Читать книгу The Performance Principle - Mackenzie Kyle - Страница 6

I DON’T NEED people’s company these days, and I don’t much enjoy it, either. I’ve spent lots of time with people in my life, and when you get to my stage of the game, you don’t want to waste any of the time you have left. I’ve still got plenty going on in this wrinkled old head, plenty to sort out, and that means the person I want to spend most of my time with is me.

Most people oblige me by not dropping by for a casual chat, and I help them feel better about their decision by playing the part of the grumpy old lady when they do come to see me. It’s a situation that works well for all of us. But there are exceptions, and birthdays bring out people’s tendency to invade my private space in the worst way. Granted, it’s a big deal to have someone in the family pass the hundred-year mark, and this year I turned 102. But really, am I all that different than I was at 101? Or even when I was a spring chicken of 81? I like to think not, though try and tell that to my daughters. Or grandkids. Or, well, all of the relatives out there, of which I seem to have accumulated many. They seem to think I’m some kind of good luck charm. And if they come to pay me homage, maybe it’ll remind God that we’re related, that they’re treating me right, and so they should live a long time too.

Or maybe they just want my money, though there’s less of that around than there used to be. Who expects to live past a hundred years? I got good value for my dough, though. I saw a lot of this planet before the thought of another four-hour delay at LAX, or any other airport, became too painful relative to the fun of whatever destination was waiting for me.

Maybe I’m just a cynical old biddy. I know my great-grandkids use a different word. At least the ones who have anything worthwhile going on do. But like I said, I’m good with that. The only thing that worries me is boredom. The stuff going on in my head isn’t quite so interesting to me any more. The frightening fact is that nothing seems all that interesting lately. Which was why I was particularly grumpy at my birthday party. I wasn’t putting on a show so I could be alone with my thoughts. I was scared I was done. Done with people, done with thinking, done living. I supposed the fact that the idea scared me was a good sign, even if it made me ornery.

But life has a way of surprising you, even at my age. It was at my birthday party that something completely out of the blue happened to turn things around: I found a problem I could help someone solve.

The someone in this case was my granddaughter Jenny’s husband, Will. He and I have a bit of history together. A number of years ago, he had the good sense to come to me with a problem, and I helped him get some perspective on it. Our conversations were great fun too, because I was able to play the grumpy old lady to maximum effect, and poor Will didn’t have any choice but to put up with it because he needed my advice. I know I shouldn’t enjoy that, but I’ve always been a big tease, and I think he’d agree we both got something out of the experience.

I hadn’t seen a lot of Will since that time. I knew he’d been off flying around the country, trying to make things better at his company, and suffering the joy and pain that goes with that kind of job. I’d see him at family holidays and get-togethers, and occasionally we’d chat about various things work-related, but not in depth.

Which is why I was both surprised and pleased when he sidled up to me at the birthday party and said, “Can we talk?”

“Why, Willie, nice to see you, too,” I said. He hates it when I call him Willie. “What’s up?”

“It’s a long story,” he said.

“Willie,” I said, “in case you haven’t noticed, we’re celebrating my 102nd birthday here. Time is not something I have much of. Can you make it quick?”

He got a pained look on his face. “I’ll try. Remember about fifteen years ago, when I was coming to you with questions about change and project management?”

“Willie, I may be old, but I’m not senile yet,” I chided. “Of course I remember that. Although it seems like you got less interested in talking to me once your problem was solved.” His pained look worsened and I felt a little guilty pleasure at scoring a hit to his guilt center.

“You know how busy things can get,” he said lamely. Then showed a bit of the fire that I like. “I don’t have to bother you with more of that kind of thing if you’re not interested . . .” His voice trailed off.

Too quickly I said, “No, no, that’s all right. I can always listen. See if I have a few ideas.” The bugger: I could tell by a slight movement at the corners of his mouth that he knew I wanted to hear about his problem. I didn’t want him to start feeling comfortable, though, so I said, “Figured out that project management isn’t the solution to everything, have you? Come up against some issues you don’t think a dependency chart is going to solve?”

He sighed. “Well, yes and no. I mean, I always knew there are lots more tools out there. I’ve spent the last ten years or so learning about them and putting them into practice all over the place.”

“Yes,” I said. “You may recall we’ve talked about this once or twice.” Like I said, Will and I had had a few chats over the years about management techniques and the latest management fads, but they never approached the intensity of our explorations around project management. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than a little disappointed that he hadn’t come to talk to me more often.

“Yes, of course I remember,” he said. “I always appreciate your insight into that kind of stuff.” His voice trailed off as we took in the general mayhem around us. Great-grandchildren were laughing as they played with plastic toys and cell phones. Grandchildren, looking older to me than grandchildren have any right to, sat drinking coffee and catching up. My remaining children, wrinkled and bent, looked slightly bewildered by the scene, as people whose hearing, sight, and general mental acuity have started to diminish are wont to do. Why I was still around to see all of this, I had no idea. For a moment I craved my pipe more than anything. For several years now a single puff on the thing would send me into coughing spasms. There were still days when I thought the pain might be worth it, but to my descendants’ relief, I’d given it up.

“Willie, let’s take this conversation out to the porch. All these people are starting to irritate me.” Slowly, I levered myself up and out of my chair, waving off Will’s attempt to help.

“Will!” came the scolding voice of my eldest daughter, in whose house I now lived. “Give Mom a hand.”

I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. “Oh, shut up and leave him alone, Joanne. I don’t need his help. And he doesn’t need you nagging at him. I’m fine.” Will and I walked slowly out of the living room. Everyone made a point of looking concerned. I’m sure some of them were hoping for a fall, a broken hip, and a quick decline. Nobody knows how much money I’ve got, and I’m not about to tell them, but I can see they suspect it’s a lot.

The porch of my daughter’s house is one of the main reasons I live with her. It’s what people today might call a big, old-fashioned wraparound porch, but it’s what I think of as normal. Houses today don’t have porches, they have decks. And those decks don’t look out over the street, where everything is going on. They’re usually out back, looking over the neighbor’s deck, which is full of people trying not to be obvious about looking right back at you. That’s the way they build neighborhoods these days. Cramming more people into less space, and trying to create the illusion that we’re not all sitting on top of each other.

Fortunately, Joanne’s neighborhood has tree-lined streets full of big houses on big lots with big porches. These porches are places where a person can sit and think and watch the world go by. Or, in some cases, have real conversations with other people.

I lowered myself into the wicker rocking chair. Will sat down on the porch swing, looking uncomfortable. “Why don’t you grab us a couple of beers, Willie, and loosen yourself up just a little?” That made him look even more uncomfortable, as I knew it would, but he disappeared into the house and came back a moment later with two bottles of cold beer. Giving up the pipe had been tough enough; I sure as hell wasn’t about to give up the occasional beer. Of course, this stressed the relatives no end. Not that I really cared.

We sat in amiable silence for a minute or two, and then I said, “I ain’t getting any younger.” Will almost squirmed in his swing seat.

“It’s a tough thing to describe, Martha, really tough. And it’s mixed in with a huge sense of responsibility —”

“Jesus Christ, Willie, did ya hit someone with your car? Did ya knock Jenny up again? Steal food from the mouths of babes? What?” I love interrupting people with pithy comments like that.

Will ignored my digs. “It’s work, Martha. It’s got me in a funny spot, and I’ve never felt this kind of confusion about it before.” I sipped my beer and waited, deciding against any more silly comments. The man actually seemed to be in physical pain. He got up and started to pace. “For the last ten years I’ve been the company improvement specialist. I go in and fix problems, make things better. Or at least, that’s what I’m supposed to do. And I do more than just treat everything like a project. We’ve talked about that — all my training in those other disciplines and techniques. Granted some of them are more fad than substance, but there are still interesting ideas there.”

“I remember, Willie.” I wondered briefly if perhaps we would have talked more if I’d been a little less abrasive. But then where would the fun be in that?

He stopped pacing. “For the longest time, I believed I was making a difference, actually contributing something.” He took a long pull on his beer. “But then things changed somehow. Or I changed. It was as if the rose-colored glasses had come off. I started seeing how, despite all the wonderful things I was putting in place, people pretty much kept doing what they had always done. We dressed stuff up, but once I left town and the project team rolled off, what was really different?”

I blew some air through my lips in an attempt to make a raspberry. Sadly, my lips were getting old, floppy, and dry, so it came out sounding more like paper rustling in the wind. “You’re breaking my heart, Willie, you really are. Sounds like a good old-fashioned midlife crisis to me. Buy yourself a sports car. You’ll be fine.”

He gave me a look like a puppy that had just been kicked, which took the fun out of things. “It’s like I don’t understand people anymore. I thought I was pretty good at that sort of thing — understanding how people’s minds work and using solid logic and rational thinking to help them. I had real success with that. But something feels different now.”

It was my turn to sigh. “Youthful enthusiasm turning to middle-aged cynicism can do that to you,” I said.

He slumped into his seat. “Martha, I don’t understand why people do the crazy stuff they do. It doesn’t make any sense to me!”

I belched loudly. Beer does that to me. Plus, I wanted to lighten things up a little. “I don’t want to be contrary here, but it’s not that complicated.”

He looked at me skeptically. “Maybe not for you. Captain of industry and all that.”

I shook my head. “We can get to that in a minute. But first, why don’t you give me a few more specifics on your problem and why you’re suddenly thinking about it now?”

My great-grandnephew Ethan chose that moment to come screaming onto the porch with Mr. Doodles, my rottweiler. “You be careful with him, Ethan,” I said sternly. “Don’t be too rough.” Ethan is six and weighs forty pounds fully dressed and soaking wet. Mr. Doodles, who was named by my daughter — I wanted to call him Spike — is 110 pounds of muscle and extremely good natured, so my concern was just for show. We watched them romp together on the front lawn.

Will kept his eyes on the two of them as he resumed. “I wanted to come back to Hyler to get off the road, but now I think this disconnected feeling was really at the heart of it. Traveling a lot wasn’t so bad when I was loving what I was doing. I guess I thought if I came back here, everything would all fall into place again.”

“Ah, my buddy Tommy, he said it best. ‘You can’t go home again.’ ”

Will looked confused. “Tommy? As in Thomas Wolfe? You knew him?”

I shrugged. “Don’t change the subject.” I love name-dropping. I got to know a surprising number of people for whom history has reserved space, though I like to keep Will guessing as to what’s real and what’s made up. It so happens that Thomas and I did spend a little time together in the thirties . . . but Will was talking again by then.

“Like I said, it all made sense. The company had a problem, I went there, we talked it through, I had a solution. All the people stuff just fell into place. I always thought the people part worked because the solution made sense.”

“Willie,” I interrupted, “if you tell me something made sense one more time, I’m going to have to hit you with this beer bottle.”

“But that’s the key part of the whole thing. I figured out the right approach, we did it, and it worked. The making sense piece is important, because now nothing seems to make sense, and it’s driving me crazy!” He paused to empty his beer.

“Well,” I said. “Maybe you could give me an example of what doesn’t make sense, and we could use that as a starting point.”

“Fine,” he said. “The union at Hyler. Their actions make no sense.”

“You’ve dealt with unions before, haven’t you?”

“Well, a bit, but that’s not the point. Right here and now, we have a crisis going on at Hyler. Our productivity sucks, the demand for the products we make is soft, and there is a real possibility that in the next year I’ll be closing this place and moving all 500 jobs, 350 of which are union jobs, offshore. So you’d think the union would be at least somewhat interested in making things work, no?”

I wasn’t sure if Will had any Italian heritage, but with the way he was waving his hands around, I was starting to worry for my safety. “I take it you’re finding them less than cooperative?”

He shrugged. “That’s one way to put it. We need concessions on wages, benefits, and pensions just to keep ourselves in the game, and we need serious concessions on the company’s ability to schedule shifts, move people from shift to shift, and have unionized employees be able to take more ownership of the day-to-day supervision of the crews and themselves. We have so much supervisory and employee time tied up in figuring out how the collective agreement applies to the smallest activity, we can’t get any work done. It’s killing us! The shop stewards know it, the union rep knows it, the employees know it, but we’re still stuck in this impasse, spending hours discussing grievances instead of producing stuff.” His hands were waving furiously again, and he paused for breath with what could almost be described as a hysterical note.

“And as if that’s not bad enough,” he continued after a minute, “managing the nonunion staff is even worse. We have this complicated performance management system. For starters, it’s based on a bunch of what we call ‘competencies,’ which are really just fuzzy descriptions of the skills and abilities people in different positions are supposed to be able to demonstrate. The real kicker is that every person gets rated on what is effectively a bell curve. That means that even if you have ten great employees, theoretically you can rate only one or two of them as great, most as average, and you’re supposed to stick a couple of people at the bottom. It’s having bizarre effects, where good people don’t want to be on projects or teams together because it decreases their chances of getting a good rating. Whenever it’s performance review time, people scramble to ingratiate themselves with their performance coaches so they don’t end up on the wrong side of the bell curve. Before the review, there’s horse trading among the managers; they move people around on the curve so it all fits. For employees, the process creates all kinds of suspicion, sabotage, and back-biting, and it encourages them to focus on the short term, not what’s right over the long term for the company. Everyone knows that the system isn’t working, but we sort of make it work by not following the rules completely, which makes it even more confusing. Still, good employees have been trickling out the door for the last three years. Based on everyone’s assumption that I’m just here to close the place, I’m expecting it’ll soon be a flood.”

I clucked my tongue. “Ah, yes, sort of what used to get called stack ranking. Wonderful system for creating chaos and completely undermining the company.”

Will grimaced. “Well, I’m glad you like it, ’cause it’s certainly killing me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Surely Hyler isn’t the only division that uses this at Mantec?”

He snorted. “We’re not. I’ve run up against it several times, but the other situations were different; we weren’t about to go over a cliff. I basically ignored the system and treated it like background noise, figuring that it would make my results a little worse, but that overall, things would improve. But after spending eight weeks back at Hyler, I’m starting to wonder if this damn performance management system hasn’t been causing a lot more problems than I realized.”

“Interesting,” I said, trying to look as if I was thinking about things. I wasn’t really, at least not in any intense way. I’d seen many types of these programs back when I was still active in business. They all had a significant flaw no one really wanted to address. “But didn’t you have to work within that system yourself?” I asked him.

“Funny thing is, no, I didn’t. I was a special projects guy, reporting to Ralph. My teams formed and disbanded based on what I was working on. I never had a performance review, and neither did my teams. We were judged based on the short-term success of the project or the change we’d introduced. And because I had a way to manage that, it seemed to work out most of the time. Now that I think about it, though, we did lose some good people over the years in other places in the company. Never understood it then, but now . . .” He fell silent, watching the dog and little boy wrestle.

I thought it best to keep him focused, so I said, “Run along and get me another beer, Willie. While you’re doing that, think about what else is causing you headaches at Hyler.”

He disappeared into the house and returned in a couple of minutes with more beer and a bowl of corn chips. I made him go back for dip. When he was settled again, he said, “There’s another performance management problem, though it didn’t start that way. It’s how we deal with our sales team.”

I closed my eyes and interrupted. “Let me make a guess on this one. You have a good-sized sales group, and in these challenging economic times they’ve come under a lot of pressure around pricing. They’ve been discounting your products, most likely with the appropriate approvals, and it’s helped sales. So much so that your volume isn’t down all that much, but profit is way down, maybe even in the red. You talk to them about it, but you can’t seem to change their behavior. Besides, it’s better to be selling product and keeping people busy and the company in the marketplace than not. But you’re losing money. Plus, a big part of your salespeople’s compensation is based on commission, and the commission is calculated on the total sale, not its profitability. So while you’re in the red as an operation, you’re paying big bonuses to your salespeople. Like the old joke goes, you’re planning to make it up on volume.”

Will was shaking his head. “It took me a month to figure that out. No one has been looking at whether we’re making money on an order-by-order basis. No one even knew how to do the basic calculation. When we figured it out, no one seemed to understand what it meant, and their biggest concern was that if we change the bonus program, the salespeople will quit. They don’t seem to get that we’re paying our sales crew to put us out of business!”

I laughed at that. “You know, Willie, I was kind of hoping you could come up with something new for me.” I sighed, rather theatrically. “I guess I need to get used to being disappointed.” I finished my beer.

He shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, you have a tough life. We young people are a big disappointment. We’ve all heard that story.” He smiled at me like the Cheshire cat. Overall the effect was a little creepy. “But the good news is, since you’ve seen this all before, you’ve also solved it all.”

This time there was no need to put theater into my sigh. “Well, the solution, if you want to call it that, isn’t that complicated. But it sure as hell ain’t easy.”