Management Case Study 17: Down East Chicken - 2

By D. E. Fredd

Buh Buh stayed with me all that night before the meeting. I puked up my morning bagel and cream cheese before I left for work and seriously thought about a drink on the way. This was my second time in as many years being called on the carpet. I knew what to expect. Frankly it would be a relief.

Carol was sugar sweet when I let us into the store at nine on the dot. She tends towards short skirted business suits; not the most flattering attire for such a broad-bottomed woman. Her hair is done in a puffy, cotton candy style which appears fine in the morning mirror, but after a car ride and a few minutes on the job, winds up looking like the final stages of a kid’s birthday party.

She’s here to help right the ship, or so she says. Corporate values the time I’ve been with the Down East family. Constructive criticism will be offered. It may not be pleasant to hear, but, with luck, I have the feeling that maybe I can avoid being sent to a gulag or a re-education camp in China. We get down to business in the back booth. "What exactly is your management philosophy?" she asks.

My mind races for an answer, but I come up blank.

"Do you even have one?" Her eyebrows arch, and I’m torn between admitting I’m a fraud and walking out of the joint.

"I probably do, but it’s just that I’ve never put it into words; it’s more instinctive, I think."

"Then one of the things you’ll need to work on is writing it out for me so I can go back to corporate with something."

Carol is not pretty. Close up one can see the age lines in her face. Her eyebrows are dark brown and painted on with much too wide a brush. She is at least fifty and probably worked her way up the ladder, fighting the male hierarchy as she went for which I give her credit. She is heavy into monograms—briefcase, purse, leather folders taken from the briefcase and a leafy, diamond encrusted "CG" pin on her lapel. There are plenty of rings (maybe from various shopping channels) on several fingers but none that indicate marriage.

"It might take me a while to work it up; writing isn't my strong point. Is there a model somewhere I can look at?"

"I need it by tomorrow to show the area manger in Connecticut. After leaving here this morning I have an unpleasant assignment, a termination up in Bangor later today. I was planning to stop on the way back, but things could get complicated so I might have to stay the night up there."

"I'll see what I can do." I know the firing upstate is a subtle warning directed at me.

She leans over the table. We're no more than twelve inches apart, her perfume caulking my sinuses shut. "Mr. Frazier, I think it’s only fair to say that, depending on the write ups I get from you, your tenure at Down East may be at an end. I was sent here to test the gravity of the situation and make a recommendation. My reputation is on the line as well. If I give you a chance and you screw up, it looks bad for me. You’ve got to help me help you keep your job; is that understood?"

I'm the first to break eye contact. Strangely, I'm a bit disappointed. I thought I would be fired this morning and was prepared for it. But now there is a reprieve which evidently requires a lot of bullshitting, something I’ve no desire to do. Carol the Hatchet sits back waiting for me to say something. I notice that her blouse has begun to gap significantly, revealing her bra, which is anything but lacy, dainty or sexy.

"I'll work on it today and make sure you have it by tomorrow at the latest."

She smiles, folds her arms across her abundant chest and looks around the store. I start to relax but then she reaches for another folder. "It seems there are some issues with what happens to leftover product at closing. Either you are throwing away perfectly good meals at ten o’clock or there is some other reason for its disappearance!"

Christ, how am I going to weasel my way out of this?

                       **********

Carol and I talk in a sheltered back booth until way past noon. Business in the store whirls about us. My staff makes secret gestures of encouragement. Carlos makes faces. Buh Buh fakes flashing me. Lennie, the tech school kid who comes in for the lunch rush, makes sexually explicit grinding movements which don’t have a connection to anything other than it’s something he likes to do regardless of the situation. At one Carol and I shake hands limply in the parking lot, and she squeezes as womanly as possible into her status symbol BMW Z3 Roadster. I heave a sigh of relief and realize that I’ve not eaten all day. The gang brings me a three-piece combo meal plus left over birthday cake and, for their kindness, I brief them on the details of my interrogation. I hit the high spots, mention the many buckets of chicken that walk out the door just after ten and proclaim my managerial life to be on life support. They are indignant, contrite and sympathetic to my plight. I am hugged and complimented. Carlos calls me the best boss in the world. No one, however, volunteers to come to work on time, stop stealing meals, and passing out freebees to their friends. Nice guys finish last someone, probably Adolph Hitler, once said.

                        **********

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