by Paul Downs
—
THE NEXT DAY, Thursday, I design the Eurofurn showroom table. The order arrived in March, but I didn’t want to start until I had seen their factory. I’ll be using a drafting program on my computer to make a drawing. This is how information about an object is normally conveyed from the designer to wherever it is manufactured. The drawing portrays an object, but it actually consists of a bunch of lines and text on screen or paper. It has its own existence, independent of the qualities of the item that is being drawn. If the drawing is unclear, or riddled with errors, production is difficult and inefficient. Drawings look nothing like completed pieces. It takes a great deal of skill and experience to look at them and visualize what the object will look like, and even more to tell how it will work.
In our shop, the sales team does the initial drawing of each table. We modify it as the design is worked out with the customer. When the job is finalized, we send the file to Andy Stahl, our engineer. He will transform our concept into two different formats: one detailed set of drawings for the workers in the shop, and one set of instructions for our CNC machine. His job requires a deep understanding of what happens in the shop, as well as the skills required to convey complex information clearly, both to people and to a machine.
If you studied the drawings that Andy makes for the shop floor guys, you might eventually notice what isn’t there: no indications of what machines to use, no instructions as to how to build the table, or in what order the subassemblies should be built, and nothing at all about how it will be assembled, finished, and shipped. All that knowledge is elsewhere, much of it in the heads and hands of the craftsmen. Our drawings contain about 5 percent of the information required to produce the object they depict.
Andy determines the details of what will be built, but the big decisions have already been made. Dan, Nick, and I do what most of us think of as design—the creation, from nothing, of a new object. How do we do that?
The mental and physical parts of the task are done simultaneously. We think, and we draw. We try to identify what object will function per the customer’s requirements, look good, can be built efficiently in our shop, can be assembled and disassembled with ease, will fit into a shipping container that we can handle, will be durable, and whose cost doesn’t exceed the customer’s budget. And just to make it trickier, the best solution for any single requirement usually means a suboptimal approach to another. Fortunately, we’ve been solving these problems for years and have identified effective strategies for each of them.
I have designed every kind of furniture for home and office and learned that there are many issues beyond durability, looks, and price. Designing a bedroom requires tactful questioning about how it will be used. Designing an individual’s office should include some consideration of how the proposed design will look to colleagues and underlings. Chairs need a great deal of structural knowledge. In contrast, a conference table is pretty simple: a flat surface and something to hold it up. The top should be thirty inches from the floor, with at least twenty-seven inches underneath for legroom. We know that eighteen inches between the perimeter of the top and any vertical structure provides enough knee room, and that we should allocate at least thirty inches of perimeter for each chair, and that the table should be no closer than forty-two inches to the wall or other furniture.
We determine the size of a table by asking the client how much space they have and how many people they want to seat. If their answers contradict each other, we show the biggest table that will fit in the room. Since size is easy to determine, most of our design thinking is about how the table will look, how to build it, and how to integrate the audiovisual equipment.
Eurofurn is more sophisticated than our typical customer. They’ve told me what size, shape, woods, and special features that they want. The table will be a modified equilateral triangle, seventy-seven inches long and seventy inches wide, with gently curved sides that become much tighter radii at the corners. Any object based on a triangular geometry presents difficulties, because our materials and equipment are designed for a rectangular world. My machines default to 90-degree cuts. Our wood comes to us in rectangular chunks. And clamps, which we use to hold pieces together while glue dries, don’t work on triangular shapes—as pressure is applied, they slide toward the vertex and then fall. Since clamps are heavy and bulky, this will usually ruin the work.
The top is also too large to cut out of one piece of plywood. It must be made in pieces. I could cut it into two sections, but a single seam running across the triangular top will look arbitrary and clunky. If I make it in three identical pieces, then the seams will reflect the triangular geometry better. Each piece will have its own power/data hatch. In the center, where the three pieces meet, I’ll put a circular hole down into the base. This will allow a wire to be run from a telephone to the floor without going through the hatches, and it will also eliminate the awkward spot where three pointed pieces meet.
I spend some time working out the radii of the two curves on each top edge. We’ll have to bend a piece of solid walnut around these curves without cracking it. We can steam the wood to make it flexible, or we can use several layers of very thin wood and gradually build up the required thickness with multiple glue-ups. I want to avoid either of these techniques, as they are both very slow and extra build hours mean extra cost. I came up with my selling price, $6,523, by estimating how much a production version of this table would cost to build if we have everything worked out. But we don’t have everything worked out, and it will likely take more hours than my estimate suggests.
I complete the drawing of the outline of the top and the seams in a couple of minutes. Then I paste in a drawing of the power/data hatch that I took from an earlier project. Copy and rotate the hatch two more times, add explanatory text and dimension lines, and the drawing is complete (see here).
The next step is to design the base. I know that they don’t want to see any of the wires connecting the power/data units to the building wiring. They’ll want it to look very restrained, very clean, very simple. Very Eurofurn.
I decide that the base will be the same shape as the top: a triangular drum with rounded corners. I’ll make it out of walnut with a stainless-steel accent. But how big should it be? I want to maximize the distance between the edge of the table and the vertical face of the base, to give users as much knee room as possible. People really, really hate it when their feet or knees hit a table base. But if there’s too much overhang, and too little base, the table will be tippy. And more overhang means more top flex. Eurofurn wants this tabletop to be very thin, just one inch thick. In many of Eurofurn’s designs, a thin top is no problem, because there are legs at the corner of the table, but in this case much of the top is unsupported. So I should make the base bigger, to minimize top flex.
Good reasons to make the base small, good reasons to make it big. I also have one last reason to minimize the size. I want to cut all the structural parts for the base out of a single sheet of plywood, four feet wide and eight feet long, and one and a half inches thick. This will minimize the material cost and reduce the amount of labor, as we will have to put only one sheet onto the CNC bed.
I settle on an eighteen-inch overhang. In my mind, I’ve been visualizing all the parts required to make the base. I draw each of them, and then start dropping them onto a single sheet of plywood, arranging and rotating them so that they all fit. The final layout looks like this:
That’s it. I’m done. Andy will use my drawings to make another set of drawings, fleshing out my design ideas, formatted specifically for the client’s perusal. These are called “shop drawings,” or “shops.” If the client doesn’t like something that we build, and we haven’t shown or mentioned it in the shop drawings, then it’s our responsibility to fix it. If the point of contention was explained in the shops, and the client either missed it or didn’t understand what was shown, then they have to pay for any fixes. Theoretically, the
Eurofurn guys should be able to look at the shop drawings and understand what the table will look like. But I decide to put together a quick 3-D model and use it to generate some renderings. Adding this type of image greatly reduces the chance of disagreement down the road. They show what most people care about—the look—in a way that’s easy to understand. Here’s one of the images that I’ll send:
As you can see, this is much easier to comprehend than my design drawings.
Andy completes the shop drawings and sends them on Friday. Nigel approves them by e-mail later that day.
By the end of the week, Germany is a memory. I’m back to doing paperwork, talking to clients, and worrying about sales, cash, and marketing. The week I was in Germany, we received only seven inquiries. That was the worst performance since I started keeping records in 2011. This week was higher than average: twenty calls and e-mails. The pattern since the beginning of April looks like this: 12 : 9 : 21 : 7 : 20. These are wilder swings than I have ever seen. What does it mean? Is our advertising working, or not?
Sales for the week have been weak, totaling just $30,779. They’re all Dan’s jobs. Each one is near the $10,000 mark. If not productive, he’s consistent: he’s sold fourteen jobs this year, totaling $146,130. That’s an average sale of $10,438. This is lower than Nick’s total, $397,495, and average, $17,282. I have sold $200,110 and averaged $12,506.
Neither Nick nor I sold anything this week. Even worse, my last sale of April, to the tool company, is canceled, via a very short e-mail with no explanation. Take $15,301 off my total, and the sales for April are now just $146,677. A cancellation is unusual. We never got a deposit and haven’t done any drawings, so it’s easy to strike this job and move on. But what happened? Since we’ve only dealt with the general contractor, I have no idea who made the decision and whether the job was canceled or went to someone else. I could e-mail the contractor and see if he has an explanation, but if he wanted to tell me why, then he would have. Another mystery to contemplate over the weekend.
—
I SET OUT on Saturday with a mission: to buy some cars. I’m assuming that this will be a horrible experience, but since I’m in sales myself, I’m interested to see how they deal with me. My dream vehicle is the newest version of the Prius, both for the mileage, to lower the cost of driving Henry around in circles, and for the room. Everyone in my family is six feet or taller. The Prius V is much larger than the standard version. I’ve already decided that it will be perfect for me.
My wife will use the second car. The Camry wagon she was driving had three rows of seats. When I told her that I wanted to get a Prius, she asked how well it would handle the five of us on long trips. I had no answer, never having been inside one, so we agreed to look for a used minivan.
I check prices for a new Prius V and a used Sienna. The Prius is going for list ($27,600) or more. I find a nice used Sienna at a local dealer—I’ll call it Urban Toyota—and head over to check it out. When I get there, I find that the office is being rebuilt and they’re doing business from construction trailers. I enter. The room is full of cheap desks and chairs, some occupied with salespeople and customers. There’s an office to my right where I can see a bunch of young guys, all dressed in suits and clip-on ties. I’m standing there, but nobody greets me. After a couple minutes, I stick my head in the office. “Are you the sales guys?” A man behind a desk confirms that this is the sales department. “Can I get some help?” Desk Guy points to a young man sitting on a stained sofa. He heaves himself to his feet and sticks out a hand. “I’m Chet. How can I help you?” I explain what I’m after—the Sienna—and that I am also in the market for a Prius V. I would like to test-drive them both. And if I like them, I’ll buy them, today, cash on the barrelhead.
Chet has other plans for me. “OK, here’s the first thing. We need to prep the Sienna for the test-drive. And I only have one Prius, and that’s going to need prep, too. Take a seat.” I sit and wait. And wait. And wait. Almost half an hour later, he comes back with the keys to the Sienna.
I take it for a spin—very nice, quiet, roomy, runs fine. This car has 63,000 miles on it, and they want $19,600. Pricey, for what it is. I tell Chet that I’d like to try the Prius and then we can talk. Back in the trailer, I start waiting. While I’m parked there, I can’t help overhearing a deal being closed to my left. A salesman is sitting with a family of six—husband, wife, and four small kids. The husband and wife are speaking to each other in Spanish.
Their salesman is busy with his computer. He’s a one-fingered, look-for-every-key typist, so it takes him a while to write up the deal. As he types, he explains what he’s doing, slowly and loudly. This deal is all about the monthly payment and the trade-in value. The couple is nervous. The salesman promises that “you can drive home in a Brand. New. RAV-4. Today.” He slides a pile of papers over, and the husband starts signing. The wife has a stricken look, but the husband and kids are very excited, and the salesman sports a broad grin. What am I seeing? Is this a good deal? A happy purchase, mutually beneficial to both parties? Or something more one-sided? That’s a whole lot of paperwork that the guy signed without reading any of it. Good luck, folks.
It’s been forty-five minutes. I’m just about to bail when Chet comes back in. “Here ya go,” he says as he hands me the key. “It’s out on the lot, I’ll follow you out.” The car is pulled up near the door. This is my first look at the Prius V. I get in and find, to my surprise, that there’s nothing on the dashboard: no dials, nothing analogue, no information at all. My old cars predated digital readouts. There doesn’t even seem to be an ignition switch. Chet climbs in. “Put your foot on the brake,” he commands, then he leans over and pushes a round button in the center of the dashboard. The display jumps to life, but there’s no engine noise. Is it running? “OK, this car is kinda weird. Watch how the shifter doohickey goes. Ya push it over into D, then just let her go, and she’ll spring back to where she was. Keep your foot on the brake. Same thing with reverse. OK, let’s get this over with.”
I gingerly press the accelerator and we move forward, gently, slowly, out to the street and through a five-mile test ride. When I accelerate, I can hear the engine spring to life, but there’s not much pickup. We return to the lot. I sit in the backseat—plenty of leg and headroom—and I can see from the digital readout that I was getting mileage in the high forties, just as I wanted. But in all my research, nobody mentioned that a Prius V can barely get out of its own way. I’m wondering whether I’ll learn to live with such an underpowered car. But I’m already sick of car shopping. I decide to proceed to a deal.
Back in the trailer, I tell Chet, “OK, I’d like to take both cars. You want nineteen thousand six for the Sienna and how much for the Prius?” Chet types a bit on his computer and looks back to me. “Twenty-eight seven fifty.” That is $1,150 over the sticker price on the car. I decide that he must just be playing to see if I’m stupid. “How about I give you forty-four five for both of them? I’ll write you a check right now.” He thinks about this for maybe a quarter of a second and then stands up. “Nah. I think we’re done here. Good luck with your search.” He heads back to the holding pen. I’m stunned. Did he really just walk away from someone who was ready to hand him money? Was my offer some kind of insult? I puzzle over the experience on my way home. Chet treated me like garbage, but why?
—
MONDAY, 8:58 A.M. I can see the crew gathered at the square table, ready for the meeting. There’s no chatter. They wait. For me.
What will I say? I normally do the numbers, then some commentary about how things are going. Our cash position is worrisome. We have $135,782 on hand, less than a month’s worth at our present spending rates. We don’t have much of a backlog. We are far, far behind my sales targets. It seems like things are slowing down, although I can’t put my finger on exactly why. I don’t want to confess that the situation is bad, that I don’t know what’s going on, and that layoffs will
arrive next month. But that’s how I see it. Can I lie to them? Should I cancel the meeting? Or would they prefer a warning?
Before our last disaster, in the summer and fall of 2008, The Partner insisted that I not talk about our financial situation with the employees, that it was too much for them to handle, and that the good ones would jump ship and look for other jobs. Our partnership agreement said that we both had to agree on a course of action—each had veto power over the other. I still trusted The Partner’s judgment back then, so I followed his orders and kept quiet.
I never felt good about that policy. There were days when my longtime, trusted employees asked me directly whether the company was in trouble, and I had to keep mum. It was an enormous mistake. I found out later that all the workers knew it was very bad, and in the absence of any real information from their bosses, wild rumors were spreading. Morale was in the toilet. On the day that I laid off half the staff, I was surprised by how happy and relieved everyone was. Hearing the truth, even when it’s dreadful, is comforting. I promised the remaining employees that I would always tell them what was happening from then on.
Which brings me back to my Monday meeting. I drag myself out of my chair. Chin up. Shoulders back. Walk out there like a boss. Stand and deliver the truth. “Sales are not where I want them to be. Dan and Nick and I are doing everything we can to close some deals. Think back to 2009. Even in the worst year ever, we sold a million and a half. Something is going to come in soon. We have almost as much cash as we started the year with, which is not so bad. We need to finish the jobs we have on hand efficiently so that we can collect the money they owe us. Does anyone have any questions?” No. “OK, that’s the meeting.” They rise and return to their benches, machines, spray booth, desks, and broom.