddenly he
darts across the aisle to talk to someone. And then he takes off to check on
something. I give him a shrill, two-finger whistle, but he doesn’t hear it. I
have to follow him through two departments before I can catch up with him
—back at the NCX-10. He looks surprised to see me.
"We going to make it?’’ I ask him.
"We’re trying,’’ he says.
"Yeah, but can we do it?’’
"We’re doing our best,’’ he says.
"Bob, are we going to ship the order tonight or not?’’ "Maybe.’’
I turn away and stand there looking at the NCX-10. Which is a lot to look at.
It’s a big hunk of equipment, our most expensive n/c machine. And it’s
painted a glossy, distinctive lavender. (Don’t ask me why.) On one side is a
control board filled with red, green, and amber lights, shiny toggle switches,
a jet black keyboard, tape drives, and a computer display. It’s a sexy-looking

---

machine. And the focus of it all is the metal-working being done in the
middle of it, where a vise holds a piece of steel. Shavings of metal are being
sliced away by a cutting tool. A steady wash of turquoise lubricant splashes
over the work and carries away the chips. At least the damn thing is working
again.
We were lucky today. The damage wasn’t as bad as we had first thought.
But the service technician didn’t start packing his tools until 4:30. By then, it
was already second shift.
We held everybody in assembly on overtime, even though overtime is
against current division policy. I don’t know where we’ll bury the expense,
but we’ve to go get this order shipped tonight. I got four phone calls today
just from our marketing manager, Johnny Jons. He too has been getting his
ear chewed— from Peach, from his own sales people, and from the customer.
We absolutely must ship this order tonight.
So I’m hoping nothing else goes wrong. As soon as each part is finished,
it’s individually carried over to where it’s fitted into the subassembly. And as
soon as that happens, the foreman over there is having each subassembly
carted down to final assembly. You want to talk about efficiency? People
hand-carrying things one at a time, back and forth . . . our output of parts per
employee must be ridiculous. It’s crazy. In fact, I’m wondering, where did
Bob get all the people?
I take a slow look around. There is hardly anybody working in the
departments that don’t have something to do with 41427. Donovan has stolen
every body he could grab and put them all to work on this order. This is not
the way it’s supposed to be done.
But the order ships.
I glance at my watch. It’s a few minutes past 11:00 
P
.
M
. We’re on the
shipping dock. The doors on the back of the tractor-trailer are being closed.
The driver is climbing up into his seat. He revs the engine, releases the
brakes, and eases out into the night.

---

I turn to Donovan. He turns to me.
"Congratulations,’’ I tell him.
"Thanks, but don’t ask me how we did it,’’ he says.
"Okay, I won’t. What do you say we find ourselves some dinner?’’
For the first time all day, Donovan smiles. Way off in the distance, the truck
shifts gears.
We take Donovan’s car because it’s closer. The first two places we try are
closed. So then I tell Donovan just to follow my directions. We cross the
river at 16th Street and drive down Bessemer into South Flat until we get to
the mill. Then I tell Donovan to hang a right and we snake our way through
the side streets. The houses back in there are built wall to wall, no yards, no
grass, no trees. The streets are narrow and everyone parks in the streets, so it
makes for some tedious maneuvering. But finally we pull up in front of
Sednikk’s Bar and Grill.
Donovan takes a look at the place and says, "You sure this is where we want
to be?’’
"Yeah, yeah. Come on. They’ve got the best burgers in town,’’ I tell him.
Inside, we take a booth toward the rear. Maxine recognizes me and comes
over to make a fuss. We talk for a minute and then Donovan and I order some
burgers and fries and beer.
Donovan looks around and says, "How’d you know about this place?’’
I say, "Well, I had my first shot-and-a-beer over there at the bar. I think it was
the third stool on the left, but it’s been a while.’’
Donovan asks, "Did you start drinking late in life, or did you grow up in this
town?’’

---

"I grew up two blocks from here. My father owned a corner grocery store.
My brother runs it today.’’
"I didn’t know you were from Bearington,’’ says Donovan.
"With all the transfers, it’s taken me about fifteen years to get back here,’’ I
say.
The beers arrive.
Maxine says, "These two are on Joe.’’
She points to Joe Sednikk who stands behind the bar. Donovan and I wave
out thanks to him.
Donovan raises his glass, and says, "Here’s to getting 41427 out the door.’’
"I’ll drink to that,’’ I say and clink my glass against his.
After a few swallows, Donovan looks much more relaxed. But I’m still
thinking about what went on tonight.
"You know, we paid a hell of a price for that shipment,’’ I say. "We lost a
good machinist. There’s the repair bill on the NCX-10. Plus the overtime.’’
"Plus the time we lost on the NCX-10 while it was down,’’ adds Donovan.
Then he says, "But you got to admit that once we got rolling, we really
moved. I wish we could do that every day.’’
I laugh. "No thanks. I don’t need days like this one.’’
"I don’t mean we need Bill Peach to walk into the plant every day. But we
did
ship the order,’’ says Donovan.
"I’m all for shipping orders, Bob, but not the way we did it tonight,’’ I tell
him.

---

"It went out the door, didn’t it?’’
"Yes, it did. But it was the way that it happened that we can’t allow.’’
"I just saw what had to be done, put everybody to work on it, and the hell
with the rules,’’ he says.
"Bob, do you know what our efficiencies would look like if we ran the plant
like that every day?’’ I ask. "We can’t just dedicate the entire plant to one
order at a time. The economies of scale would disappear. Our costs would go
—well, they’d be even worse than they are now. We can’t run the plant just
by the seatof-the-pants.’’
Donovan becomes quiet. Finally he says, "Maybe I learned too many of the
wrong things back when I was an expeditor.’’
"Listen, you did a hell of a job today. I mean that. But we set policy for a
purpose. You should know that. And let me tell you that Bill Peach, for all
the trouble he caused to get one order shipped, would be back here pounding
on our heads at the end of the month if we didn’t manage the plant for
efficiency.’’
He nods slowly, but then he asks, "So what do we do the next time this
happens?’’
I smile.
"Probably the same damn thing,’’ I tell him. Then I turn and say, "Maxine,
give us two more here, please. No, on second thought, we’re going to save
you a lot of walking. Make it a pitcher.’’
So we made it through today’s crisis. We won. Just barely. And now that
Donovan is gone and the effects of the alcohol are wearing off, I can’t see
what there was to celebrate. We managed to ship one very late order today.
Whoopee.
The real issue is I’ve got a manufacturing plant on the critical list. Peach

---

has given it three months to live before he pulls the plug.
That means I have two, maybe three more monthly reports in which to
change his mind. After that, the sequence of events will be that he’ll go to
corporate management and present the numbers. Everybody around the table
will look at Granby. Granby will ask a couple of questions, look at the
numbers one more time, and nod his head. And that will be it. Once the
executive decision has been made, there will be no changing it.
They’ll give us time to finish our backlog. And then 600 people will head
for the unemployment lines—where they will join their friends and former
co-workers, the 
other
600 people whom we have already laid off.
And so the UniWare Division will drop out of yet another market in
which it can’t compete. Which means the world will no longer be able to buy
any more of the fine products we can’t make cheap enough or fast enough or
good enough or something enough to beat the Japanese. Or most anybody
else out there for that matter. That’s what makes us another fine division in
the UniCo "family’’ of businesses (which has a record of earnings growth
that looks like Kansas), and that’s why we’ll be just another fine company in
the Who-Knows-What Corporation after the big boys at headquarters put
together some merger with some other loser. That seems to be the essence of
the company’s strategic plan these days.
What’s the matter with us?
Every six months it seems like some group from corporate is coming out with
some new program that’s the latest panacea to all our problems. Some of
them seem to work, but none of them does any good. We limp along month
after month, and it never gets any better. Mostly it gets worse.
Okay. Enough of the bitching, Rogo. Try to calm down. Try to think about
this rationally. There’s nobody around. It’s late. I am alone finally... here in
the coveted corner office, throne room of my empire, such as it is. No
interruptions. The phone is not ringing. So let’s try to analyze the situation.
Why can’t we consistently get a quality product out the door on time at the
cost that can beat the competition?

---

Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is, but something basic is very
wrong. I must be missing something.
I’m running what 
should
be a good plant. Hell, it is a good plant. We’ve got
the technology. We’ve got some of the best n/c machines money can buy.
We’ve got robots. We’ve got a computer system that’s supposed to do
everything but make coffee.
We’ve got good people. For the most part we do. Okay, we’re short in a
couple of areas, but the people we have are good for the most part, even
though we sure could use more of them. And I don’t have too many problems
with the union. They’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but the competition has
unions too. And, hell, the workers made some concessions last time—not as
many as we’d have liked, but we have a livable contract.
I’ve got the machines. I’ve got the people. I’ve got all the materials I need. I
know there’s a market out there, because the competitors’ stuff is selling. So
what the hell is it?
It’s the damn competition. That’s what’s killing us. Ever since the Japanese
entered our markets, the competition has been incredible. Three years ago,
they were beating us on quality and product design. We’ve just about
matched them on those. But now they’re beating us on price and deliveries. I
wish I knew their secret.
What can I possibly do to be more competitive?
I’ve done cost reduction. No other manager in this division has cut costs to
the degree I have. There is nothing left to trim.
And, despite what Peach says, my efficiencies are pretty damn good. He’s got
other plants with worse, I know that. But the better ones don’t have the
competition I do. Maybe I could push efficiencies some more, but ...I don’t
know. It’s like whipping a horse that’s already running as fast as it can.
We’ve just got to do something about late orders. Nothing in this plant ships

---

until it’s expedited. We’ve got stacks and stacks of inventory out there. We
release the materials on schedule, but nothing comes out the far end when it’s
supposed to.
That’s not uncommon. Just about every plant I know of has expeditors. And
you walk through just about any plant in America about our size and you’ll
find work-in-process inventory on the same scale as what we have. I don’t
know what it is. On the one hand, this plant is no worse than most of the ones
I’ve seen— and, in fact, it’s better than many. But we’re losing money.
If we could just get our backlog out the door. Sometimes it’s like little
gremlins out there. Every time we start to get it right, they sneak around
between shifts when nobody is looking and they change things just enough so
everything gets screwed up. I swear it’s got to be gremlins.
Or maybe I just don’t know enough. But, hell, I’ve got an engineering degree.
I’ve got an MBA. Peach wouldn’t have named me to the job if he hadn’t
thought I was qualified. So it can’t be me. Can it?
Man, how long has it been since I started out down there in industrial
engineering as a smart kid who knew everything— fourteen, fifteen years?
How many long days have there been since then?
I used to think if I worked hard I could do anything. Since the day I turned
twelve I’ve worked. I worked after school in my old man’s grocery store. I
worked through high school. When I was old enough, I spent my summers
working in the mills around here. I was always told that if I worked hard
enough it would pay off in the end. That’s true, isn’t it? Look at my brother;
he took the easy way out by being the first born. Now he owns a grocery
store in a bad neighborhood across town. But look at me. I worked hard. I
sweated my way through engineering school. I got a job with a big company.
I made myself a stranger to my wife and kids. I took all the crap that UniCo
could give me and said, "I can’t get enough! Give me more!’’ Boy, am I glad
I did! Here I am, thirty-eight years old, and I’m a crummy plant manager!
Isn’t that wonderful? I’m really having fun now.
Time to get the hell out of here. I’ve had enough fun for one day.

---

3
I wake up with Julie on top of me. Unfortunately, Julie is not being
amorous; she is reaching for the night table where the digital alarm clock says
6:03 
A
.
M
. The alarm buzzer has been droning for three minutes. Julie smashes
the button to kill it. With a sigh, she rolls off of me. Moments later, I hear her
breathing resume a steady pace; she is asleep again. Welcome to a brand new
day.
About forty-five minutes later, I’m backing the 
Mazda
out of the garage.
It’s still dark outside. But a few miles down the road the sky lightens.
Halfway to the city, the sun rises. By then, I’m too busy thinking to notice it
at first. I glance to the side and it’s floating out there beyond the trees. What
makes me mad sometimes is that I’m always running so hard that—like most
other people, I guess—I don’t have time to pay attention to all the daily
miracles going on around me. Instead of letting me eyes drink in the dawn,
I’m watching the road and worrying about Peach. He’s called a meeting at
headquarters for all the people who directly report to him—in essence, his
plant managers and his staff. The meeting, we are told, is to begin promptly
at 8:00 A.M. The funny thing is that Peach is not saying what the meeting is
about. It’s a big secret—you know: hush-hush, like maybe there’s a war on or
something. He has instructed us to be there at eight and to bring with us
reports and other data that’ll let us go through a thorough assessment of all
the division’s operations.
Of course, all of us have found out what the meeting is about. At least we
have a fairly good idea. According to the grapevine, Peach is going to use the
meeting to lay some news on us about how badly the division performed in
the first quarter. Then he’s going to hit us with a mandate for a new
productivity drive, with targeted goals for each plant and commitments and
all that great stuff. I suppose that’s the reason for the commandment to be
there at eight o’clock on the button with numbers in hand; Peach must’ve
thought it would lend a proper note of discipline and urgency to the

---

proceedings.
The irony is that in order to be there at such an early hour, half the people
attending will have had to fly in the night before. Which means hotel bills
and extra meals. So in order to announce to us how badly the division is
doing, Peach is going to pay out a couple of grand more than he would have
had to pay if he’d begun the meeting an hour or two later.
I think that Peach may be starting to lose it. Not that I suspect him of
drifting toward a breakdown or anything. It’s just that everything seems to be
an over-reaction on his part these days. He’s like a general who knows he is
losing the battle, but forgets his strategy in his desperation to win.
He was different a couple of years ago. He was confident. He wasn’t
afraid to delegate responsibility. He’d let you run your own show—as long as
you brought in a respectable bottom line. He tried to be the "enlightened’’
manager. He wanted to be open to new ideas. If some consultant came in and
said, "Employees have to feel good about their work in order to be
productive,’’ Peach would try to listen. But that was when sales were better
and budgets were flush.
What does he say now?
"I don’t give a damn if they feel good,’’ he says. "If it costs an extra
nickel, we’re not paying for it.’’
That was what he said to a manager who was trying to sell Peach on the idea
of a physical fitness center where employees could work out, the premise
being that everyone would do better work because healthy employees are
happy employees, etc. Peach practically threw him out of his office.
And now he’s walking into my plant and wreaking havoc in the name of
improving customer service. That wasn’t even the first fight I’ve had with
Peach. There have been a couple of others, although none as serious as
yesterday’s. What really bugs me is I used to get along very well with Peach.
There was a time when I thought we were friends. Back when I was on his
staff, we’d sit in his office at the end of the day sometimes and just talk for

---

hours. Once in a while, we’d go out and get a couple of drinks together.
Everybody thought I was brown-nosing the guy. But I think he liked me
precisely because I wasn’t. I just did good work for him. We hit it off
together.
Once upon a time, there was a crazy night in Atlanta at the annual sales
meeting, when Peach and I and a bunch of wackos from marketing stole the
piano from the hotel bar and had a sing-along in the elevator. Other hotel
guests who were waiting for an elevator would see the doors open, and there
we’d be, midway through the chorus of some Irish drinking song with Peach
sitting there at the keyboard tickling those ivories. (He’s a pretty good piano
player, too). After an hour, the hotel manager finally caught up with us. By
then, the crowd had grown too big for the elevator, and we were up on the
roof singing to the entire city. I had to pull Bill out of this fight with the two
bouncers whom the manager had enlisted to kill the party. What a night that
was. Bill and I ended up toasting each other with orange juice at dawn in
some greasy-spoon diner on the wrong end of town.
Peach was the one who let me know that I really had a future with this
company. He was the guy who pulled me into the picture when I was just a
project engineer, when all I knew was how to try hard. He was the one who
picked me to go to headquarters. It was Peach who set it up so I could go
back and get my MBA.
Now we’re screaming at each other. I can’t believe it.
By 7:50, I’m parking my car in the garage under the UniCo building.
Peach and his division staff occupy three floors of the building. I get out of
the car and get my briefcase from the trunk. It weighs about ten pounds
today, because it’s full of reports and computer printouts. I’m not expecting
to have a nice day. With a frown on my face, I start to walk to the elevator.
"Al!’’ I hear from behind me.
I turn; it’s Nathan Selwin coming toward me. I wait for him. "How’s it
going?’’ he asks.

---

"Okay. Good to see you again,’’ I tell him. We start walking together. "I saw
the memo on your appointment to Peach’s staff. Congratulations.’’
"Thanks,’’ he says. "Of course, I don’t know if it’s the best place to be
right now with everything that’s going on.’’
"How come? Bill keeping you working nights?’’
"No, it’s not that,’’ he says. Then he pauses and looks at me. "Haven’t you
heard the news?’’
"What about?’’
He stops suddenly and looks around. There is nobody else around us.
"About the division,’’ he says in a low voice.
I shrug; I don’t know what he’s talking about.
"The whole division is going to go on the block,’’ he says. "Everybody on
Fifteen is crapping in their pants. Peach got the word from Granby a week
ago. He’s got till the end of the year to improve performance, or the whole
division goes up for sale. And I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard Granby
specifically say that if the division goes, Peach goes with it.’’
"Are you sure?’’
Nathan nods and adds, "Apparently it’s been in the making for quite a
while.’’
We start walking again.
My first reaction is that it’s no wonder Peach has been acting like a madman
lately. Everything he’s worked for is in jeopardy. If some other corporation
buys the division, Peach won’t even have a job. The new owners will want to
clean house and they’re sure to start at the top.

---

And what about me; will I have a job? Good question, Rogo. Before hearing
this, I was going on the assumption that Peach would probably offer me some
kind of position if the plant is shut down. That’s usually the way it goes. Of
course, it may not be what I want. I know there aren’t any UniWare plants
out there in need of a manager. But I figured maybe Peach would give me my
old staff job back—although I also know it’s already been filled and I’ve
heard that Peach is very satisfied with the guy. Come to think of it, he did
kind of threaten yesterday with his opening remarks that I might not have a
job.