The Goal: a process of Ongoing Improvement

particulars on whatever order is causing us grief. I wait for Peach to continue,
but he doesn’t say anything for a second.

---

"What’s the problem?’’ I ask him.
"No problem,’’ says Peach. "Actually he was very happy.’’
"Really? What about?’’
"He mentioned you’ve been coming through lately for him on a lot of late
customer orders,’’ says Peach. "Some kind of special effort I guess.’’
"Well, yes and no. We’re doing a few things a little differently now,’’ I say.
"Well, whatever. The reason I called is I know how I’m always on your case
when things go wrong, Al, so I just wanted to tell you thanks from me and
Jons for doing something right,’’ says Peach.
"Thanks, Bill,’’ I tell him. "Thanks for calling.’’
"Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou,’’ I’m blithering to
Stacey as she parks her car in my driveway. "You are a truly wonderful
person for driving me home . . . and I truly meant that truly.’’
"Don’t mention it,’’ she says. "I’m glad we had something to celebrate.’’
She shuts off the engine. I look up at my house, which is dark except for one
light. I had the good sense earlier to call my mother and tell her not to hold
dinner for me. That was smart because the celebration continued onward and
outward after Peach’s call. About half of the original group went to dinner
together. Lou and Ralph threw in the towel early. But Donovan, Stacey and I
—along with three or four die-hards—went to a bar after we ate and we had a
good time. Now it is 1:30 and I am blissfully stinko.
The 
Mazda
for safety’s sake, it still parked behind the bar. Stacey, who
switched to club soda a couple of hours ago, has generously played chauffeur
to Bob and me. About ten minutes ago, we nudged Donovan through his
kitchen door where he stood there bewildered for a moment before bidding us
a good evening. If he remembers, Donovan is supposed to enlist his wife later
today to drive us over to the bar and retrieve our vehicles.

---

Stacey gets out of the car and comes around and opens my door so I can spill
myself onto the driveway. Standing up on uncertain legs, I steady myself
against the car.
"I’ve never seen you smile so much,’’ says Stacey.
"I’ve got a lot to smile about,’’ I tell her.
"Wish you could be this happy in staff meetings,’’ she says.
"Henceforth, I shall smile continuously through all staff meetings,’’ I
proclaim.
"Come on, I’ll make sure you get to the door,’’ she says.
With her hands around my arm to steady me, she guides me up the front walk
to the door.
When we’re at the door, I ask her, "How about some coffee?’’
"No, thanks,’’ she says. "It’s late and I’d better get home.’’
"Sure?’’
"Absolutely.’’
I fumble with the keys, find the lock, and the door swings open to a dark
living room. I turn to Stacey and extend my hand.
"Thank you for a wonderful evening,’’ I tell her. "I had a swell time.’’
Then as we’re shaking hands, I for some reason step backwards, trip over the
doorstep and lose all my balance.
"Woops!’’

---

The next thing I know Stacey and I are sprawled on the floor together.
Fortunately—or maybe not as it turns out—Stacey thinks this is colossally
funny. She’s laughing so hard, tears start to roll down her cheeks. And so I
start laughing too. Both of us are rolling on the floor with laughter—when the
lights come on.
"You bastard!’’
I look up, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light, and there she is.
"Julie? What are you doing here?’’
Without answering, she’s now stomping through the kitchen. As I get to my
feet and stagger after her, the door to the garage opens. The light switch in
the garage clicks. I see her in silhouette for half a second.
"Julie! Wait a minute!’’
I hear the garage door rumbling open as I attempt to follow her. As I go into
the garage, she’s already getting into her car. The door slams. I zig-zag
closer, wildly waving my arms. The engine starts.
"I sit here waiting for you all night, putting up with your mother for six
hours,’’ she yells through the rolled-down window, "and you come home
drunk with some floozy!’’
"But Stacey isn’t a floozy, she’s—’’
Accelerating to about thirty miles per hours in reverse, Julie backs out of the
garage, down the driveway (narrowly missing Stacey’s car) and into the
street. I’m left standing there in the light of the garage. The tires of her car
chirp upon the asphalt.
She’s gone.
On Saturday morning, I wake up and groan a couple of times. The first
groan is from the hangover. The second groan is from the memory of what

---

happened.
When I’m able, I get dressed and venture into the kitchen in quest of
coffee. My mother is there.
"You know your wife was here last night,’’ says my mother as I pour my first
cup.
So then I find out what happened. Julie showed up just after I called here last
night. She had driven over on impulse, because she had missed me and she
had wanted to see the kids. She apparently wanted to surprise me, which she
did.
Later, I call the Barnett’s number. Ada gives me the routine of "She doesn’t
want to talk to you anymore.’’
When I get to the plant on Monday, Fran tells me Stacey has been looking
for me since she arrived this morning. I have just settled in behind my desk
when Stacey appears at the door.
"Hi. Can we talk?’’ she asks.
"Sure. Come on in,’’ I say.
She seems disturbed about something. She’s avoiding my eyes as she sits
down.
I say, "Listen, about Friday night, I’m sorry about what happened when
you dropped me off.’’
Stacey says, "It’s okay. Did your wife come back?’’
"Uh, well, no, she didn’t. She’s staying with her parents for a little while,’’ I
say.
"Was it just because of me?’’ she asks.

---

"No, we’ve been having some problems lately.’’
"Al, I still feel kind of responsible,’’ she says. "Look, why don’t I talk to
her.’’
"No, you don’t have to do that,’’ I say.
"Really, I think I ought to talk to her,’’ says Stacey. "What’s her number?’’
I finally admit to myself it might be worth a try. So I give the Barnett’s
number to Stacey. She writes it down, and promises to call sometime today.
Then she continues to sit there.
"Was there something else?’’ I ask.
"I’m afraid there is,’’ she says.
She pauses.
"So what is it?’’
"I don’t think you’re going to like this,’’ she says. "But I’m pretty sure about
it...’’
"Stacey,’’ I say.