The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement, Third Revised Edition Read online

  Captured by Plamen T.

  16

  2

  Isn't it strange to feel your own world is falling apart while

  those of the people close to you are rock steady? And you can't

  figure out why they're not affected the way you are. About 6:30, I

  slip away from the plant to run home and grab some dinner. As I

  come through the door, Julie looks up from the television.

  "Hi," she says. "Like my hair?"

  She turns her head. The thick, straight brown hair she used

  to have is now a mass of frizzed ringlets. And it isn't all the same

  color anymore. It's lighter in places.

  "Yeah, looks great," I say automatically.

  "The hairdresser said it sets off my eyes," she says, batting

  her long lashes at me. She has big, pretty blue eyes; they don't

  need to be "set off in my opinion, but what do I know?

  "Nice," I say.

  "Gee, you're not very enthusiastic," she says.

  "Sorry, but I've had a rough day."

  "Ah, poor baby," she says. "But I've got a great idea! We'll go out to dinner and you can forget all about it."

  I shake my head. "I can't. I've got to eat something fast and

  get back to the plant."

  She stands up and puts her hands on her hips. I notice she's

  wearing a new outfit.

  "Well you're a lot of fun!" she says. "And after I got rid of the kids, too."

  "Julie, I've got a crisis on my hands. One of my most expen-

  sive machines went down this morning, and I need it to process a part for a rush order. I've got to stay on top of this one," I tell

  her.

  "Okay. Fine. There is nothing to eat, because I thought we

  were going out," she says. "Last night, you said we were going

  out."

  Then I remember. She's right. It was part of the promises

  when we were making up after the fight.

  "I'm sorry. Look, maybe we can go out for an hour or so," I

  tell her.

  "That's your idea of a night on the town?" she says. "Forget it, Al!"

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  17

  "Listen to me," I tell her. "Bill Peach showed up unexpect-

  edly this morning. He's talking about closing the plant."

  Her face changes. Did it brighten?

  "Closing the plant . . . really?" she asks.

  "Yeah, it's getting very bad."

  "Did you talk to him about where your next job would be?"

  she asks.

  After a second of disbelief, I say, "No, I didn't talk to him

  about my next job. My job is here—in this town, at this plant."

  She says, "Well, if the plant is going to close, aren't you inter-

  ested in where you're going to live next? I am."

  "He's only talking about it."

  "Oh," she says.

  I feel myself glaring at her. I say, "You really want to get out

  of this town as fast as you can, don't you?"

  "It isn't my home town, Al. I don't have the same sentimen-

  tal feelings for it you do," she says.

  "We've only been here six months," I say.

  "Is that all? A mere six months?" she says. "Al, I have no

  friends here. There's nobody except you to talk to, and you're

  not home most of the time. Your family is very nice, but after an

  hour with your mother, I go crazy. So it doesn't feel like six

  months to me."

  "What do you want me to do? I didn't ask to come here. The

  company sent me to do a job. It was the luck of the draw," I say.

  "Some luck."

  "Julie, I do not have time to get into another fight with you,"

  I tell her.

  She's starting to cry.

  "Fine! Go ahead and leave! I'll just be here by myself," she

  crys. "Like every night."

  "Aw, Julie."

  I finally go put my arms around her. We stand together for a

  few minutes, both of us quiet. When she stops crying, she steps

  back and looks up at me.

  "I'm sorry," she says. "If you have to go back to the plant, then you'd better go."

  "Why don't we go out tomorrow night?" I suggest.

  She turns up her hands. "Fine . . . whatever."

  I turn, then look back. "Will you be okay?"

  "Sure. I'll find something to eat in the freezer," she says.

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  18

  I've forgotten about dinner by now. I say, "Okay, I'll proba-

  bly pick up something on my way back to the plant. See you later

  tonight."

  Once I'm in the car, I find I've lost my appetite.

  Ever since we moved to Bearington, Julie has been having a

  hard time. Whenever we talk about the town, she always com-

  plains about it, and I always find myself defending it.

  It's true I was born and raised in Bearington, so I do feel at home here. I know all the streets. I know the best places to go to

  buy things, the good bars and the places you stay out of, all that

  stuff. There is a sense of ownership I have for the town, and more

  affection for it than for some other burg down the highway. It

  was home for eighteen years.

  But I don't think I have too many illusions about it. Bear-

  ington is a factory town. Anyone passing through probably

  wouldn't see anything special about the place. Driving along, I

  look around and have much the same reaction. The neighbor-

  hood where we live looks like any other American suburb. The

  houses are fairly new. There are shopping centers nearby, a litter

  of fast-food restaurants, and over next to the Interstate is a big

  mall. I can't see much difference here from any of the other

  suburbs where we've lived.

  Go to the center of town and it is a little depressing. The

  streets are lined with old brick buildings that have a sooty, crum-

  bling look to them. A number of store fronts are vacant or cov-

  ered with plywood. There are plenty of railroad tracks, but not

  many trains.

  On the corner of Main and Lincoln is Bearington's one high-

  rise office building, a lone tower on the skyline. When it was

  being built some ten years ago, the building was considered to be

  a very big deal around here, all fourteen stories of it. The fire

  department used it as an excuse to go buy a brand new fire en-

  gine, just so it would have a ladder long enough to reach to the

  top. (Ever since then, I think they've secretly been waiting for a

  fire to break out in the penthouse just to use the new ladder.)

  Local boosters immediately claimed that the new office tower was

  some kind of symbol of Bearington's vitality, a sign of re-birth in

  an old industrial town. Then a couple of years ago, the building

  management erected an enormous sign on the roof which says in

  red block letters: "Buy Me!" It gives a phone number. From the

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  19

  Interstate, it looks like the whole town is for sale. Which isn't too

  far from the truth.

  On my way to work each day, I pass another plant along the

  road to ours. It sits behind a rusty chain-link fence with barbed

  wire running alon
g the top. In front of the plant is a paved park-

  ing lot—five acres of concrete with tufts of brown grass poking

  through the cracks. Years have gone by since any cars have

  parked there. The paint has faded on the walls and they've got a

  chalky look to them. High on the long front wall you can still

  make out the company name; there's darker paint where the let-

  ters and logo had once been before they were removed.

  The company that owned the plant went south. They built a

  new plant somewhere in North Carolina. Word has it they were

  trying to run away from a bad situation with their union. Word

  also has it that the union probably will catch up with them again

  in about five years or so. But meanwhile they'll have bought

  themselves five years of lower wages and maybe fewer hassles

  from the work force. And five years seem like eternity as far as

  modern management planning is concerned. So Bearington got

  another industrial dinosaur carcass on its outskirts and about

  2,000 people hit the street.

  Six months ago, I had occasion to go inside the plant. At the

  time, we were just looking for some cheap warehouse space

  nearby. Not that it was my job, but I went over with some other

  people just to look the place over. (Dreamer that I was when I

  first got here, I thought maybe someday we'd need more space to

  expand. What a laugh that is now.) It was the silence that really

  got to me. Everything was so quiet. Your footsteps echoed. It was

  weird. All the machines had been removed. It was just a huge

  empty place.

  Driving by it now, I can't help thinking, that's going to be us

  in three months. It gives me a sick feeling.

  I hate to see this stuff happening. The town has been losing

  major employers at the rate of about one a year ever since the

  mid-1970s. They fold completely, or they pull out and go else-

  where. There doesn't seem to be any end to it. And now it may be

  our turn.

  When I came back to manage this plant, the Bearington Her-

  ald did a story on me. I know, big deal. But I was kind of a minor celebrity for a while. The local boy had made it big. It was sort of

  a high-school fantasy come true. I hate to think that the next time

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  20

  my name is in the paper, the story might be about the plant

  closing. I'm starting to feel like a traitor to everybody.

  Donovan looks like a nervous gorilla when I get back to the

  plant. With all the running around he's done today, he must have

  lost five pounds. As I walk up the aisle toward the NCX-10, I

  watch him shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Then he

  paces for a few seconds and stops. Suddenly he darts across the

  aisle to talk to someone. And then he takes off to check on some-

  thing. I give him a shrill, two-finger whistle, but he doesn't hear

  it. I have to follow him through two departments before I can

  catch up with him—back at the NCX-10. He looks surprised to

  see me.

  "We going to make it?" I ask him.

  "We're trying," he says.

  "Yeah, but can we do it?"

  "We're doing our best," he says.

  "Bob, are we going to ship the order tonight or not?"

  "Maybe."

  I turn away and stand there looking at the NCX-10. Which is

  a lot to look at. It's a big hunk of equipment, our most expensive

  n/c machine. And it's painted a glossy, distinctive lavender. (Don't

  ask me why.) On one side is a control board filled with red, green,

  and amber lights, shiny toggle switches, a jet black keyboard, tape

  drives, and a computer display. It's a sexy-looking machine. And

  the focus of it all is the metal-working being done in the middle of

  it, where a vise holds a piece of steel. Shavings of metal are being

  sliced away by a cutting tool. A steady wash of turquoise lubricant

  splashes over the work and carries away the chips. At least the

  damn thing is working again.

  We were lucky today. The damage wasn't as bad as we had

  first thought. But the service technician didn't start packing his

  tools until 4:30. By then, it was already second shift.

  We held everybody in assembly on overtime, even though

  overtime is against current division policy. I don't know where

  we'll bury the expense, but we've to go get this order shipped

  tonight. I got four phone calls today just from our marketing

  manager, Johnny Jons. He too has been getting his ear chewed—

  from Peach, from his own sales people, and from the customer.

  We absolutely must ship this order tonight.

  So I'm hoping nothing else goes wrong. As soon as each part

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  21

  is finished, it's individually carried over to where it's fitted into

  the subassembly. And as soon as that happens, the foreman over

  there is having each subassembly carted down to final assembly.

  You want to talk about efficiency? People hand-carrying things

  one at a time, back and forth . . . our output of parts per em-

  ployee must be ridiculous. It's crazy. In fact, I'm wondering,

  where did Bob get all the people?

  I take a slow look around. There is hardly anybody working

  in the departments that don't have something to do with 41427.

  Donovan has stolen every body he could grab and put them all to

  work on this order. This is not the way it's supposed to be done.

  But the order ships.

  I glance at my watch. It's a few minutes past 11:00 P.M. We're

  on the shipping dock. The doors on the back of the tractor-trailer

  are being closed. The driver is climbing up into his seat. He revs

  the engine, releases the brakes, and eases out into the night.

  I turn to Donovan. He turns to me.

  "Congratulations," I tell him.

  "Thanks, but don't ask me how we did it," he says.

  "Okay, I won't. What do you say we find ourselves some

  dinner?"

  For the first time all day, Donovan smiles. Way off in the

  distance, the truck shifts gears.

  We take Donovan's car because it's closer. The first two

  places we try are closed. So then I tell Donovan just to follow my

  directions. We cross the river at 16th Street and drive down Bes-

  semer into South Flat until we get to the mill. Then I tell Dono-

  van to hang a right and we snake our way through the side

  streets. The houses back in there are built wall to wall, no yards,

  no grass, no trees. The streets are narrow and everyone parks in

  the streets, so it makes for some tedious maneuvering. But finally

  we pull up in front of Sednikk's Bar and Grill.

  Donovan takes a look at the place and says, "You sure this is

  where we want to be?"

  "Yeah, yeah. Come on. They've got the best burgers in

  town," I tell him.

  Inside, we take a booth toward the rear. Maxine recognizes

  me and comes over to make a fuss. We talk for a minute and then

  Donovan and I order some burgers and fries and beer.
r />   Donovan looks around and says, "How'd you know about

  this place?"

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  22

  I say, "Well, I had my first shot-and-a-beer over there at the

  bar. I think it was the third stool on the left, but it's been a while."

  Donovan asks, "Did you start drinking late in life, or did you

  grow up in this town?"

  "I grew up two blocks from here. My father owned a corner

  grocery store. My brother runs it today."

  "I didn't know you were from Bearington," says Donovan.

  "With all the transfers, it's taken me about fifteen years to get

  back here," I say.

  The beers arrive.

  Maxine says, "These two are on Joe."

  She points to Joe Sednikk who stands behind the bar. Dono-

  van and I wave out thanks to him.

  Donovan raises his glass, and says, "Here's to getting 41427

  out the door."

  "I'll drink to that," I say and clink my glass against his.

  After a few swallows, Donovan looks much more relaxed. But

  I'm still thinking about what went on tonight.

  "You know, we paid a hell of a price for that shipment," I

  say. "We lost a good machinist. There's the repair bill on the

  NCX-10. Plus the overtime."

  "Plus the time we lost on the NCX-10 while it was down,"

  adds Donovan. Then he says, "But you got to admit that once we

  got rolling, we really moved. I wish we could do that every day."

  I laugh. "No thanks. I don't need days like this one."

  "I don't mean we need Bill Peach to walk into the plant every

  day. But we did ship the order," says Donovan.

  "I'm all for shipping orders, Bob, but not the way we did it

  tonight," I tell him.

  "It went out the door, didn't it?"

  "Yes, it did. But it was the way that it happened that we can't

  allow."

  "I just saw what had to be done, put everybody to work on it,

  and the hell with the rules," he says.

  "Bob, do you know what our efficiencies would look like if

  we ran the plant like that every day?" I ask. "We can't just dedicate the entire plant to one order at a time. The economies of

  scale would disappear. Our costs would go—well, they'd be even

  worse than they are now. We can't run the plant just by the seat-

  of-the-pants."

  E.M. Goldratt

  The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement

  Captured by Plamen T.

  23

  Donovan becomes quiet. Finally he says, "Maybe I learned