Some years ago I was brought into a small manufacturing company by an outside investor in an effort to return the firm to profitability. As the engagement began I met with the firm’s president, Belvedere. Capable of generating rain, Belvedere removed himself from the clutter of day to day operations as he worked his way through a list of current and prospective clients. He was certain the problem could be resolved by replacing incompetent staff. When we ended our first meeting he handed me a small white piece of paper, listing the10 worst employees. I folded it, thanked him for his insight, and tucked it in my pocket. I never read it.
The firm was an old time furniture repair company. Each week we received hundreds of degraded or damaged antique furniture items and each week we repaired the pieces for our clients. Products poured through Order Receipt and snaked their way towards the next department like a tidal wave of expensive wood, slamming through one department after another. At the end of every week overtime costs soared as the work flow bottle-necked at the departments towards the end of the line.
As Belvedere and I sat in his office during an early follow-up meeting I suggested I work alongside the production line workers during the first month of the project. My goal was to get a better sense of the production issues. I had reviewed reams of production reports and financials and wanted to hear about the situation from the floor; from the folks actually doing the work. I had seen such an in-the-trenches approach work before.
During my teen years I spent many of my Saturdays or Sundays with my father as he visited construction sites in New York. As an engineer and VP of with a F500 firm he was one of a handful of corporate leaders visiting the firm’s large infrastructure projects on weekends. On those dreadful weekends he banged on my door at 6:30AM barking, “Five minutes, Beasley, get up and get moving,” followed by, “and your goddamn room smells like a gin mill.”
Before the weekend sun was up he worked through his morning routine as I attempted my first sober steps following a night of drinking at Studio or some shit hole in Paterson. Last call in the city was 4AM so some evenings I tallied no more than one hour’s sleep. My morning status had no bearing on my father’s expectations. I joined his early rides into the city with the understanding that I was in receipt of a penance for drinking myself into oblivion the previous night. He was hitting me where it hurt and in his own primitive manner letting me know the world keeps moving regardless of how much you drink or smoke or puke. He drew from experience as both his parents were practicing alcoholics and they did not fare well in life.
My drinking hit a nerve with him. In fact my drunken or hung over condition horrified my father. He steamed and stewed as I staggered into the kitchen, pants falling off, walking slowly and gripping the kitchen counter. He seethed inside as he was unable to share his emotions or rationally walk me through the logic of just how my drinking ripped through him like a cleaver.
Drunkards do not practice parenthood effectively and as a child my father witnessed the template of parenthood through a series of distorted drunken lenses. He was never exposed to emotions other than those filtered through booze; usually the distilled product was rage or disappointment. He never acquired the ability to talk through his needs or emotions. His formative needs were bathed in a sea of drink as seen through a child’s eyes. Never once as a child did he hear, “I love you” or even, “I’m concerned about you little one…” He lacked an emotional lexicon. When the movie Rain Man hit the screens, we teased him (affectionately), calling him Rain Man as emotional correspondence made him uneasy.
During our 25 minute ride to the first site I tried not to throw-up as we each downed a can of Nutriment, an early energy drink favored by my dad. Ten minutes into the ride, as we hit route 17, he broke our silence.
As I held down last night’s intake my father began to spew out comments regarding the various projects we were scheduled to visit. He blabbed about his overall approach to managing hundreds and hundreds of union workers.
Trying to hammer some sense into me, he staccatoed, “If you listen to the guys in the trenches, they’ll tell you everything you need to know… Any engineer that thinks he can come in with some new solution is fucking kidding himself if he hasn’t been working with crew members… If you assume your workers are as smart as you, you’ll earn their trust… If I can ask the guys in the field to work Saturdays how the hell can I stay home? …when you’re on the job listen and keep your mouth shut …expect to learn as much as you teach.”
We pulled up to the first job, parking in front of a fire hydrant. A beat cop pushed off the wall and approached our car, eying me and my long hair in the passenger seat. My dad hopped out and headed towards the cop. They started chatting as my father pointed at the fenced off trench in the middle of the street, then up and down the block. The cop started laughing as they shook hands parting. Turning back to the car my father jerked his thumb at me letting me know it was time to exit the vehicle and follow him towards the trench.
A slow rise of steam seeped from the trench as three workers stood around staring into the hole. They were all drinking coffee; hips cocked to one side as they watched the crew below. As we approached the hole four helmeted heads became visible below street level, topping ant-like workers struggling with an enormous steam valve.
Walking up behind the coffee drinkers, my father donned his white helmet and placed his hand on the biggest guy’s shoulder, “Kinkade, VP Operations, guys. What’ve we got here?” The coffee drinkers jerked to attention and extended hands while the four hole dwellers stood, craning their necks towards my father. The super started rattling off information while my father nodded, pulling at his lower lip. Listening over escaping steam, he made a couple of comments and turned towards the hole, stepping on the top rung of a ladder then, without hesitation, descended through the steam to the ants. The coffee drinkers stared. The floor of the trench was layered in water. He wore boots. At the bottom of the trench he started talking to the crew. They leaned into each other as they spoke past the hissing steam. They looked like bobbing chickens leaning in then out, in then out. A little guy started leaning in to my dad jabbering a mile a minute. My dad jerked his head back. He squatted, feeling along the bottom of the pipe. He asked the little guy to follow suit. The worker started nodding. They both stood. Reaching out, my father made some parting comment, sending the ants reeling in laughter. He turned to each of them, shaking hands and then ascended the ladder. He headed straight to the super. “You’ve got a fucking steam hammer waiting to kill someone down there. Get those guys the fuck out of that hole until you’ve got a bead on the pressure. There’s a bleed on Lex. Open it up. Until you’re comfortable being down there with them no one gets back in that trench. Got it?” The coffee drinkers nodded as they called the crew up. Shaking hands with the coffee drinkers my father transferred mud from the ants’ hands to those of the coffee drinkers. “They’ve got kids,” he said to no none in particular. We turned and headed towards the car and his next site.
I thought of my father as Belvedere stared out the window, “Belvedere, did you hear me? If there is a ready solution, the guys on the line will know about it,” I suggested. “That’s where we’ll uncover some pearls. I want to spend time on the production floor.”
Belvedere’s office was crisp and clean; like his high and tight haircut. Unlike the products we restored each day his office and desk were cold and modern. Made of two sets of black legs constructed from elegantly bent tubing adorned with a glass slab, Belvedere’s desk allowed you to view crossed legs draped in pressed pants and tipped with perfectly shined Florsheims. Though he enjoyed driving his Beamer to work every day, each week without fail he walked to the train depot for a shoe shine. He tipped the man $2 as he explained how his progress was blocked due to the incompetency of his staff.
His desk was organized into neat lines of notes and framed photos. The photos displayed a lovely, if slightly overweight, herd of children and Belvedere with a variety of celebrities. My favorite photo was Belvedere and former President Ronald Reagan standing shoulder to shoulder. Like all the photos this one faced outward towards the visitor. Reagan was winking and looked bemused; like he had slapped a “Kick me” note on Belvedere’s back. Behind the photos sat lines of white sticky notes, each written in painfully small scribbling and each describing an HR or personnel problem. There were no production reports, financials or customer service requests in sight. Save for a modern black phone and coffee table book featuring the doors of Paris the rest of the desk was barren. The room itself was a perfect white box with an always closed door and two large windows, one of which overlooked the shipping department. This window allowed Belvedere to oversee the day’s comings and goings. His office was cold.
Through the window Belvedere monitored the plant. The day’s comings and goings started as the firm’s truck drivers responded to inbound fax or phone orders (this was before the internet though they tapped that resource upon receipt). By 6:30AM the drivers had schedule pickups on a large white board. Each afternoon they turned their trucks back from their last stop somewhere in Philly, Boston, New York or Connecticut bringing the battle scared antiques to the plant in Rhode Island. Upon arrival at our plant the truck backed into shipping and belched out the day’s receipts. The unload was labor intensive and required many hands to ensure the safe exit of the delicate cargo.
Any time the truck arrived late employees still at the factory stopped what they were doing and jumped to help unload the haul. I often jumped into the fray, learning a great deal about how to quickly assess furniture in the process. I had unloaded my first pieces of furniture with Joseph during my first week. By night Joseph was the lead singer in a band. He was scrawny with impressive body odor, baggy clothes and a Gomer Pyle honesty about him. He lived with his girlfriend and a two year old daughter. Joseph had never finished high school but he was certain his daughter was going to Harvard. “She’s a fucking genius, already doing math.” He beamed as his whipped out a photo stamped with the word sample.
As we unloaded the truck Joseph could not help but summarize every piece. With each piece he gnawed at his dirty fingernails, “Oh shit, this piece is fucked. They’re fucking kidding me if they think we can just strip it. We can’t strip this table top. See here? It’s cracked. It’ll be back in a year. Put a note on it for inspection.” Joseph, like the rest of the crew, knew furniture. As each piece approached he started biting his fingernails and spewed out suggestions.
As I suggested to Belvedere that I spend time in the production departments he became distracted. Looking over my shoulder towards his window into the world of manufacturing, he could not contain himself. He bolted from his Herman Miller and screamed at his window into the manufacturing world, “I’ll dock your fucking pay if you break that table, Joseph. Jesus fucking Christ, be careful, you moron.” With the sounds of the plant ringing in his ears Joseph could not hear the diatribe. Just as well. Belvedere seethed for a moment and, as his breathing returned to normal, he plopped into his chair. He peeled a note from its station on the desk and pushed it towards me. I leaned in, squinting to read the tiny writing; “Joseph sloppy. Can not work alone.” Cocking his head like a curious dog he awaited my response.
Trying to lighten the mood, I suggested “Looks like you’ve got a sloppy joe on your hands.” Belvedere did not get my reference to the sandwich (a favorite in New Jersey) and therefore he did not get my joke. Belvedere tilted his head further to the side. I filled in the silence.
“Any time I’ve spoken with Joe I am amazed at how much he knows about furniture. He can look at a piece and rattle off the period and style and suggest how it had become fatigued. He’s a walking encyclopedia.”
Belvedere’s eyes narrowed as his confidence in me slipped two or three notches, “Joseph works in shipping. At night he makes extra money sweeping the floor as our janitor. He’s a fucking retard.” I wasn’t going to win this one.
“My impression is you’ve done a good job hiring smart people throughout the firm and he’s no dummy.” Belvedere nodded approvingly as I leaned in lowering my voice, “As a polite aside, I think ‘retard’ is the wrong word. I have a friend with Down syndrome and retard is not really a word anyone uses anymore. It’s in a league with the “N” word. People will not think highly of you if you use it.” I leaned forward, whispering, “Its bad form.” Belvedere scribbled on a note paper and stood up, ending our conversation, “You can work on the line for two weeks, tops. No more. Then just finish your consulting.” We shook hands as he briskly walked from the office, leaving me in his ice box. First looking to see he was out of sight, I could not help myself as I leaned forward to read his last tiny addition to his lineup of scribbles. “Retard = bad”.
Though I would love to, I’ll respect your time and will not bore you with production nerd talk or the engagement details. I will suggest, through that, the success of the entire engagement boiled down to one conversation with Jacque, a sander. When not sanding refinished antique furniture Jacques played lead guitar in a cover band. He and Joseph were friends. He was tall and skinny with hair like Slash. His arms were no more than twigs covered in tattoos and often concealed with an old flannel shirt. His worn carpenter’s pants were never washed and were held up by huge studded belt. His wallet was chained to his belt loop. He was missing a front tooth. He carried a knife. A reformed heroin addict, he looked the part. Though off the horse, I imagine he smoked enormous amounts of pot as he seemed pretty groggy morning, noon and night. Music was his life. Sanding was his job.
During this particular day in the sanding department, I worked the station next to Jacque. He blared Appetite for Destruction and The White Album from a sawdust covered black boom box. Jerking his head up and down he sanded in time with the music. He was fun to watch as he lost himself in his art. Initially we chatted about bands and concerts through our dust encased masks. Jacque’s defenses fell as I shared stories about Aerosmith, Rush and Twisted Sister shows in the City. He began to open up. Like Joseph, he was insightful when unguarded. As a new cart of furniture was shoved into his sanding area Jacque shut down his sander, removed his mask and surveyed the pending work.
“This is fucking fucked, man. This shit all came in at the same time as the stuff I sanded yesterday and it is just fucking shoved through the system. Look at this fucking place.” I looked around across the open factory floor at the carts piled up in the first few departments. Departments down the line were at a virtual standstill.
“So, you could organize the inbound furniture by need or something like that and that would make your work easier?” I asked. “Not just by fucking need, man, by fucking wood type, by finish, by size. Every fucking time we have a new wood type, I have to setup a new fucking sander and machining has to select and cut different woods. Right now they’re just jerking off doing nothing. That fucking dick smoker Belvedere makes us organize the work by client so he can ship random shit out early. Fucking joke.” With my conversation with Jacque a solution was born.
Over the next two months we organized inbound orders into small batches around production requirements such as finish and wood type. Replacing the linear line of work with batch assignments we sent the batches to different departments and slashed over time, reduced rework and cut our average production cycle time by a week. The department managers and I educated the entire production staff, calling the new process The Egg and the Snake. We explained each department had been working like a snake, coming upon a large egg and swallowing it. The problem was the department – like the snake – was basically immobilized as the inbound material was digested. We organized the orders each day into more digestible batches for distribution across departments. It worked.
As the solution took root the staff was witness to success. We announced our progress as well as a surprise profit sharing bonus during a staff meeting. During the meeting I asked Jacque to stand up. He did so reluctantly as a ripple of whispered comments flowed through the gathering.
I stood too, “I want you to know this egg solution was hatched by Jacque. When I was in sanding getting blasted by GNR he basically told me what was wrong and laid it all out for me. I was pretty much just a messenger.” Turning to Jacque, I leaned forward in a subtle bow, “Thank you, Jacque, we’re getting profit sharing checks because of your idea.” The staff roared and started pounding their feet, chanting, “Jacques. Jacques. Jacques.” He meekly waived his twig-like arm, returning to his seat as fellow factory workers clapped his back. From then on he was a sage, known simply as The Egg Man.
Now with the solution and implementation firmly in the hands of employees I had to find a new gig. Belvedere was happy to see me go. The earlier the better. “Good. We’re all set. It was just a matter of training these morons, huh? Listen while I’m out selling you can use my office to make your little calls and get yourself a new job somewhere. Just don’t mess up my office, OK? I keep it organized.”
“Very kind of you, Belvedere. I’ll take you up on that.”
My most promising prospect call was scheduled for late one evening. Folks were cleaning up for the day as I settled into Belvedere’s office. I was glad the photos faced away. I mostly ignored Belvedere’s line-up of notes, settling on one that read, “Consultant done. Finish up ASAP.”
I spread my notes across Belvedere’s desk in preparation for my call. Joseph the part time janitor was outside the door, earning his extra money, as he swept the floor. Back and forth, he swept, cautiously eying me as he passed the door. I smiled. He looked away as he chomped on his dirty fingernails, twisting his elbow up above his ear to gnaw into this stub of a thumb nail. He shrugged as I caught his eye again. He looked around and bent down, tying up his boots and then fidgeting with his broom as he pulled clumps of dust from the bristles.
This was a big call and I had to concentrate. I was excited. To date, all had gone well with the prospect and I was hoping to agree to final terms today. I breathed deep and reached for the phone. As I picked up Belvedere’s phone Joseph dropped the broom and lurched towards me, grabbing the receiver.
“Joseph, what the fuck? What’s going on. Are you OK?” He looked at me, looked at the phone, rubbed the phone on his very dirty pants and leaned forward, “Beasley don’t use this fucking phone, man! I clayed it.”
“You what?”
“I clayed it.” Holding the receiver out, “Smell it.”
I hesitated then leaned to within a couple of inches of Joseph’s extended hand seeing his dirty fingernails up close. They were rimmed in black goo, wet with a mixture of dust and saliva. He jerked his hand away before I could smell anything. “Joseph, I don’t get it. What do you want me to do?”
He turned to see if anyone was within earshot. We were alone. “Listen, I hate that cocksucker Belvedere and he treats me and everyone else here like shit; like we’re fucking stupid. He’s a fucking self-absorbed douche bag. So every night when I’m alone and sweeping in here while he’s out buying clients dinner or taking them to a fucking Yankee game, I pull my dick out and rub it all over his phone. It smells musty, like clay, ya know? Like my dick. I clay his phone just about every fuck’n night.”
I gagged. “Jesus Christ, Joseph, that’s totally fucked. Are you fucking for real? I, I don’t know what to say.”
He shrugged and bit his pinky nail, twisting it about his mouth in a semi-circle.
“Well, I guess I owe you one. Thanks for not claying me, Joseph.”
He smirked and jerked his head toward the photo of Belvedere and Ron Reagan as he wrapped up our conversation, “He thinks we’re fucking invisible. Shit, my dick’s been all over that picture with Reagan. Smell it. It smells like fucking clay.”
