The Goal

by E M Goldratt

  "Then let's do the same thing on the NCX-10 as I want to do on heat-treat," I tell Bob. "Let's get a machinist and a helper and have them permanently stationed at the NCX-10. When it stops, they can get to work on it immediately."

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  "That's just dandy with me," says Bob. "But you know how it's going to look on paper. It's going to seem like we increased the direct labor content of the parts coming out of heat-treat and the NCX-10."

  I slump into the chair behind my desk.

  "Let's fight one battle at a time," I say.

  The next morning, Bob comes to the staff meeting with his recommendations. They basically consist of four actions. The first two concern what he and I talked about the day before-dedicat- ing a machinist and helper to the NCX-10, and stationing a fore- man and two workers at the heat-treat furnaces. The assignments would apply to all three shifts. The other two recommendations concern offloading the bottlenecks. Bob has determined if we could activate one each of these old machines-the Zmegma and the two others-just one shift a day, we could add eighteen per- cent to the output of parts of the type produced by the NCX-10. Last of all, is that we take some of the parts queued at heat-treat and send them out to the vendor across town.

  As he's presenting these, I'm wondering what Lou is going to say. As it happens, Lou offers little resistance.

  "Knowing what we know now," says Lou, "it's perfectly legit- imate for us to assign people to the bottlenecks if it will increase our throughput. We can certainly justify the cost if it increases sales-and thereby increases cash flow. My question is, where are you going to get the people?"

  Bob says we could call them back from layoff.

  "No, you can't. See, the problem we have," says Lou, "is that the division has a recall freeze in effect. We can't recall without their approval."

  "Do we have people in the plant who can do these jobs?" asks Stacey.

  "You mean steal people from other areas?" asks Bob.

  "Sure," I say. "Take people from the non-bottlenecks. By definition, they have excess capacity anyway."

  Bob thinks about it for a minute. Then he explains that find- ing helpers for heat-treat is no big deal. And we do have some old machinists, who haven't been laid off because of seniority, who are qualified to run the Zmegma and the other two machines. Establishing a two-person set-up crew on the NCX-10, however, has him worried.

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  "Who's going to set up the other machines?" he asks.

  "The helpers on the other machines know enough to set up their own equipment," I say.

  "Well, I guess we can try it," says Bob. "But what happens if stealing people turns non-bottlenecks into bottlenecks?"

  I tell him, "The important thing is to maintain the flow. If we take a worker away, and we can't maintain the flow, then we'll put the worker back and steal a body from someplace else. And if we still can't keep the flow going, then we'll have no choice but to go to a division and insist that we either go to overtime or call a few people back from layoff."

  "Okay," says Bob. "I'll go for it."

  Lou gives us his blessing.

  "Good. Let's do it," I say. "And, Bob, make sure the people you pick are good. From now on, we put only our best people to work on the bottlenecks."

  And so it is done.

  The NCX- 10 gets a dedicated setup crew. The Zmegma and the other machines go to work. The outfit across town is only too glad to take our surplus parts for heat-treating. And in our own heat-treat department, two people per shift are assigned to stand by, ready to load and unload parts from the furnaces. Donovan juggles the work-center responsibilities so heat-treat has a fore-man there at all times.

  For a foreman, heat-treat seems like a very small kingdom, not much of a prize. There is nothing intrinsically attractive about running that operation, and having only two people to manage makes it seem like no big deal. To prevent it from seeming like a demotion to them, I make a point to go down there periodically on each of the shifts. In talking to the foreman, I drop some rather direct hints that the rewards will be great for anyone who can improve the output of heat-treated parts.

  Shortly thereafter, some amazing things happen. Very early one morning, I'm down there at the end of third shift. A young guy named Mike Haley is the foreman. He's a big black man whose arms always look as though they're going to burst the sleeves on his shirts. We've noticed that over the past week he's pushed about ten percent more parts through heat-treat on his shift than the others have. Records are not usually set on third shift, and we're starting to wonder if it's Mike's biceps that are

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  doing the trick. Anyway, I go down there to try to learn what he's doing.

  As I walk up, I see the two helpers are not just standing around with nothing to do. They're moving parts. In front of the furnaces are two tightly organized stacks of work-in-process, which the helpers are building. I call Mike over and ask him what they're doing.

  "They're getting ready," he says. "What do you mean?"

  "They're getting ready for when we have to load one of the furnaces again," he says. "The parts in each stack are all treated at the same temperature."

  "So you're splitting and overlapping some batches," I say. "Sure," he says. "I know we're not really supposed to do that, but you need the parts, right?"

  "Sure, no problem. You're still doing the treating according to the priority system?" I ask.

  "Oh, yeah," he says. "Come here. Let me show you." Mike leads me past the control console for the furnaces to a worn old battleship of a desk. He finds the computer print-out for the week's most important overdue orders.

  "See, look at number 22," he says pointing to it. "We need fifty of the high stress RB-dash-11's. They get treated at a 1200- degree temperature cycle. But fifty of them won't fill up the fur- nace. So we look down and what do we see here but item number 31, which calls for 300 fitted retaining rings. Those also take a 1200-degree cycle."

  "So you'll fill up the furnace with as many of the retaining rings after you've loaded the fifty of the first item," I say.

  "Yeah, that's it," says Mike. "Only we do the sorting and stacking in advance so we can load the furnace faster." "That's good thinking," I tell him.

  "Well, we could do even better if I could get someone to listen to an idea I got," he says. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Well, right now, it takes anywhere up to an hour or so to change a furnace load using the crane or doing it by hand. We could cut that down to a couple of minutes if we had a better system." He points to the furnaces. "Each one of those has a table which the parts sit on. They slide in and out on rollers. If we could get some steel plate and maybe a little help from engineer-

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  ing, we could make those tables interchangeable. That way we could stack a load of parts in advance and switch loads with the use of a forklift. If it saves us a couple of hours a day, that means we can do an extra heat of parts over the course of a week."

  I look from the furnaces back to Mike. I say, "Mike, I want you to take tomorrow night off. We'll get one of the other fore- men to cover for you."

  "Sounds good to me," he says with a grin. "How come?" "Because the day after tomorrow, I want you on day turn. I'm going to have Bob Donovan put you together with an I.E. to write up these procedures formally, so we can start using them round the clock," I tell him. "You keep that mind of yours work- ing. We need it."

  Later that morning, Donovan happens by my office.

  "Hi, there," he says.

  "Well, hello," I tell him. "Did you get my note on Haley?"

  "It's being taken care of," says Bob.

  "Good. And let's make sure he gets some more money out of this whenever the wage freeze is lifted," I say.

  "Okay," says Bob as a smile spreads across his face. Then he leans against the doorway.

  "Something else?" I ask.

  "Got good news for you," says Bob.

  "How good?"

  "Remember when Jonah asked us
if all the parts going through heat-treat really needed it?"

  I tell him I remember.

  "I just found out that in three cases, it wasn't engineering that specified heat-treat. It was us," says Bob.

  "What do you mean?"

  He explains that about five years ago some group of hot- shots were trying to improve the efficiencies of several of the machining centers. To speed up the processing, the cutting tool "bite" was increased. So on each pass, instead of shaving a chip that was a millimeter thick, the tool took off three millimeters. But increasing the amount of metal taken off on each pass made the metal brittle. And this necessitated heat-treating.

  "The thing is, the machines we made more efficient happen to be non-bottlenecks," says Bob. "We have enough capacity on them to slow down and still meet demand. And if we go back to

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  the slower processing, we don't need the heat-treat . Which means we can take about twenty percent of the current load off the furnaces."

  "Sounds fantastic," I tell him. "What about getting it ap- proved by engineering?"

  "That's the beauty of it," says Bob. "We were the ones who initiated the change five years ago."

  "So if it was our option to begin with," I say, "we can change it back any time we want."

  "Right! We don't need to get an engineering change order, because we already have an approved procedure on the books," says Bob.

  He leaves shortly with my blessing to implement the change as soon as possible. I sit there marveling that we're going to reduce the efficiency of some operations and make the entire plant more productive. They'd never believe it on the fifteenth floor.

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  24

  It's a Friday afternoon. Out in the parking lot, the people on first shift are getting into their cars to go home. There is the usual congestion at the gate. I'm in my office-minding my own busi- ness-when suddenly, from through the half-open door... BAM!

  Something ricochets off the ceiling tiles. I jump to my feet, check myself for wounds and, finding none, search the carpet for the offending missile. It's a champagne cork.

  There is laughing outside my door. In the next instant, it seems as though everyone is in my office. There is Stacey, Bob Donovan (who holds the bottle from which the cork came), Ralph, Fran, a couple of the secretaries, and a swarm of other people-even Lou joins us. Fran hands me one of the styrofoam coffee cups she's dispensing to everyone. Bob fills it from the bottle.

  "What's this all about?" I ask.

  "I'll tell you in the toast I'm g ing to make as soon as every- one has something to swallow," says Bob.

  More bottles are opened-there is a case of this stuff-and when all the cups are filled, Bob lifts his own.

  "Here's to a new plant record in shipments of product," he says. "Lou went through the records for us and discovered that until now the best this place has ever done in a month was thirty- one orders shipped at value of about two million dollars. This month we topped that. We shipped fifty-seven customer orders with a value of... well, in round numbers, we'll call it a cool three million."

  "Not only did we ship more product," says Stacey, "but, hav- ing just calculated our inventory levels, I am pleased to report that between last month and now, we've had a twelve percent net decline in work-in-process inventory."

  "Well, then, let's drink to making money!" I say.

  And we do.

  "Mmmmm... industrial strength champagne," says Stacey.

  "Very distinctive," says Ralph to Bob. "Did you pick this out yourself?"

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  "Keep drinking. It gets better," says Donovan.

  I'm just about to hazard a second cup when I notice Fran beside me.

  "Mr. Rogo?"

  "Yes."

  "Bill Peach is on the line," says Fran.

  I shake my head wondering what the hell it's going to be this time.

  "I'll take it at your desk, Fran."

  I go out there and punch the blinking button on my phone and pick it up.

  "Yes, Bill, what can I do for you?"

  "I was just talking to Johnny Jons," says Peach.

  I automatically grab a pencil and pull over a pad of paper to take down the particulars on whatever order is causing us grief. I wait for Peach to continue, but he doesn't say anything for a second.

  "What's the problem?" I ask him.

  "No problem," says Peach. "Actually he was very happy."

  "Really? What about?"

  "He mentioned you've been coming through lately for him on a lot of late customer orders," says Peach. "Some kind of spe- cial effort I guess."

  "Well, yes and no. We're doing a few things a little differently now," I say.

  "Well, whatever. The reason I called is I know how I'm al- ways on your case when things go wrong, Al, so I just wanted to tell you thanks from me and Jons for doing something right," says Peach.

  "Thanks, Bill," I tell him. "Thanks for calling."

  "Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou," I'm blith- ering to Stacey as she parks her car in my driveway. "You are a truly wonderful person for driving me home... and I truly meant that truly."

  "Don't mention it," she says. "I'm glad we had something to celebrate."

  She shuts off the engine. I look up at my house, which is dark except for one light. I had the good sense earlier to call my mother and tell her not to hold dinner for me. That was smart because the celebration continued onward and outward after

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  Peach's call. About half of the original group went to dinner to- gether. Lou and Ralph threw in the towel early. But Donovan, Stacey and I-along with three or four die-hards-went to a bar after we ate and we had a good time. Now it is 1:30 and I am blissfully stinko.

  The Mazda for safety's sake, it still parked behind the bar. Stacey, who switched to club soda a couple of hours ago, has generously played chauffeur to Bob and me. About ten minutes ago, we nudged Donovan through his kitchen door where he stood there bewildered for a moment before bidding us a good evening. If he remembers, Donovan is supposed to enlist his wife later today to drive us over to the bar and retrieve our vehicles.

  Stacey gets out of the car and comes around and opens my door so I can spill myself onto the driveway. Standing up on uncertain legs, I steady myself against the car.

  "I've never seen you smile so much," says Stacey.

  "I've got a lot to smile about," I tell her.

  "Wish you could be this happy in staff meetings," she says.

  "Henceforth, I shall smile continuously through all staff meetings," I proclaim.

  "Come on, I'll make sure you get to the door," she says.

  With her hands around my arm to steady me, she guides me up the front walk to the door.

  When we're at the door, I ask her, "How about some cof- fee?"

  "No, thanks," she says. "It's late and I'd better get home."

  "Sure?"

  "Absolutely."

  I fumble with the keys, find the lock, and the door swings open to a dark living room. I turn to Stacey and extend my hand.

  "Thank you for a wonderful evening," I tell her. "I had a swell time."

  Then as we're shaking hands, I for some reason step back- wards, trip over the doorstep and lose all my balance.

  "Woops!"

  The next thing I know Stacey and I are sprawled on the floor together. Fortunately-or maybe not as it turns out-Stacey thinks this is colossally funny. She's laughing so hard, tears start to roll down her cheeks. And so I start laughing too. Both of us are rolling on the floor with laughter-when the lights come on.

  "You bastard!"

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  I look up, my eyes adjusting to the sudden light, and there she is.

  "Julie? What are you doing here?"

  Without answering, she's now stomping through the kitchen. As I get to my feet and stagger after her, the door to the garage opens. The light switch in the garage clicks. I see her in silhouette for half a second.

  "Julie! Wait a minute!
"

  I hear the garage door rumbling open as I attempt to follow her. As I go into the garage, she's already getting into her car. The door slams. I zig-zag closer, wildly waving my arms. The engine starts.

  "I sit here waiting for you all night, putting up with your mother for six hours," she yells through the rolled-down window, "and you come home drunk with some floozy!"

  "But Stacey isn't a floozy, she's-"

  Accelerating to about thirty miles per hours in reverse, Julie backs out of the garage, down the driveway (narrowly missing Stacey's car) and into the street. I'm left standing there in the light of the garage. The tires of her car chirp upon the asphalt.

  She's gone.

  On Saturday morning, I wake up and groan a couple of times. The first groan is from the hangover. The second groan is from the memory of what happened.

  When I'm able, I get dressed and venture into the kitchen in quest of coffee. My mother is there.

  "You know your wife was here last night," says my mother as I pour my first cup.

  So then I find out what happened. Julie showed up just after I called here last night. She had driven over on impulse, because she had missed me and she had wanted to see the kids. She ap- parently wanted to surprise me, which she did.

  Later, I call the Barnett's number. Ada gives me the routine of "She doesn't want to talk to you anymore."

  When I get to the plant on Monday, Fran tells me Stacey has been looking for me since she arrived this morning. I have just settled in behind my desk when Stacey appears at the door.