The Goal: a process of Ongoing Improvement

and
return
on investment 
and
cash flow—all three of them. And I would want to see all
three of them increase all the time.
Man, think of it. We’d 
really 
be making money if we could have all of the
measurements go up simultaneously and forever.
So this is the goal:
To make money by increasing net profit, while simultaneously increasing
return on investment, and simultaneously increasing cash flow.
I write that down in front of me.
I feel like I’m on a roll now. The pieces seem to be fitting together. I have
found one clear-cut goal. I’ve worked out three related measurements to
evaluate progress toward the goal. And I have come to the conclusion that
simultaneous increases in all three measurements are what we ought to be
trying to achieve. Not bad for a day’s work. I think Jonah would be proud of
me.
Now then, I ask myself, how do I build a direct connection between the three
measurements and what goes on in my plant? If I can find some logical
relationship between our daily operations and the overall performance of the
company then I’ll have a basis for knowing if something is productive or
non-productive . . . moving toward the goal or away from it.
I go to the window and stare into the blackness.
Half an hour later, it is as dark in my mind as it is outside the window.

---

Running through my head are ideas about profit margins and capital
investments and direct labor content, and it’s all very conventional. It’s the
same basic line of thinking everyone has been following for a hundred years.
If I follow it, I’ll come to the same conclusions as everyone else and that
means I’ll have no truer understanding of what’s going on than I do now.
I’m stuck.
I turn away from the window. Behind my desk is a bookcase; I pull out a
textbook, flip through it, put it back, pull out another, flip through it, put it
back.
Finally, I’ve had it. It’s late.
I check my watch—and I’m shocked. It’s past ten o’clock. All of a sudden, I
realize I never called Julie to let her know I wasn’t going to be home for
dinner. She’s really going to be pissed off at me; she always is when I don’t
call.
I pick up the phone and dial. Julie answers.
"Hi,’’ I say. "Guess who had a rotten day.’’
"Oh? So what else is new?’’ she says. "It so happens my day wasn’t too hot
either.’’
"Okay, then we both had rotten days,’’ I tell her. "Sorry I didn’t call before. I
got wrapped up in something.’’
Long pause.
"Well, I couldn’t get a babysitter anyway,’’ she says.
Then it dawns on me; our postponed night out was supposed to be tonight.
"I’m sorry, Julie. I really am. It just completely slipped my mind,’’ I tell her.

---

"I made dinner,’’ she says. "When you hadn’t shown up after two hours, we
ate without you. Yours is in the microwave if you want it.’’
"Thanks.’’
"Remember your daughter? The little girl who’s in love with you?’’ Julie
asks.
"You don’t have to be sarcastic.’’
"She waited by the front window for you all evening until I made her go to
bed.’’
I shut my eyes.
"Why?’’ I ask.
"She’s got a surprise to show you,’’ says Julie.
I say, "Listen, I’ll be home in about an hour.’’
"No rush,’’ says Julie.
She hangs up before I can say good-bye.
Indeed, there is no point in rushing home at this stage of the game. I get my
hard hat and glasses and take a walk out into the plant to pay a visit to Eddie,
my second shift supervisor, and see how everything is going.
When I get there, Eddie is not in his office; he’s out dealing with something
on the floor. I have him paged. Finally, I see him coming from way down at
the other end of the plant. I watch him as he walks down. It’s a five-minute
wait.
Something about Eddie has always irritated me. He’s a competent supervisor.
Not outstanding, but he’s okay. His work is not what bothers me. It’s

---

something else.
I watch Eddie’s steady gait. Each step is very regular.
Then it hits me. That’s what irritates me about Eddie: it’s the way he walks.
Well, it’s more than that; Eddie’s walk is symbolic of the kind of person he
is. He walks a little bit pigeon-toed. It’s as if he’s literally walking a straight
and narrow line. His hands cross stiffly in front of him, seeming to point at
each foot. And he does all this like he read in a manual someplace that this is
how walking is supposed to be done.
As he approaches, I’m thinking that Eddie has probably never done anything
improper in his entire life—unless it was expected of him. Call him Mr.
Regularity.
We talk about some of the orders going through. As usual, everything is out
of control. Eddie, of course, doesn’t realize this. To him, everything is
normal. And if it’s normal, it must be right.
He’s telling me—in elaborate detail—about what is running tonight. Just for
the hell of it, I feel like asking Eddie to define what he’s doing tonight in
terms of something like net profit.
I want to ask him, "Say, Eddie, how’s our impact on ROI been in the last
hour? By the way, what’s your shift done to improve cash flow? Are we
making money?’’
It’s not that Eddie hasn’t heard of those terms. It’s just that those concerns are
not part of his world. His world is one measured in terms of parts per hour,
man-hours worked, numbers of orders filled. He knows labor standards, he
knows scrap factors, he knows run times, he knows shipping dates. Net
profit, ROI, cash flow—that’s just headquarters talk to Eddie. It’s absurd to
think I could measure Eddie’s world by those three. For Eddie, there is only a
vague association between what happens on his shift and how much money
the company makes. Even if I could open Eddie’s mind to the greater
universe, it would still be very difficult to draw a clear connection between
the values here on the plant floor and the values on the many floors of UniCo

---

headquarters. They’re too different.
In the middle of a sentence, Eddie notices I’m looking at him funny.
"Something wrong?’’ asks Eddie.
When I get home, the house is dark except for one light. I try to keep it quiet
as I come in. True to her word, Julie has left me some dinner in the
microwave. As I open the door to see what delectable treat awaits me (it
seems to be some variety of mystery meat) I hear a rustling behind me. I turn
around, and there stands my little girl, Sharon, at the edge of the kitchen.
"Well! If it isn’t Miz Muffet!’’ I exclaim. "How is the tuffet these days?’’
She smiles. "Oh... not bad.’’
"How come you’re up so late?’’ I ask.
She comes forward holding a manila envelope. I sit down at the kitchen table
and put her on my knee. She hands the envelope to me to open.
"It’s my report card,’’ she says.
"No kidding?’’
"You have to look at it,’’ she tells me.
And I do.
"You got all A’s!’’ I say.
I give her a squeeze and big kiss.
"That’s terrific!’’ I tell her. "That’s very good, Sharon. I’m really proud of
you. And I’ll bet you were the only kid in your class to do this well.’’
She nods. Then she has to tell me everything. I let her go on, and half an hour

---

later, she’s barely able to keep her eyes open. I carry her up to her bed.
But tired as I am, I can’t sleep. It’s past midnight now. I sit in the kitchen,
brooding and picking at dinner. My kid is getting A’s in the second grade
while I’m flunking out in business.
Maybe I should just give up, use what time I’ve got to try to land another job.
According to what Selwin said, that’s what everyone at headquarters is doing.
Why should I be different?
For a while, I try to convince myself that a call to a headhunter is the smart
thing to do. But, in the end, I can’t. A job with another company would get
Julie and me out of town, and maybe fortune would bring me an even better
position than I’ve got now (although I doubt it; my track record as a plant
manager hasn’t exactly been stellar.) What turns me against the idea of
looking for another job is I’d feel I were running away. And I just can’t do
that.
It’s not that I feel I owe my life to the plant or the town or the company, but I
do feel some responsibility. And aside from that, I’ve invested a big chunk of
my life in UniCo. I want that investment to pay off. Three months is better
than nothing for a last chance.
My decision is, I’m going to do everything I can for the three months.
But that decided, the big question arises: what the hell can I really do? I’ve
already done the best I can with what I know. More of the same is not going
to do any good.
Unfortunately, I don’t have a year to go back to school and re-study a lot of
theory. I don’t even have the time to read the magazines, papers, and reports
piling up in my office. I don’t have the time or the budget to screw around
with consultants, making studies and all that crap. And anyway, even if I did
have the time and money, I’m not sure any of those would give me a much
better insight than what I’ve got now.
I have the feeling there are some things I’m not taking into account. If I’m

---

ever going to get us out of this hole, I can’t take anything for granted; I’m
going to have to watch closely and think carefully about what is basically
going on . . . take it one step at a time.
I slowly realize that the only tools I have—limited as they may be—are my
own eyes and ears, my own hands, my own voice, my own mind. That’s
about it. I am all I have. And the thought keeps coming to me: I don’t know if
that’s enough.
When I finally crawl into bed, Julie is a lump under the sheets. She is exactly
the way I left her twenty-one hours ago. She’s sleeping. Lying beside her on
the mattress, still unable to sleep, I stare at the dark ceiling.
That’s when I decide to try to find Jonah again.
Two steps after rolling out of bed in the morning, I don’t like moving at all.
But in the midst of a morning shower, memory of my predicament returns.
When you’ve only got three months to work with, you don’t have much time
to waste feeling tired. I rush past Julie—who doesn’t have much to say to me
—and the kids, who already seem to sense that something is wrong, and head
for the plant.
The whole way there I’m thinking about how to get in touch with Jonah.
That’s the problem. Before I can ask for his help, I’ve got to find him.
The first thing I do when I get to the office is have Fran barricade the door
against the hordes massing outside for frontal attack. Just as I reach my desk,
Fran buzzes me; Bill Peach is on the line.
"Great,’’ I mutter.
I pick up the phone.
"Yes, Bill.’’
"Don’t you 
ever
walk out of one of my meetings again,’’ rumbles Peach. "Do
you understand me?’’

---

"Yes, Bill.’’
"Now, because of your untimely absence yesterday, we’ve got some things to
go over,’’ he says.
A few minutes later, I’ve pulled Lou into the office to help me with the
answers. Then Peach has dragged in Ethan Frost and we’re having a four-way
conversation.
And that’s the last chance I have to think about Jonah for the rest of the day.
After I’m done with Peach, half a dozen people come into my office for a
meeting that has been postponed since last week.
The next thing I know, I look out the window and it’s dark outside. The sun
has set and I’m still in the middle of my sixth meeting of the day. After
everyone has gone, I take care of some paperwork. It’s past seven when I hop
in the car to go home.
While waiting in traffic for a long light to turn green, I finally have the
opportunity to remember how the day began. That’s when I get back to
thinking about Jonah. Two blocks later, I remember my old address book.
I pull over at a gas station and use the pay phone to call Julie.
"Hello,’’ she answers.
"Hi, it’s me,’’ I say. "Listen, I’ve got to go over to my mother’s for
something. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, so why don’t you go ahead and eat
without me.’’
"The next time you want dinner—’’
"Look, don’t give me any grief, Julie; this is important.’’
There is a second of silence before I hear the click.

---

It’s always a little strange going back to the old neighborhood, because
everywhere I look is some kind of memory waiting just out of sight in my
mind’s eye. I pass the corner where I had the fight with Bruno Krebsky. I
drive down the street where we played ball summer after summer. I see the
alley where I made out for the first time with Angelina. I go past the utility
pole upon which I grazed the fender of my old man’s Chevy (and
subsequently had to work two months in the store for free to pay for the
repair). All that stuff. The closer I get to the house, the more memories come
crowding in, and the more I get this feeling that’s kind of warm and
uncomfortably tense.
Julie hates to come here. When we first moved to town, we used to come
down every Sunday to see my mother and Danny and his wife, Nicole. But
there got to be too many fights about it, so we don’t make the trip much
anymore.
I park the 
Mazda
by the curb in front of the steps to my mother’s house.
It’s a narrow, brick row house, about the same as any other on the street.
Down at the corner is my old man’s store, the one my brother owns today.
The lights are off down there; Danny closes at six. Getting out of my car, I
feel conspicuous in my suit and tie.
My mother opens the door.
"Oh my god,’’ she says. She clutches her hands over her heart. "Who’s
dead?’’
"Nobody died, Mom,’’ I say.
"It’s Julie, isn’t it,’’ she says. "Did she leave you?’’
"Not yet,’’ I say.
"Oh,’’ she says. "Well, let me see...it isn’t Mothers’ Day...’’
"Mom, I’m just here to look for something.’’

---

"Look for something? Look for what?’’ she asks, turning to let me in. "Come
in, come in. You’re letting all the cold inside. Boy, you gave me a scare. Here
you are in town and you never come to see me anymore. What’s the matter?
You too important now for your old mother?’’
"No, of course not, Mom. I’ve been very busy at the plant,’’ I say.
"Busy, busy,’’ she says leading the way to the kitchen. "You hungry?’’
"No, listen, I don’t want to put you to any trouble,’’ I say.
She says, "Oh, it’s no trouble. I got some ziti I can heat up. You want a salad
too?’’
"No, listen, a cup of coffee will be fine. I just need to find my old address
book,’’ I tell her. "It’s the one I had when I was in college. Do you know
where it might be?’’
We step into the kitchen.
"Your old address book...’’ she muses as she pours a cup of coffee from the
percolator. "How about some cake? Danny brought some day-old over last
night from the store.’’
"No thanks, Mom. I’m fine,’’ I say. "It’s probably in with all my old
notebooks and stuff from school.’’
She hands me the cup of coffee. "Notebooks . . .’’
"Yeah, you know where they might be?’’
Her eyes blink. She’s thinking.
"Well... no. But I put all that stuff up in the attic,’’ she says.
"Okay, I’ll go look there,’’ I say.

---

Coffee in hand, I head for the stairs leading to the second floor and up into
the attic.
"Or it might all be in the basement,’’ she says.
Three hours later—after dusting through the drawings I made in the first
grade, my model airplanes, an assortment of musical instruments my brother
once attempted to play in his quest to become a rock star, my yearbooks, four
steamer trunks filled with receipts from my father’s business, old love letters,
old snapshots, old newspapers, old you-name-it—the address book is still at
large. We give up on the attic. My mother prevails upon me to have some
ziti. Then we try the basement.
"Oh, look!’’ says my mother.
"Did you find it?’’ I ask.
"No, but here’s a picture of your Uncle Paul before he was arrested for
embezzlement. Did I ever tell you that story?’’
After another hour, we’ve gone through everything, and I’ve had a refresher
course in all there is to know about Uncle Paul. Where the hell could it be?
"Well, I don’t know,’’ says my mother. "Unless it could be in your old
room.’’
We go upstairs to the room I used to share with Danny. Over in the corner is
the old desk where I used to study when I was a kid. I open the top drawer.
And, of course, there it is.
"Mom, I need to use your phone.’’
My mother’s phone is located on the landing of the stairs between the
floors of the house. It’s the same phone that was installed in 1936 after my
father began to make enough money from the store to afford one. I sit down
on the steps, a pad of paper on my lap, briefcase at my feet. I pick up the
receiver, which is heavy enough to bludgeon a burglar into submission. I dial

---

the number, the first of many.
It’s one o’clock by now. But I’m calling Israel, which happens to be on
the other side of the world from us. And vice versa. Which roughly means
their days are our nights, our nights are their mornings, and consequently, one
in the morning is not such a bad time to call.
Before long, I’ve reached a friend I made at the university, someone who
knows what’s become of Jonah. He finds me another number to call. By two
o’clock, I’ve got the tablet of paper on my lap covered with numbers I’ve
scribbled down, and I’m talking to some people who work with Jonah. I
convince one of them to give me the number where I can reach him. By three
o’clock, I’ve found him. He’s in London. After several transfers here and
there across some office of some company, I’m told that he will call me when
he gets in. I don’t really believe that, but I doze by the phone. And forty-five
minutes later, it rings.
"Alex?’’
It’s his voice.
"Yes, Jonah,’’ I say.
"I got a message you had called.’’
"Right,’’ I say. "You remember our meeting in O’Hare.’’ "Yes, of course I
remember it,’’ he says. "And I presume you have something to tell me now.’’
I freeze for a moment. Then I realize he’s referring to his question, what
is the goal?
"Right,’’ I say.
"Well?’’
I hesitate. My answer seems so ludicrously simple I am suddenly afraid that it
must be wrong, that he will laugh at me. But I blurt it out.

---

"The goal of a manufacturing organization is to make money,’’ I say to him.
"And everything else we do is a means to achieve the goal.’’
But Jonah doesn’t laugh at me.
"Very good, Alex. Very good,’’ he says quietly.
"Thanks,’’ I tell him. "But, see, the reason I called was to ask you a question
that’s kind of related to the discussion we had at O’Hare.’’
"What’s the problem?’’ he asks.
"Well, in order to know if my plant is helping the company make money, I
have to have some kind of measurements,’’ I say. "Right?’’
"That’s correct,’’ he says.
"And I know that up in the executive suite at company headquarters, they’ve
got measurements like net profit and return on investment and cash flow,
which they apply to the overall organization to check on progress toward the
goal.’’
"Yes, go on,’’ says Jonah.
"But where I am, down at the plant level, those measurements don’t mean
very much. And the measurements I use inside the plant . . . well, I’m not
absolutely sure, but I don’t think they’re really telling the whole story,’’ I
say.
"Yes, I know exactly what you mean,’’ says Jonah.
"So how can I know whether what’s happening in my plant is truly
productive or non-productive?’’ I ask.
For a second, it gets quiet on the other end of the line. Then I hear him say to
somebody with him, "Tell him I’ll be in as soon as I’m through with this

---

call.’’
Then he speaks to me.
"Alex, you have hit upon something very important,’’ he says. "I only have
time to talk to you for a few minutes, but perhaps I can suggest a few things
which might help you. You see, there is more than one way to express the
goal. Do you understand? The goal stays the same, but we can state it in
different ways, ways which mean the same thing as those two words,
‘making money.’’’
"Okay,’’ I answer, "so I can say the goal is to increase net profit, while
simultaneously increasing both ROI and cash flow, and that’s the equivalent
of saying the goal is to make money.’’ "Exactly,’’ he says. "One expression is
the equivalent of the other. But as you have discovered, those conventional
measurements you use to express the goal do not lend themselves very well
to the daily operations of the manufacturing organization. In fact, that’s why I
developed a different set of measurements.’’ "What kind of measurements are
those?’’ I ask. "They’re measurements which express the goal of making
money perfectly well, but which also permit you to develop operational rules
for running your plant,’’ he says. "There are three of them. Their names are
throughput, inventory and operational expense.’’
"Those all sound familiar,’’ I say.
"Yes, but their definitions are not,’’ says Jonah. "In fact, you will probably
want to write them down.’’
Pen in hand, I flip ahead to a clean sheet of paper on my tablet and tell him to
go ahead.
"Throughput,’’ he says, "is the rate at which the system generates money
through