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
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the order for a twenty percent cutback, we're lucky to get any- thing 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 re- turns 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
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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 sur- prising. 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, discus- sion 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.
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"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."