Sorry, Ray, You Got To Go!

Years ago, I worked at a glass factory as the assistant manager to the plant manager. Raul H. was a Mexican American veteran of the Korean War, which had left him with a scar on his arm and a slightly perceptible limp from his right leg. We shared a small office on the plant floor. His desk was big enough to accommodate an adding machine for my use on the right-hand side and space for my ten-column ledgers. He was a pipe smoker. In those days, second-hand smoking didn't make the headlines and pipe-smoking itself had no significance beyond a fashion statement. I was brought in because the recently hired operations manager needed help to implement his vision of production management. Wayne H. had developed production standards for each job and intended to use them in a variety of ways: inventory management, production scheduling, plant efficiency and employee performance appraisal. Part of my job had to do with the latter two. For a small family business, that was quite novel and, indeed, revolutionary. Wayne H. came on board thanks to the son of the majority owner of the firm. Dan S. stood to inherit his aging father's side of the business and intended to build on the solid ground the two owners had laid for him. He had no propensity for hands-on management, though. In fact, he was a dilettante who showed up perhaps once a week, sported a well-trimmed beard and drove fast cars. The first time I saw him, he was wearing a neck brace due to injuries he sustained from a car accident involving his Corvette. On his visits, he spent most of his time "strategizing" with Wayne. Wayne didn't win himself a house of friends at that place. Everybody had a beef against him. The factory workers found his standards to be a nuisance, as they had to log in their daily production. That was a challenge for many of them, more so for those who were barely literate. The two owners, for their part, hardly spoke to him. At first, they greeted his approach with skepticism, and in the end they considered it a waste because the value added to the overall operations was marginal at best, in light of his hefty salary. After all, their S-corporation had always been making money, thanks to their business acumen. As far as they were concerned, his approach had nothing to show for. Wayne wasn’t a popular figure in the front office either. He was altogether perceived as brilliant, aloof and haughty. His smarts were so evident that his interlocutors felt inhibited to the point that, for their ego’s sake, they avoided challenging him. Moreover, Wayne H. was an unrestrained and impenitent farter. The singularity of it was not just in the act of farting itself but also in the theatrics that accompanied it: If he happened to be standing, he would extend his leg forward or stretch it sideways as to give free passage to the gas. He was none the less apologetic about it. A learned man, he contended that farting was a natural phenomenon that, if blocked, could wreak havoc up the duodenum and cause severe colon complications. His prophylaxis against such conditions was free and immediate fart release, never mind the ensuing social malaise. The only sympathetic ear he had was Raul’s, whose boss he was. He would engage in casual conversations with Raul, touching on a variety of subjects; and that is how I got to size up his intellect. With Dan’s backing, Wayne H. held on steadfastly to his approach. He was of the opinion that economies could be achieved through a realignment of the responsibilities on the plant floor. He had calculated that headcount could be slashed by five. His view was that such decisions should be made on an objective basis. And that is where I came in. From the workers’ daily production logs, I had to develop weekly performance reports based on the established standards. These reports were distributed to management and posted to the factory board at 3:00 O’clock on Friday. Raul made it a point to involve me in many of his decision processes. He had had confidence in me since the day he hired me on the recommendation of a friend

who worked on the floor. I was then in transition, having just arrived in the US with a foreign education, and was willing to do anything. After carefully reviewing my application and inquiring about my goals, he gave me an alternative: be his assistant—an unprotected position where the compensation and growth potential were substantially higher, or a laborer enjoying union protection. I opted on the spot for the Assistant position. From that point on, he showed a genuine interest in grooming me into being his right-arm: he let me attend important meetings, confided in me sensitive matters and gave me a certain leeway in the day-to-day operation of the plant office. Except for a few occasions, I attended his one-on-one with employees to address job related issues, including dismissals—on which occasions I was able to appreciate his tact and dexterity in navigating treacherous waters. Once he opened up to me on the eve of a firing, the third in a series of five. “Age”, he said, “softens the heart. When I was younger, I would fire somebody just like that (snapping his fingers). Now, whenever I go through that, I am overwhelmed with guilt feeling.” I could not decipher the meaning of his confession. Did he fear my judging him cynical and therefore feel compelled to show some semblance of humanity in order to win me over? Was he being philosophical about the dilemma facing a manager? Yet one point was very clear to me, that being a manager was not for the faint-hearted. A week later, Raul briefed me on his next target, Ray M. He was the senior swiper in a three-man section, which included the group leader. The plan was that the group leader would be reinstated into the assembly line, losing his supervisory privileges; Ray would be fired and the junior swiper was expected to pick up the slack, thanks to the short learning curve his youth guaranteed. Over time, Wayne reckoned, there would a net gain in terms of savings and productivity. As in previous cases, my task was to closely monitor Ray’s performance and submit a daily report on him. Delicate task indeed, for I had a good rapport with Ray and Raul knew it. That was a scheme of Machiavellian proportions that was at odds with the idealistic and puritanical beliefs my youth and inexperience had harbored thus far. I was going to be instrumental in the dismissal of a friend. From that standpoint, how hypocritical would I be to judge Raul! That weekend was the worst one in my short career, as I was confronted with a dilemma over loyalty to a friend and allegiance to a boss. Caught in that catch-22, I decided to give some hints to a mutual friend who talked Ray into “upping” his performance. Maybe, I thought, this could abort the operation, or at least delay the inevitable. The Monday after, Ray came in with renewed energy, acting upon the hints he received from the mutual friend and realizing the urgency of the situation, after further corroboration came from the union representative who was also briefed by Raul. He was working on special orders that didn’t fit into a pattern or standard. That’s the problem with standards. Though a necessity and generally set up in the name of fairness and equity, standards may actually be unfair as regards the unusual aspects of a job. Making allowances for these special aspects could in effect dilute the standards, or loosen them to a point of being meaningless. In those cases it is not uncommon to use judgment or other subjective elements to complement the standards. Ray’s performance to date averaged 75%. Doing much better than that was a tall order. But somehow he managed to beat the odds day after day that week. I drew up his daily performance report and apprised Raul of it. In my naïveté, I truly believed Ray had a chance. But by Thursday morning it was clear to me that his fate was sealed, as I watched Raul press on the layoff course and while Ray’s energy level went unabated, breaking another personnel and group record. The tally for that day was a 90% performance. But on Friday morning, all layoff papers were in order, his last payroll and vacation checks drawn. By noon, I was instructed not to post the weekly performance report. Too embarrassing, I thought. Overall Ray’s performance would have been 90%. The last 3 hours of that Friday, I watched him take on new assignments, helping on a big order that had to be shipped, sweating

through the packing, crating, and loading. That scene was the most dramatic to me. I felt like being an accomplice in some kind of nefarious plot. I could rationalize over the performance issue (too little, too late!). But I could not fathom why it was necessary to work him to death, knowing that he was minutes away from being fired… He had just finished helping in that area when he was called in. “Sorry we’ve come to this point”, Raul said, citing new business realities, economic downturn, management’s new direction and Ray’s inability to cope with these factors. At the meeting, the foreman, union representative and myself were also in attendance. At first, Ray was perplexed, as Raul went through the motion explaining that things weren’t working out. When presented with unemployment forms, Ray feigned utmost confusion. “What’s all this about?” he asked. “Your unemployment papers for you to take to the State Office of Labor. You’ll want to do it sometime next week so you don’t lose any of your benefits”, Raul said. “Am I bein’ fired?” Ray asked. “You’re just being laid off. When things pick up, you’ll get a call back”, Raul retorted “What’s the (expletive) you talkin’ about? You fire me, after working my (expletive) off all week long?” Losing his composure and completely irate, he turned to the foreman and the union rep and lashed out, “You guys know how hard I worked all week. I need to see my weekly report. I can’t believe you standin’ here and let this guy exploit me like that (sic). This is blood-sucking exploitation. This is America not Mexico!” Ray had to be escorted out, but not before blurting out a tirade of insults. That these were tainted by a more pronounced French accent than usual perhaps diminished their impact, but not much was lost in translation, as I would later find out. The tempest had subsided, when Wayne walked in, visibly in fact finding mode. Reclining in his chair, Raul turned to him and burst out laughing, ”I can’t believe he called me a communist and told me to go back to my country!” Ironically, Ray was from a foreign country with an uncertain residency status, while Raul was third-generation Mexican-American. I couldn’t help laughing as well. Raul and Wayne H. exchanged a few pleasantries and looked briefly ahead to the week after. Then Wayne H. retired for the weekend. A heavy silence set in thereafter. As if to break the ice, Raul turned towards me: “Something to grow on, don’t you agree?” he said. I smiled. I felt like saying this old Haitian proverb: “God’s pencil has no eraser.” In other words, once the firing order is made, it is a fait accompli, it cannot be retracted. Then, in his relaxed signature manner, reclining in his chair and puffing up circles of aromated cigar smoke, all the while looking at me, “Any plans for the weekend?” he asked. “First and foremost I need a drink!” I replied. He burst into a hearty laughter, upon which we separated. Etzer Cantave (www.workplacetales.com) Copyright (c) 2007