Cold Feet

The reality of his decision began to strike Brian when he woke up on Thursday morning. But it wasn't until he put on his “Gene and Joe's” T-shirt that it completely hit home.

As he was heading out the door, he looked at Leslie and said, “What am I doing?”

Leslie smiled, and demonstrated yet again why Brian had been so lucky to marry her almost thirty years ago. “Because, as you said, it's why God put you on earth. You're a manager. And a leader. You can't help it.”

“But look at me.” He turned toward a mirror in the entryway of the cabin. “I'm wearing a shirt that says ‘Pizza and Pasta. Here, There, Everywhere.’”

They both laughed, in an almost pathetic way.

Leslie pulled him through. “Listen. This is no different from college. You're about to begin the world's best graduate course on management. It's all about learning.”

Her pep talk looked to be working, so she continued. “And I'm telling you the absolute truth here. I actually think it's pretty cool. I wish I could come with you.”

That was exactly what Brian needed to hear.

Past-Due Diligence

As he pulled up to the restaurant he had driven by dozens of times, he decided that somehow this time it looked different. He noticed the peeling paint and a broken window on the side of the building that he didn't recall seeing before. Gene and Joe's, as it turned out, was a little dirtier and more tired than he had remembered.

Saying a silent prayer as he unbuckled his seatbelt, Brian climbed out of the car and headed across the almost empty parking lot toward the front door of the restaurant.

Inside, Joe was at the cash register while a twenty-something Hispanic man was slicing vegetables on the counter behind him.

“Afternoon, Brian. You're early.” Joe's greeting didn't sound at all special, as though Brian had been coming to work there for years.

“Hey Joe, can I talk to you for a second?”

Joe closed the register. “Sure.” The two of them sat down at a nearby table.

“So, is this the part where you tell me that you're not going through with this?” Joe asked, a little sarcastically.

Though Brian had actually considered bailing out a few times in the past thirty seconds, he wasn't going to back out now. “You think I'd be wearing this T-shirt if I came down here to quit?”

Joe laughed.

“Besides, I can't quit a restaurant that I own, now, can I?”

“That's right, I guess. So what do you need?”

“I want you to tell me what's going on with the business.”

“Shouldn't you ask a question like that before you buy a company?” Joe asked sarcastically.

Brian smiled. “Yeah, I guess so. I suppose I'm not very smart. Anyway, what's the situation?”

Joe thought about it. “Well, about eighty percent of our business is done on the weekends, when you'll be here. On a yearly financial basis, we usually come in just a little under or over breakeven. December, February, July, and August, the peak vacation months, are when we can make a pretty healthy profit. If we get a lot of snow, we tend to make money for the year. If not, we don't.”

“Okay, aside from the seasonal nature of the business, what's your biggest challenge?”

Joe shrugged. “I don't know. I suppose part of it is me. I'm not all that interested in making a lot more money, as long as I get time to ski and fish and golf. I'm not trying to be Donald Trump here.”

Brian nodded. “Okay, but assume that you did want to make more money. Do you think you could?”

Joe didn't hesitate. “A little, maybe. Probably not much. I mean, we're a bit off the beaten path over here, and my employees are a motley crew. At least the ones who stick around.”

“So turnover's a problem?”

Joe nodded in exasperation.

“Why do you think?” Brian asked.

“Heck if I know. Most of these people aren't exactly go-getters, if you know what I mean.”

“What are they, then?”

“I don't know. So many of them come and go, it's hard to keep straight. I don't really know what they do in their spare time, and that's probably a good thing because I'm guessing some of it isn't legal.” He laughed.

Trying to be polite, Brian persisted. “But you must have some idea why people leave.”

Joe thought about it for a second. “Come on, Brian. None of them are getting rich or solving the world's problems here. It's manual labor, really. Which is why getting them to give a damn, not to mention show up on time,” he looked at his watch, “is a battle in itself.”

“If they did give a damn or come to work on time, what is it you'd want them to do?”

Joe shrugged. “How about make sure that when a lady orders a salad, she gets it?” He laughed. “That would be a good start.”

The phone rang. “But maybe you can figure something out. That's why I'm paying you the big bucks.” He got up from the table, slapped Brian on the back, and went to pick up the phone.

Staff

As the Thursday night dinner crew started to arrive, Brian introduced himself. Most of them had no knowledge that a new manager was coming on board, nor did they seem to care. Offering no explanation for their tardiness, they went about their jobs without fanfare.

Brian spent the rest of the time before the restaurant opened learning the names and job responsibilities of the nine employees who made up the weekend crew.

Joaquin served as the primary cook, handling all meat entrees—chicken, fish, and beef—and pastas. He was a short, stocky Guatemalan with a large moustache and a scar on the side of his face. He spoke extremely broken English, and with a thick accent.

Kenny was a prep cook of sorts, handling everything from salads to pizzas to gelato. At 6'7" and less than two hundred pounds, he was the thinnest human being that Brian had ever seen. His accent, part Oklahoma and part hillbilly, made Kenny almost as difficult to understand as Joaquin.

Tristan, the “new” employee who'd answered the phone when Brian called about the job, worked the counter, answered the phone, helped customers find tables, and did everything related to bills and making change. He looked about seventeen but was actually a youthful twenty-five.

Salvador, a tiny, quiet man from Mexico, washed dishes and cleaned the kitchen and bathroom whenever it was needed.

Carl handled the drive-thru and helped Joaquin and Salvador in the kitchen. As Brian had already noticed, Carl seemed to be in his forties. He wore a wedding ring and had a tattoo of a peace sign on his forearm.

Harrison was a big guy with a red beard, and he made most of the home deliveries, driving an old Chevy Impala with a magnetic “Gene and Joe's” placard on the door. Brian remembered seeing him at his home delivering food once or twice.

Joleen was an attractive blonde waitress, an early twenty-something with a diamond-looking stud in her nose. She handled half of the dining room.

Patty handled the other half. She seemed to be almost thirty, though Brian decided she worked hard to look younger.

Next, there was Migo, the young guy who was prepping food when Brian came in search of his lost salad. His real name was Miguel, but everyone knew him by his nickname. Migo seemed to be something of a utility man, filling in wherever he was needed, which included making pizzas, busing tables, and running the drive-thru.

And of course there was Joe, who dove in when things were busy or when someone was sick or decided to quit without giving notice, or when something went wrong. And plenty usually went wrong.

Opening Night

Brian's anxiety about the ridiculousness of his situation didn't fade until the restaurant opened and customers started to come in. It was only then that he began to feel like he was part of a business again. Sure, it was a fraction of the size of the organization he had run at JMJ, but it had employees and customers, and for now that was enough.

The night was a typical Thursday for Gene and Joe's, busier than anyone who had been in the empty place during the day could have imagined. And while the clientele didn't arrive wearing ties and sport coats, they were not particularly unsophisticated, just informal and weary after a long day of skiing or whatever it was they had been doing.

Joe told his new manager to spend his first night observing as much as he could about the operation, and learning how to work the register. Brian did that quickly, and found plenty of opportunities to pitch in by busing tables and shuttling pizza and pasta from the kitchen to the dining room.

The night went by faster than he could have guessed. Because the restaurant was located off the beaten path and away from the hotels, closing time was relatively early. So at 10:15, more than an hour after the last customer had gone, Brian and Migo shut the place down. Joe had offered to let Brian go earlier, but he insisted on staying until closing.

As Brian locked the front door of the restaurant and turned toward his car, he was surprised to see that there was another vehicle in the parking lot, right next to his. As he came closer, he realized that it was Leslie's car, but she was nowhere to be seen. Then he noticed that she was sitting inside Brian's Explorer, reading a book.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by his smiling wife and a burst of hot air from the car's heater. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Just waiting for my boyfriend after his first day of work. Let's go get dessert.”

Debrief

Brian and Leslie drove into South Lake Tahoe and found a train-themed diner called Mountain Express. It was clean and fairly crowded.

As they sat down at a table, Leslie dove right in. “So?” She was certainly more curious about her husband's new job than Brian would have guessed when he first told her about it.

“Well, it wasn't what I expected, that's for sure.”

“In a good or bad way?”

Brian had to think about it. “Both, I guess.”

She frowned. “Really? You're not going to quit, are you?”

“No, it's not that bad. The work itself wasn't horrible. In fact, there's something gratifying about doing real manual work for a change.”

“What was the bad part, then?”

“It was just more depressing than I would have thought.”

“How so?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. I mean, I did my time at Captain Hamburger's and Carrows, so I wasn't expecting it to be an amusement park. But this was more like a morgue. I can't believe they do this every night.”

“Maybe that's just the nature of working in a restaurant these days.”

Brian frowned. “I don't think so.” He felt like he was trying to talk himself into his answer. “I certainly hope not.”

“Do they work hard?”

He hesitated. “Yeah, but with no sense of engagement. It's like they don't care what they're doing, and frankly, the customers don't seem to care much either. It's just a place to get warm food.”

He looked around the restaurant trying to find someone to wait on them. “It looks like this place might have the same problem. Where's our waitress?”

As they gave up searching and returned to scanning the dessert menus that were already on the table, they were interrupted.

“I'm really sorry to keep you guys waiting so long.”

It was a waiter, maybe twenty years old, sporting the saddest mustache Leslie had ever seen. Smiling enough to show a shiny set of braces on his teeth, he introduced himself. “I'm Jack. What can I get for you?”

“What do you recommend, Jack?” Leslie was always open to suggestions.

“If you're looking for dessert, I like the peach cobbler and the German chocolate cake.”

“What about the apple pie?” Brian wanted to know.

“Nah. That's not one of our better ones. I think my wife makes it better.”

Leslie looked at Brian as if to say, he has a wife? “How about the tiramisu?”

Now Jack-the-waiter wrinkled his nose. “You know, I just don't like tiramisu. So I'm the wrong guy to ask. But I have to admit that I've never heard anyone rave about it.”

Before the Baileys could make their decision, the waiter asked. “You guys on vacation?”

Leslie was more of an extrovert than her husband, and she usually answered first. “No, we live up here.”

“Skiers?”

“Used to be. He blew out his knee.” Leslie motioned toward her husband.

“Bummer.” Jack seemed to mean it. “Is it serious?”

Now Brian joined in. “Enough to put me out of action for the year.”

The friendly waiter winced in empathy. “You must be missing it a lot.”

Brian nodded.

“Have you tried snowmobiling?”

Having decided on her order, Leslie now put her menu down and rejoined the conversation. “I've always wanted to do that.”

Brian looked at her with amusement. “Really?”

“Sure, it looks fun.”

Jack egged her on. “You can rent snowmobiles a few blocks from here, and after fifteen minutes of instruction, you're good to go, even with a bum knee. And you can ride together, for less than two hundred bucks a day. I know that's a lot of money, but if you can afford it—” He didn't finish the sentence.

Leslie was genuinely grateful for the advice. “Well, thank you, Jack.”

Brian smiled, both at the spunky waiter and his own, equally spunky wife. He thought the prospect of going snowmobiling with her sounded pretty good too.

They placed their order and let Jack go.

“Maybe I was wrong about working in a restaurant.” Leslie announced gleefully. “You should hire that guy.”

“That's exactly what I was thinking. I ought to offer him a job tonight.” Brian was serious.

Leslie was a little surprised. “I was joking, Brian. You can't just go hire him. You've only been there one day. You can't just show up on your second day and say, ‘Hey everyone, meet Jack.’”

Brian smiled. “Yes I can. I'm an owner. Remember?”

She laughed. “Don't you think you should talk it over with Joe first?”

“Are you kidding? Joe wouldn't know a good employee if one bit him on the butt. That's probably why things are so bad down there.”

At that moment, another guy, a few years older than Jack, came to the table carrying the coffee and hot chocolate that Brian and Leslie had ordered. “Jack will be here in a few minutes with your pie.”

Leslie decided to be curious. “Excuse me. Do you know Jack, our waiter?”

The guy hesitated. “Sure. Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all. In fact, he's very nice. I was just wondering how long he's been working here.”

“A little over a year. He moved up here from Reno to go to a community college, and got married a few months ago. He's one of the better ones I have.”

“Are you the owner of this place?”

“No, just a manager.”

Now Brian jumped in, a little surprised. “You said he's one of the better ones you have. Are there others like him?”

The manager thought about it. “Yeah, a few of the others are good like Jack. Most aren't quite as comfortable with customers, though.”

Brian laughed. “Can I ask where you find them?”

The manager shrugged. “I think the owner puts an ad in the newspaper. That's how I found my job.”

“Does he pay more than the other restaurants around here?”

The guy looked as though he had never thought about it before. “I don't really know. But I don't think so. I think we make better tips than some of the other places, but that's about it.”

Just then Jack came back with the food, and the manager smiled and left the table with an encouraging “enjoy your dessert.”

As Jack put the plates down, Brian decided to be bold.

“Jack, how do you like working here?”

The young waiter didn't hesitate. “I like it a lot.” Then he corrected himself, almost embarrassed. “I mean, it's probably not what I'll do forever. But it's actually a really good job.” He smiled like he meant it.

“Why do you think you like it so much?”

Jack glanced over at two tables that had just been seated in his station, but tried to focus on the conversation with his current customers. “I don't know. You should probably ask Jeremy.”

“Who's Jeremy?”

“My manager. The guy who brought you the hot chocolate.” Jack glanced over at his tables again. “Excuse me, folks, I need to go take their order. I'd be glad to come back over in a few minutes if—”

Brian waved his hand. “No, don't worry about it. Thanks for your time and your help, Jack.”

As the young waiter walked away, Leslie asked, half jokingly, half seriously, “Why didn't you offer him a job?”

Brian nodded. “Because there is no way he'd take it.”

Leslie was a little confused, so Brian explained himself.

“Why in the world would a hardworking, cheerful young guy like that want to work at a depressing place like Gene and Joe's? And I'd feel horrible even trying to take Jack out of here. I need to make some changes there before I can think about hiring anyone new.”

“What kind of changes?” Leslie wanted to know.

Brian smiled excitedly. “I'm not exactly sure yet, but I can't wait to find out.”

At that moment, Leslie could see how much her husband had needed a project like this one.

Lip Biting

Though he wanted to dive in and start making changes right away, Brian decided that he would force himself to observe one more night at the restaurant before coming to any conclusions. It turned out to be a long night.

First, he watched as three different drive-thru customers returned because of incomplete orders. One of them had to come back twice on the same order! And it wasn't so much that the orders were wrong that bothered Brian, it was that it didn't seem to bother anyone, least of all Carl.

Treatment of customers by Joleen and Patty ranged from friendliness to indifference to surliness, depending on the mood of the customers and the waitresses themselves. Only Migo seemed to take pride in his work, doing whatever his coworkers asked of him without hesitation or complaint.

As the evening went on, Brian became more and more amazed that Gene and Joe's had stayed in business at all. One particular incident captured the mess of the restaurant best.

It was three minutes before nine o'clock, the closing time for the restaurant on a Friday night. As he was counting the register, Brian suddenly heard someone in the front of the restaurant yell, “Autobus!” Ironically, it was Carl, not one of the Hispanic employees, who sounded the alarm in Spanish.

At that moment the restaurant came alive, as though a bomb had gone off. Within ten seconds, the front door was locked, the lights in the dining room were out, and most of the chairs were turned over onto the tables. The employees who remained seemed to be hiding in the corners of the building, away from the windows.

At first Brian thought that the place was about to be robbed. He went to the drive-thru window and looked outside. There in the parking lot was a bus. On the windows of the bus were signs, written with soap. “Go Rams! Beat the Tigers! Go LHS!”

Brian watched as the front door of the bus opened, and two men exited. They headed for the front door of Gene and Joe's, but as they got closer, they stopped. Checking their watches, the men shook their heads and made their way back to the bus. A few other adults had already gotten off, but the two scouts informed them that the place was closed, and they got back on. Finally, the bus pulled away, heading toward the lights of South Lake Tahoe.

As soon as the bus was gone, the employees in the restaurant seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief and let out a muffled cheer. It was the most passion that Brian had seen from them in two days.

“What was that all about?” Brian asked, looking in the direction of Patty and Kenny. The relief in the room seemed to be tempered a bit by the question.

Finally, Kenny explained. “Two months ago that bus came in here ten minutes before closing time and stayed until ten thirty.”

Patty finished for him. “They're a bunch of basketball moms and dads from the high school down the road in Lakeview. Whenever we see them coming, we try to close up fast.”

Brian couldn't believe that they weren't the slightest bit embarrassed by what they were telling him.

Wishing he'd had the presence of mind to go out and invite the busload of people into the restaurant, the former CEO decided that he had seen enough and was ready to start making changes. Saturday night would mark the beginning of a new experience for the employees of Gene and Joe's.

Engagement

Brian arrived at work early the next day, and asked Joe to do the same. More than an hour before any other employees arrived, the two co-owners sat down in the dining room to talk.

Joe started. “I hope you're not asking for your money back. Because I made it real clear that if you quit, you couldn't pull your investment out.”

Brian laughed. “I'm not quitting, and I'm not asking for my money back.”

Joe was relieved, which made it easier for Brian to continue.

“But I am asking you to let me make some changes around here.”

Joe laughed. “Well, you've only been here two days. But be my guest.” Then he paused. “What kind of changes are you thinking about? Like the menu or the décor?”

Brian had to fight hard to avoid laughing, both at Joe's choice of the word décor to describe the tacky interior of the old restaurant and at his pronunciation of the word (which sounded like deckore).

“No, I'm thinking more about managing people.”

Joe frowned slightly. “What do you mean? You want to fire somebody?”

“No, nothing like that.” Then Brian thought about it. “Although if that were the right thing to do, I might want to do that too. But that's not what I'm thinking.”

Brian didn't want Joe to feel criticized, so he chose his words carefully. “I want to give employees a little clearer sense of what is expected of them.”

That didn't seem to register with Joe, nor did it seem to concern him, which Brian decided was okay. He continued. “So, I was hoping that you could help me get the restaurant ready now, so that when the staff gets here, I can have a meeting with them.”

Again, Joe's response was somewhere between indifferent and amenable. “Okay. Let's get to it.”

The unlikely business partners prepared Gene and Joe's for the Saturday evening crowd. They swept floors, cleaned counters, chopped pizza ingredients, and stocked supplies. They even did a handful of other things—like straighten out the walk-in refrigerator and wash the menus thoroughly—that Brian decided hadn't been done for more than a few months.

By the time workers started arriving, the place was a little shinier than normal, something that was noticeable to even the most disinterested employee.

That would be Carl. “Who did all this stuff?” he asked.

Joe responded. “Me and Brian. And it only took us about forty-five minutes.”

“So what are we supposed to do now?” he asked.

“I think you're having a meeting. I'm going to the movies.”

And with that, Joe left, leaving Carl looking more confused than normal.

Staff Meeting

Brian asked everyone to get something to drink and come into the dining room. Though there was no real policy, Joe tended to frown on employees getting fountain drinks for themselves until after closing time. Brian didn't know that, nor would he have cared.

When everyone was seated except for Migo, who had yet to arrive, the new manager began. He admitted to Leslie later that he was a little nervous, not knowing how these people would respond. He hadn't feared a revolt or anything like that. It was the prospect of complete indifference that somehow frightened him the most.

Deciding not to be clever or subtle, Brian got right to the point. “How many of you like your jobs?”

Nothing. People just looked at one another as though Brian had asked the question in Russian.

“Come on now, everybody. Show of hands. How many like your jobs?”

Slowly, every hand in the room went up, but with no conviction.

Brian smiled. “Okay, let me be clearer. I'm not asking how many of you want to keep your jobs. I'm not going to fire someone because they don't raise their hand.”

Realizing that the people staring at him had no reason to trust him, Brian rephrased the question. “How about this? How many people here get excited about coming to work? How many of you are in a really good mood when you're driving here?”

Brian might as well have asked them if they liked being beaten with a stick. No one raised their hand, and more than a few of them actually laughed out loud.

Patty didn't raise her hand, but she blurted out a comment. “Well, I've got three little kids at home, so I'm just excited to get out of the house.” Everyone laughed. “But I'd rather not be coming here.”

Brian laughed along with everyone else in the room.

Carl joined in, unprompted. “I actually get kind of depressed when I wake up on Thursday mornings, because I know that I'm going to be here a lot for the rest of the week.”

His colleagues seemed surprised by his frank admission.

Brian refocused the conversation. “Well, I'm here to tell you that my job is to get you to like your jobs. To look forward to coming to work.”

The looks on the faces around the room were a mix of distrust, confusion, and boredom.

Brian knew better than to expect that this “motley crew” would embrace his ideas right away and throw their new leader on their shoulders and parade him around the dining room like Norma Rae.

“I realize that you think I'm nuts. But here's the thing. I honestly believe that if you like your jobs more, the business will do better.”

“Is there something in it for us?” asked Harrison, politely.

Brian wanted to scream at his delivery guy. How about not being miserable? How about making your life a little better and having pride in your work? Don't you think that would be a good thing for you and your family and friends? Or do you enjoy having the life sucked out of you every time you put on that damn Gene and Joe's T-shirt?!

But he knew that these people had no reason to trust or believe him, not without a tangible incentive. “Well, for the next two months, everyone here on the weekend shift is going to get one dollar more per hour.”

Eyes lit up, giving Brian the perfect opportunity to turn the screws on them.

“But that's only if everyone goes along with the plan. If just one person blows it off, then the hourly dollar goes away. Okay?”

For the first time since he had been there, Brian felt a sense of commitment, albeit barely detectable, from the staff. “But remember, I'm going to have you do some things that you've never done before. Got it?”

Tristan's hand went up, calming the mood for a moment. “You're not going to ask us to do anything illegal, are you?”

Brian laughed, and then realized that Tristan was serious. “No, no. Nothing illegal. Just different.”

Others in the room laughed in amusement and relief, and Brian continued.

“The first is that we need to start coming to work on time.”

As if on cue, the door opened and Migo came in. Everyone laughed nervously at the coincidence. The bizarre scene—the meeting, the laughter, the particularly clean restaurant—stunned Migo.

Brian knew that assurance would probably go a lot further than reprimand. “Have a seat, Migo. We were just talking about the importance of getting to work on time.”

Everyone laughed again, but before Migo could get an excuse out of his mouth, Brian finished. “But I'm not talking about you in particular, and you don't need to tell me why you're late. No one's in trouble. This is about the future.”

Migo accepted the absolution and sat down.

“But from now on, I need everyone here when they're supposed to be here. If there is a problem, call ahead and let me know.” He paused. “And problems really ought to be rare.”

Just as it looked like no one was going to react, Joaquin raised his hand. Brian pointed to him, and the Guatemalan cook said something in Spanish, in the direction of Migo, who translated.

“He wants to know if he can come in a little early on some nights, and a little later on others. He works the day shift at a gas station and it's sometimes hard to make the schedules fit.”

The other employees seemed a little surprised by the boldness of the question, and were watching intently to see how the new manager would respond. Brian felt a quiet sense of shame that it hadn't even occurred to him that his employees might have other jobs.

He thought about it for a second. “Porque no? Si puedes preparar en tiempo, yo digo sí?” The Hispanic employees in the room seemed as surprised by Brian's ability to speak Spanish as they were by his answer.

Again, Migo translated, but this time for those who only spoke English. “He says, ‘Why not? If you can prepare your work on time, I say it's fine.’” He looked at Brian to get his approval for the translation, and Brian nodded.

Now everyone in the room seemed almost stunned by their new manager's answer.

Brian decided that Joe had probably not been terribly open to their suggestions. He went on. “Okay, in addition to being on time, I want everyone here to start measuring what you're doing. I believe in the old saying that if you can't measure something, you can't improve it.”

Knowing that this wouldn't make complete sense to everyone on his staff, Brian continued. “And don't worry. I'll be helping you figure out what you should be measuring, and how we're going to go about doing it. In fact, for most of you, that will start tonight.”

Brian felt like he had said enough, and that actions would ultimately speak louder than words. “Okay, we've got a few minutes before opening. Let's get ready.”

After everyone scattered, Brian took a moment to explain what was going on to Migo, who seemed genuinely eager about the whole thing, even before he found out about the increase in pay. Then the new manager began to put his program into effect. He decided to start with his biggest challenge: Carl.

First Test

Saturday night at Gene and Joe's was fairly crowded, mostly with weary skiers and assorted locals looking for a quick, informal dinner. The drive-thru window, something that never made much sense to Brian, was surprisingly busy on Saturday nights, especially with skiers heading back toward Reno.

The poster child for apathy at the restaurant, Carl essentially had three responsibilities; he took orders from customers, assembled the orders with the help of the kitchen staff, and handed over the food and collected payment for it. None of which he did very well.

Carl was not particularly responsive, accurate, or pleasant in his role at the drive-thru, but Joe had never felt like that part of the restaurant was important. “How much difference does it really make?” he'd told Brian.

However, Brian had noticed that when Carl made a mistake—something that was not terribly rare—it often set off a chain reaction throughout the restaurant. Joaquin might have to prepare a special order. Tristan might have to sort out the problem if the unhappy customer came to the front desk. And Joe would often find himself apologizing and asking other staff members to do something to make up for the problem. As a result, everything else would fall behind a little, creating backlogs and crises.

Though he had already given some thought to how he would make Carl's job more measurable, Brian wanted to give the guy a chance to come up with something on his own. At a point when no cars were in the drive-thru, Brian pulled Carl aside and asked Migo to keep an eye on the window.

When they were sitting down in the dining room, Brian began. “Carl, what would be a good way to measure whether you're doing a good job?”

Carl looked at him blankly and shrugged. “I don't know.”

Brian tried again. “Let's say it's the end of the night and everything is closed out, how would you know that you had a good night at the window?”

Carl thought about it a little more. “The number of cars or orders that came through, maybe? Or the amount of time they had to wait?”

Brian nodded, patiently. “Okay, those would be all right. Of course, you don't really control the volume of customers that come through. That would be a good measure of how busy you were, maybe, but not of how well you were doing your job.”

Carl seemed to understand the logic and nodded his agreement.

Brian continued. “The time that people wait might be a good one. But again, it depends on a lot of things outside your control. Like how well the guys in the kitchen are cranking out orders.”

Again Carl agreed. “What do you think?”

Brian was glad to provide some direction. “I'm thinking that the number of orders you do without errors would be a good start.”

Without the slightest bit of defensiveness (or enthusiasm), Carl nodded. “That's a good one.”

“And I'm also thinking that you need something to measure that says you're dealing with customers in a positive way, so they'll want to come back again.”

“Okay.” The way Carl said it seemed to indicate that he didn't really understand what that might mean.

Brian went on. “What about if you make a note of the number of times you make people smile when they come through the drive-thru?”

It was as though Brian had asked Carl to climb through the window and give his customers back rubs. “Smile?”

“Sure. Why not?” Brian asked. “That's a pretty good indication that they're happy, and it's definitely within your control.”

Carl was considering it.

“And if you could get one of them to actually laugh, that would be worth four smiles.”

“I don't know. That seems pretty weird.”

“Come on. You don't have to tell jokes or anything. Unless you want to. Just try smiling at them and asking a question or two. I'm betting that will work. Heck, ask them how skiing was, or where they're headed.”

Either Carl seemed to realize that it was doable, or he remembered that the dollar per hour increase in his pay was riding on this. In any case, he nodded his head in a way that said, “Okay, I'll do it.”

“So why don't you get one of those big placemats over there and make a score sheet on the back. Keep it next to the window, and write down how many errors you make in orders, and how many smiles you get from people.”

“Don't you want someone else to do the counting?”

Brian was confused. “Why?”

“How do you know I won't cheat?”

Brian wanted to laugh, but maintained a serious demeanor. “Because I don't think you're that kind of person.” He then looked around as though he wanted to make sure no one was listening, and explained in a hushed tone. “Besides, I've installed secret cameras all over the restaurant, and I'll be able to see everything.”

And at that moment Brian saw Carl smile for the first time. Sure, it was only a brief moment. But it was a smile nonetheless, and he'd take it.

The Rounds

Feeling a surge of confidence, Brian took on the other employees one by one.

With Patty and Jolene, he agreed with them that tips were a pretty good measure. But he also suggested that they count the number of unprompted customer comments about their service, either received by the waitresses directly or by one of the other employees. They agreed more easily than Brian had guessed, which he decided was a function of their gregarious personalities and the existence of a financial incentive for doing well.

Tristan's work at the cash register and on the phone was more difficult to measure, but after a few rejected suggestions, Brian and he agreed on three: the timeliness of turning around customer bills for waitresses, his creative ability to configure tables and get people seated, and the timeliness of answering the phone. The first two of these would be based, at least in part, on the judgments of Patty and Joleen.

Joaquin and Kenny in the kitchen were fairly easy. They would measure their success by the timeliness of finishing orders and the comments of customers about their food. In the latter case, they too would have to rely on the feedback of the waitresses, as the cooks had little or no direct contact with the people consuming the products they made.

Brian decided that Harrison, the driver, would not be measured on the timeliness of his deliveries because most of that was out of his control and more a matter of how fast the kitchen churned out an order. And Brian certainly didn't want him driving carelessly. Instead, Harrison's success should be measured in tips, order accuracy, and customer reaction, though he explained it differently to his burly, red-bearded renegade driver—someone who was sure to hate the idea of measuring smiles.

Salvador, the dishwasher, would be assessed based on having an adequate supply of dishes and utensils for the other employees, as well as the cleanliness of his product.

Migo was the most difficult to pin down because his job varied so much. He and Brian agreed that feedback from the other employees in the restaurant would be the best indicator of his success, and though Brian suggested that Migo solicit that feedback himself at the end of each night, the young man insisted that Brian do it, to ensure that the input from colleagues was honest.

By the end of the evening, everyone had identified how they would measure their own success, and some had even begun trying it out. While Brian could not say that they seemed exuberant about the new program, he honestly felt that there was a subtle sense of enthusiasm around it, which he attributed to more than just the additional wages.

As he locked up the restaurant that night, Brian was genuinely excited, eager to see his program put fully into practice the next Thursday.

Cold Water

The car in the driveway at the cabin was unfamiliar to Brian, and on closer inspection, he could see it was a rental. When he opened the front door of his home, he was greeted with slightly forced smiles from Leslie and his daughter, Lynne.

Lynne had flown to the area to interview in South Lake Tahoe, but after a brief three-way call with her brothers, she'd added a second item to her agenda: check on Dad's sanity.

After the usual greetings and hugs and small talk, the family sat down in the living room. Lynne, never one to back off from a challenge, broached the subject.

“So what's the deal with this job of yours, Dad?” She smiled, but in an almost sad kind of way.

Brian wasn't the least bit defensive. “Well, I'm sure your mother told you. I'm a part owner in a little Italian restaurant down the hill—you probably drove right by it on the way here—and I manage the place on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.”

“And what made you do something crazy like that?”

Brian smiled, amused and proud of his daughter's protectiveness. “I know it looks,” he searched for a word, “well, crazy is probably the best way to say it, I guess. But I have my reasons and I'm actually excited.”

Lynne winced. “What are they paying you? Eight bucks an hour?”

Brian laughed. “Actually, they're not paying me at all. I'm an owner, and I decided to forgo the wages.”

Leslie stepped in gently. “He's obviously not doing it for the money.”

“I'm sorry to keep asking, Dad, but why exactly are you doing this?”

Brian proceeded to tell her about the difficulty of having his career end so abruptly, and about Rick Simpson's comments. He explained his general sense of frustration about the fact that so many people in the world hated their jobs, and how he felt like it might be the reason God put him on earth.

Just as he had been with his wife a week earlier, Brian was very compelling. Perhaps because she was looking for a job herself, or maybe because she tended to be empathic, Lynne seemed to be accepting and understanding what her dad was saying.

“So, how long are you going to do this?”

Brian hesitated, as though he really hadn't given it much thought. “I don't know.” He pondered the question. “Two months. Maybe six. Maybe a year.”

Leslie squirmed. “A year? You don't really think you'll be down there that long, do you?”

“It depends on how long it takes me to figure it out.”

“To figure what out?” Lynne wanted to know.

“How to help those people find some kind of fulfillment in their work. And why so many people with jobs like theirs are miserable.”

“Okay, now I have to ask a question for Eric.” Lynne went through her notes, to ensure that she quoted her brother accurately. “Here it is. Eric wanted me to ask you, ‘Have you lost your mind, Dad?’”

They laughed at the blunt nature of the oldest son.

“You can tell Eric to stop worrying about me. I'm fine.”

Lynne seemed satisfied for the moment, so the family shifted their focus away from Brian's work and onto her job interviews.

Initial Results

Thursday night couldn't come quickly enough for Brian.

After reminding everyone before they left on Saturday night, Brian was glad to see that they all arrived on time. Unfortunately, the measurement part of his plan didn't go quite as well.

Some of the workers had already forgotten what they'd be measuring, while others seemed to have a hard time doing their jobs any differently than they had in the past. Brian reminded himself that these were not “A” players; some would have been stretching to merit a “C.” The top waiters and waitresses and busboys and cooks in the area were working at nicer restaurants or hotels. He knew full well that Gene and Joe's was not employing the best and the brightest. Which only made Brian more determined to help them. And to be more patient.

By the middle of the Friday night shift, Brian had the measurement system working pretty well. He noticed that the waitresses were keeping a closer eye than usual on their tips, and that the guys in the kitchen were paying a little more attention to the time it took to get an order out. Carl wasn't having a great deal of luck making people smile, but he was more pleasant to customers than he had been the preceding week, and he was double-checking his orders before passing them through the window.

To different extents, everyone at Gene and Joe's seemed to be doing a little better. And by Saturday night, employees were checking out each other's scorecards at the end of the shift and comparing their respective results.

During the next weekend shift, the mood and performance at Gene and Joe's had begun to show signs of improvement in small but noticeable ways. Tips were getting a little bigger, errors were a little fewer, and the place even seemed a little cleaner. Brian was feeling like his experiment might be over sooner than he had expected.

More important, employees were spending more of their time at work talking about something they'd rarely discussed in the past. Work. They gave each other advice about how to get things done more quickly, and how to deal with customers in a way that would provoke a bigger tip or a humorous reaction.

But toward the end of Saturday night, as he was helping Migo, Tristan, and Carl close the place down, something happened that destroyed any sense of complacency Brian might have been feeling.

Blip

Brian was closing out the cash register, while the rest of the crew were in the dining room cleaning tables, mopping the floor, and turning chairs over.

“Hey, Carl,” Brian called out. “How many smiles you get tonight?”

Carl's response was the worst thing Brian could have heard. “I don't know.”

“What do you mean, you don't know?”

Without bothering to pause from his mopping, the drive-thru clerk explained. “I forgot to keep track.”

Brian, as well as the others in the dining room, was stunned. “You forgot?”

He shrugged. “I just don't see why it matters.”

Before Brian could respond, Tristan did. “How about a dollar an hour, dude? Do you think I really care how fast I get the bills done? Just do it.”

Carl nodded, and looked toward Brian. “Yeah, I'm sorry. I'll do it better next week.” He looked back to Tristan and Migo. “Sorry about that.”

Brian assured them all that the wage increase was not in jeopardy as long as Carl got back on track. But he also came to the disconcerting realization that his program was missing something, and that without it, was eventually going to fail.

Brian went home that night and racked his brain about what he and the other managers had done at JMJ to make people enjoy their work. In spite of all the accolades and attention they received as a great place to work, they had never been all that specific or purposeful. “We just treat people the way we'd like to be treated,” was how he usually explained it during an awards dinner or a press interview.

Now, however, that wasn't enough. Brian needed to do some forensic analysis to figure out his theory. And preferably, before Thursday. Otherwise, he would begin to lose what little momentum he had.

Knowing that he would need help, Brian sent a host of e-mail messages to various former colleagues, some of whom were still working at JMJ. He asked his head of human resources, his VP of operations, and a few of his line managers in manufacturing if they would share their thoughts about what they believed were the key drivers of morale and productivity.

Over the course of the next few days, answers came trickling in, and Brian was excited to read them all. Though none seemed to have a complete or specifically accurate assessment, all together it gave Brian the insight he needed to take the next step at Gene and Joe's. And to recharge his own enthusiasm for what he was doing there.

Reality Check

Brian went into work early on Thursday, and was glad to find Joe there. The two straightened up the restaurant and then sat down to talk.

Joe began. “How's it going? You still glad you're here?”

Brian nodded. “Oh yeah. I'm enjoying it. How about you?”

“Well I've been here for more than thirty years, so I'm pretty used to it.”

Brian laughed at Joe's dry and deceptively clever humor. “No, I mean how do you like having me here?”

“Well, you haven't burned the place down. And receipts are fine. From what I can see, everything's going okay.”

At that moment, Salvador and Migo walked in the front door.

Joe looked at his watch as though it were broken. Then he returned to the conversation at hand. “How's your wife doing with all of this?”

“You know, she's actually gotten used to having a few nights of quiet time at home, reading and watching old movies. And during the week when it's not as crowded around the lake, we go driving or hiking. We even rented snowmobiles the other day and explored the hills above our cabin.”

Joe smiled. “So what did you want to talk to me about?”

Again, the front door opened, and this time Tristan came in. Joe looked at his watch again, and turned back to Brian. “Did you change the time that people are supposed to come to work?”

Brian shook his head.

“What in the hell are they doing here, then?” he asked, motioning toward the kitchen where the three employees were already at work. “Don't tell me they're here early!”

Laughing, Brian explained. “I've got them on a little incentive program, and part of the deal is they have to be here on time.”

“What's the incentive?” the majority owner wanted to know.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I promised them that I'd pay them a dollar an hour more in wages for two months.”

Joe looked surprised, even a little upset, so Brian clarified.

“Don't worry. It will come out of my check. I decided not to take any pay yet, not until I get things in order. And it's temporary. After that, we'll go back to normal.” He paused before adding. “But I am looking for a way to have everyone share in some of the tips.”

Joe was noticeably calmer now, but still a little on edge. “Well, there is no way the waitresses will let you do that, and frankly, I don't even want you to ask them. Not without talking to me.”

Brian realized that he should have cleared the temporary pay increase with his business partner earlier. “You're right, Joe. I won't do anything else like that without checking with you first. I just figured that since I wasn't being paid, you would—”

Joe interrupted him. “That's okay. Don't worry about it. It sounds like everything's going well.” He paused and watched the front door open again, and two more employees walk through. “Besides, if you've found a way to get these misfits to come to work early, then you must know what you're doing.”

Brian hoped he was right.

Round Two

Though the restaurant was now about to open, no customers had yet arrived. So Brian called a quick meeting. As soon as everyone was in the room except Joaquin, who had adjusted his schedule to arrive later on Thursdays, he began.

“Okay, everyone. I just want to let you know that we're going to be adding something to our list of things we measure.”

People were already feeling pretty comfortable with Brian, and Tristan shouted from the counter where he was sitting. “Do we get another dollar an hour?”

Everyone laughed. Except Joe, who was just observing the scene.

“No. This one isn't about money, but it is related to measurement, too. It has to do with figuring out who you're working for.”

Patty spoke next. “Are you going to reorganize things and give us different bosses?”

Brian shook his head. “No. Nothing like that. What I mean is that I want all of you here to figure out who is the beneficiary of your work.”

Blank stares let Brian know that he might be using bigger words than were called for.

Migo raised his hand, and Brian acknowledged him.

“Is that like life insurance?”

Brian didn't smile, not wanting to discourage Migo's participation or appear condescending to his staff. “No, it has to do with how you make a difference in the life of someone other than yourself.”

Migo followed with another question. “Like your family?”

“Not exactly. I'm thinking more about how you make a difference in the life of someone here at the restaurant. Like a customer. Or a coworker.”

Kenny raised his hand but didn't wait to be called on. “Can you give us an example?”

“Sure. Let's start with an easy one. Joleen.”

The attractive, outgoing young waitress stood up. “Hey, are you saying I'm easy?”

At first Brian thought she might have been upset. But before he could clarify himself, Joleen and most of the other employees broke out in laughter.

Brian smiled and shook his head. “Okay. Joleen is a waitress. Who does she serve and how does she make a difference in their lives?”

The question seemed so easy that no one responded right away. Finally, Tristan blurted out. “She helps customers by bringing them food.”

Brian nodded, but with a wince on his face that indicated the answer wasn't quite sufficient. “Well, you're right that she helps customers. But is bringing them food the real way she makes a difference in their lives?”

Tristan and a few others nodded their heads.

“Well, what if she's sarcastic and rude to them, throws their food down on the table in a huff, and ignores them the rest of the time they're here.”

“We go out of business and I lose my job.” This time it was Salvador, the shy and diminutive dishwasher. Because of his thick accent and the rarity of his comments, the room burst out into laughter.

Brian smiled big, glad to see Salvador taking part. “Yes, you're right, Salvador. We probably would go out of business.”

The dishwasher seemed genuinely glad to have his boss agree with him.

“But aside from that, how can Joleen or Patty make a real difference in the lives of customers?”

Now the room was quiet, but not in a confused way. They all seemed to be thinking about the question. Before they could answer, Brian asked it in a different way, directing the question at the waitresses now.

“Think about things you've done in the past that might have actually helped someone in a meaningful way.”

After another moment of consideration, Patty raised her hand. Brian motioned to her and she started talking.

“A few months ago a mom came in here with four little kids. All boys. They were behaving badly. Nothing terrible, just typical brotherly rambunctiousness.” Patty looked around the room, glad to have the floor. “After I brought their food to the table, her youngest boy reached up and pushed the pizza onto the floor. Luckily I had taken the time to take the pizza off the plate that came out of the oven and put it on a cool one, otherwise that little boy would have burned himself.”

She paused, and Brian jumped in. “Okay, that's good. But what about—”

Patty cut him off. “Wait a second, sweetheart. I'm not finished. Changing the plates wasn't how I made a difference in her life, though I suppose it helped.”

Brian was amusedly taken aback by the abrupt response from Patty, but he was glad that she was engaging in the discussion. “I'm sorry, Patty. Go ahead.”

“Well, the pizza splatters on the floor, the boys start screaming, the lady looks like she's about to cry.”

“What did you do?” Tristan wanted to know.

“First, I shushed those kids and told them that they weren't going to get any food if they didn't listen to their mama. They quieted down real fast. Then I assured that lady that we weren't going to charge her for the second pizza. And then I went to the kitchen and grabbed four hunks of pizza dough and gave it to the kids to play with.”

Her coworkers all looked impressed, so Patty went on.

“The lady thanked me, but she still seemed pretty upset, and embarrassed. So I told her that her kids were no different from mine or anyone else's that came into the restaurant, and that she shouldn't feel bad. Then I poured her a beer, on the house.”

Tristan started clapping. “Awesome.”

Carl jumped in now. “Can you come to my house?”

Everyone laughed, and Brian continued.

“So Patty didn't just bring that lady food. She helped her get through a tough spot in her day. And while all situations aren't going to be that dramatic, I'd bet that we could find a way to help every customer, at least in some small way.”

Joleen spoke up. “Yeah, sometimes I could swear that I can make an old man's day just by calling him sweetheart, or by saying ‘God bless you’ when he leaves. And I like to do it after they've paid and are on their way out the door so they don't think I'm just gunning for a bigger tip.”

Brian was loving what he was hearing. “And you guys,” he pointed toward Carl and Harrison, “even though the drive-thru window and home delivery is a little different, I think you can see how this would apply to you too.”

Both of them nodded their agreement with muted enthusiasm, though Brian knew that Carl would come around with a little coaching.

Brian was thankful when Kenny raised his hand again and asked the big question. “What about the rest of us that don't deal with customers very much?”

Migo and Tristan and Salvador seemed to be waiting attentively for the answer.

Brian was ready. “Let's start with you, Salvador. Who is it that you help, and how do you make a difference in their lives?”

This was too much pressure for the dishwasher, who shrugged and shook his head.

“Come on, Salvador, you help all of us.” It was Patty. “You make sure that customers have clean plates and silverware. You wash all the pots and pans for Joaquin and Kenny and whoever else is in there cooking. If you're not doing a good job, the rest of us are pretty much screwed.”

Though Brian would have explained it more delicately, he appreciated Patty's enthusiasm, and the positive impact it had on Salvador, who seemed to be swelling with pride.

Instead of waiting for more questions, Brian moved to the other employees. “Kenny. Who do you impact, and how?”

Kenny didn't hesitate. “Well, I think we make a difference for customers who want good food.”

“That's true. Anyone else have input for Kenny?”

“You make a difference for me.” To everyone's surprise, it was Carl.

Kenny was a little confused, if not by the answer, then by the person saying it.

“Yeah, I mean, I can't get people their food fast if you don't turn stuff around for me. When you're cranking, I'm a lot less stressed out.”

“Same for us, Ken,” Joleen added. “No matter how sweet we are to a customer, it doesn't matter if their food takes twenty minutes or if it's cold. You and Joaquin are key for us. Just like you are, Tristan.”

She turned toward the cashier and phone answerer and backup busboy. “When we need to get customers their bills fast, it's usually so we can get them out the door and open up tables for someone who's waiting. And when you figure out how we're going to get a party of fifteen people sitting together when we only have two tables available on different sides of the dining room, you're like a magician.”

Tristan tried to brush off the compliment. “There is way too much love in this room right now. It's freaking me out.”

Everyone laughed. Brian was pretty sure this was the most fun these people had ever had at work. “Okay, what about Migo?” At that moment the front door opened and four disheveled skiers came in, looking for dinner.

“Migo, you and I can talk about this later. Remember, I want everyone to keep track of your measurements tonight. We can't let that go.”

And with that, everyone got to work.

Glitch

Thursday and Friday night went fairly well, in terms of both business and measurements. Though some of the staff members were doing better against their measurements than others, only one of them gave Brian an immediate reason for concern.

Harrison wasn't in the restaurant as much as everyone else, and so Brian had to rely solely on him for reports of his measurements. What was strange about those reports were that they always seemed to be the same, with no accompanying stories or anecdotes.

On Saturday night, about halfway through the shift, Brian pulled Harrison aside during a lull in the delivery orders.

“How's the customer satisfaction thing going?” Again, Brian avoided using the word smiles.

Without even thinking about it, the driver responded. “Good. Real good.”

“Anything specific?”

Harrison scratched his beard. “Uh, not much. Just a lot of happy customers. And I made a guy crack up tonight.”

“How'd you do that?”

Harrison frowned. “I can't remember. I think I just said something funny.”

Brian pushed a little. “How are tips?”

“About the same. Normal.”

“That's too bad. Patty and Joleen are up this week. Carl too.”

Harrison looked away. “Yeah. I guess it's different in delivery.”

Brian took a breath, and decided to push a little. “Tell me the truth, Harrison. Do you really believe any of this stuff about making a difference in people's lives?”

Harrison looked his boss in the eye to see if he was serious, and when he decided he was, admitted, “Actually, I think it's ridiculous. I'm a friggin' pizza delivery guy, driving a 1992 Chevy Impala. I think as long as people get the food they ordered, all is good. This ain't rocket science, and it sure ain't the center of my life.”

Brian nodded, and asked with no hint of judgment. “Why do you do it, then?”

Harrison laughed. “Because they don't pay me to snowboard, and I couldn't get a job with the ski patrol.”

Now Brian's demeanor changed a little. “Okay, Harrison. Here's the thing. I know that this restaurant and this job of yours is not the sexiest or most exciting thing in the world. But if you're going to be here, if you're going to be part of this, then you owe it to yourself and your coworkers, and your customers, to make the most of it.”

Harrison wasn't being convinced. So Brian changed his approach.

“Listen. I understand where you're coming from. I know this sounds silly, and that it's just a way to make some money so you can pay the rent and have fun. I'm not going to force you to buy into all of this.”

The delivery man looked at Brian again, relieved to be understood. Until he finished his thought.

“But I can't let you work here if you don't.”

Harrison slowly nodded his head. “All right. I get it. I'll do better.”

Brian didn't think he was completely on board yet, but he knew that it might take him some time to get there. He decided to give it another week to see if Harrison could come around. It didn't take that much time.

Confrontation

Thursday night was surprisingly busy. The restaurant was buzzing with activity, and the staff seemed to be working a step or two faster than they had been a few weeks before.

And then the phone rang. Tristan answered, listened for a few seconds, and then handed it to Brian who was standing nearby, saying, “I think you need to handle this one, boss.”

For the next five minutes Brian listened as a clearly irritated customer with a vaguely familiar voice complained about his order being late and not as hot as he wanted it. Brian apologized, assured him that he would have the cost of his food refunded.

Then he asked if he could speak with his driver to explain the arrangement.

“He took off five minutes ago.”

Brian was confused. “He did? What did he say about all this?”

“Well, when I didn't give him a tip, he told me that it wasn't his fault, but that the guys in the kitchen were way behind. And then he told me I shouldn't punish him for other people's mistakes, and he left.”

Brian assured the man that a coupon for a free pizza, as well as his refund, would be delivered to his door that night, and that he would do his best to make sure that nothing like this happened again. The customer, calmer now, told Brian that he didn't need a refund or a coupon, but thanked him for the thought.

Ten minutes later, Brian saw Harrison walking through the kitchen, having come in through the back door. Calling his driver over, Brian asked if they could have a word outside the building.

Brian didn't hesitate. “I just got a call from a guy on Beresford Place.”

Harrison didn't even wait for him to finish. “Look, that guy was a jerk. The order was made a little too early so it was getting cold before I even picked it up. Then I got stuck in some casino traffic. The guy acted like the friggin' world was coming to an end.”

Brian couldn't believe what he was hearing. “You don't want this job, do you?”

“Yeah, I do. I just don't want to have to deal with people like that. I mean, the guy lives in a three-story mansion and can't tip me because his food is cold. Does he know what a microwave is? And does he have any idea how much money—”

Brian stopped the rant. “Harrison, do you have any idea what a tip is for?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Good service! We gave him a bad product and a bad attitude. That guy doesn't owe us anything. You're lucky he even paid the bill!”

“I don't care. He was a jerk.”

“Well, you're going to have to go back there, refund his money, and give him a coupon. And I want him to call me and tell me how great we are for handling the problem this way, so that he orders food from us twice a week for the rest of his life.”

Harrison shook his head. “No way. That guy stiffed me, and I'll be damned if I'm going to go treat him like he's more important than me.”

Brian took a breath and tried his best to be calm, in an almost fatherly way. “He isn't more important than you, Harrison. He's just a customer. For all you know, he has a business too, and if you were an unhappy customer of his, he'd probably treat you the same way we're going to treat him.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Well, be a bigger person than he is, then, and go make him a loyal customer.”

“Sorry, dude. Can't do it.”

“Then you can't work here, dude.”

Harrison was momentarily stunned. “Fine. I'm out.” And with that, he took off his jacket, removed his Gene and Joe's T-shirt, and threw it at the building. Walking away toward his car, bare-chested with his jacket on his arm, Harrison removed the magnetic signs from both doors and flung them to the ground. Then he drove off, screeching out of the parking lot, holding his hand out the window with the middle finger extended.

To his surprise, Brian could not keep himself from laughing. What he didn't know was that less than an hour later he'd be on the verge of tears.

Stand In

Back inside the restaurant, a mini-crisis was in progress.

As he walked into the dining room, Brian could see a swarm of activity at one table in the corner. Migo was coming back toward the counter.

“What happened?”

“Little girl threw up her spaghetti all over table seven. I was walking by right when it happened.”

“Tell me it wasn't food poisoning.”

“Nah. The mom said she thinks she has the flu.”

Brian was relieved, but suddenly found himself wondering why he didn't just buy a motor home and retire for real.

Coming to the front counter, he saw that Jolene was helping Patty deal with the mess and the melee, as Tristan headed for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Brian asked.

“I think I took some shrapnel in the bombing.”

Brian was confused, so Tristan explained. “I've got vomit on my pants.”

Brian couldn't help but laugh. Just then a call came from Kenny in the kitchen.

“Take-out orders twenty-two and twenty-three are ready to go!”

Normally, Brian would have asked Tristan to do it. But with everything going on, he didn't want to pull him out of the dining room and send him on a delivery. Especially not with pukey pants.

So he grabbed his jacket and headed for the kitchen. Grabbing a pizza and two bags of food, Brian left through the back door. “Tell Tristan and Migo I'll be back in . . .” he looked at the addresses stapled to the sides of the bags, “fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Rounding up the door decals from the parking lot and putting them on his Explorer, Brian drove away.

Slap

The first delivery was to a home just a half mile from the restaurant, in a lower-middle-class neighborhood away from the lake. Aside from a slobbery dog and a dark front porch, the transaction was quick and easy. Brian made a point to tell the older lady at the door that the latch on her gate was broken, making it easy for someone to get in or for the dog to get out. She seemed genuinely grateful for the warning.

The next order was further north, in a condominium complex. Brian made a wrong turn and had to stop and ask for directions, but found his customer, a young couple. After making them laugh by announcing that their Chinese food had arrived, Brian returned to his car to head back to the restaurant. He was no worse for the wear, and had earned himself a combined total of $5.50 in tips.

As he approached Gene and Joe's, Brian suddenly remembered the refund and coupon he had promised to the disgruntled customer earlier. He called the restaurant and asked Tristan for the address and the amount of the bill, and then continued south toward the upscale residential area above downtown South Lake Tahoe, about four miles away.

Harrison had accurately described the place. It was more like a mansion than a home, with three huge decks and a grand entrance facing a brick circular driveway. Brian pulled his car up near the front door and got out, leaving the engine running.

After ringing the doorbell, he turned and looked at the Gene and Joe's decals on the door. What am I doing? he laughed to himself.

Then he heard the lock clacking behind him, and turned to see a smartly dressed woman in her fifties open the door.

Before she could say anything, Brian explained. “Hi. I'm from Gene and Joe's. We fouled up your order earlier tonight, and I'm here to bring you a refund and a coupon for a pizza.”

Before responding to Brian's offer, the woman turned and shouted to someone in another room. “Wiley, it's the delivery guy from that pizza place.” Then she turned toward Brian. “I'll let my husband deal with this. Thanks.”

Just a few seconds later the door opened wider and the man of the house emerged. “Hey, thanks for doing this, but you really didn't have to. I told the guy on the phone—”

Brian politely interrupted. “Yeah. That was me. I just wanted to say that we're sorry, and that—”

Now the customer interrupted. “Excuse me, do you have a brother?”

Brian was caught off guard. “Actually, I have three.”

“You look just like a guy I know named Brian Bailey. You've got to be his brother.”

And then it hit Brian. The man he was looking at was Wiley Nolan, one of the attorneys who had handled JMJ's product liability case during a public relations fiasco years earlier.

Brian smiled. “No. I'm not his brother. I'm him.”

It took a second for Wiley to digest what he was hearing. “Brian?” Turning to his wife who was still standing beside him, he announced, “Honey, this is the CEO of that exercise equipment company that we defended years ago. What in the world are you doing delivering pizza?”

Brian did his best to act comfortable with the situation. In reality, he was pretty embarrassed. “Well, it's a long story, but the gist of it is that I sold the company, retired, and then got involved in a little restaurant, just to stay busy. It's kind of a project for me.”

“Terrific.” Wiley's reaction was a little too enthusiastic, and Brian felt the sting of his patronization.

Even Wiley's wife joined in. “I bet you're having fun.”

“Actually, I'm having a great time. And learning a lot.” Brian wanted to change the subject. “Hey, you don't still keep in touch with Rick Simpson, do you?”

Brian prayed Wiley would say no. He didn't.

“I sure do. In fact, I had lunch with Rick a few months ago, and I owe him a call.”

Brian was desperate to get out of there now. “Well, I've got to get back to the store. It's great seeing you, Wiley,” he turned toward his wife, “and meeting you.”

“I'm Shirley.”

“Shirley. Hey, my wife and I live in a place over near Evergreen Terrace. We should get together sometime.”

“That would be great. This is our vacation home, but we're here at least once a month. Call us.” Brian was pretty sure that she didn't mean it.

When the door shut, Brian went back to his car, pulled out of the driveway, and went down the road just far enough to be out of sight. Then he pulled over and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “What in the world am I doing?” he mumbled to himself.

Consolation

Later that night, after closing down the restaurant and calming down, Brian went home and explained his emotional state to Leslie.

“It wasn't so much that I felt humiliated. It was that they expected me to be humiliated. And I couldn't bring myself to explain to them what I was doing, and why.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. I suppose I wasn't sure they'd understand. And why should I care if they understand? I think there was a little part of me that was enjoying the simplicity of Gene and Joe's and the people there.”

Leslie just listened.

“And then I run into these people, and out of nowhere they remind me of my other life. One without little girls throwing up spaghetti and underage kids trying to order beer with fake IDs, or shirtless men flipping me the bird.”

“Who flipped you the bird?”

“Harrison, my delivery guy, but that's another story. Anyway, I think I just got caught off guard tonight.”

He paused, collecting himself. “And I have to admit that I'm not too excited about the fact that Wiley Nolan knows Rick Simpson. That's not going to be a fun conversation for me.”

Leslie couldn't help herself now. “Well, you let me talk to that Rick Simpson, because I'm going to give him a piece of my mind. I still don't know why you bother ever talking to him.”

Brian laughed.

“What's so funny?” Leslie wanted to know.

“You sound like my mother. Like I'm a fifth grader who's being picked on by a bully at school.”

Both of them laughed and calmed down a bit.

Brian explained. “I think I'm just a little overwhelmed by what happened tonight. I'm fine. Besides, I've got bigger problems than Rick Simpson to worry about. I've got to find me a pizza delivery man.”

He smiled and explained his ordeal with Harrison. Leslie hung on every word. Finally, exhausted and slightly amused by the unexpected state of their lives, the Baileys went to bed.

Friday Night Hoops

Though he was now short a delivery guy, Brian went to work in a good mood the day after his encounter with Harrison. In fact, he was determined to get back out there and deliver again if that's what had to be done. Brian was on a mission and wouldn't let a little matter like pride or self-esteem keep him from finishing it.

Friday night started busy, and seemed to stay that way. Tristan and Brian shared responsibility for deliveries, though they were both glad that the order volume faded relatively early. The dining room was another story.

Joleen and Patty seemed to be sprinting back and forth to the kitchen all night, with Migo and Tristan diving in whenever they could. At eight o'clock, when it was usually starting to slow down, the place was still packed. But Brian had grown accustomed to the swings in business at Gene and Joe's. As quickly as the craziness started, it ended just as abruptly.

By 8:55, the only remaining table paid their bill and headed out. As the door closed behind them, the entire crew seemed to take a deep breath and sit down. Brian checked the receipts and discovered that it had been a good night for the restaurant. He looked forward to telling Joe.

And then something happened that would prove to be a test for Brian and his evolving staff. It came from Joaquin in the back.

“Autobus! Autobus!”

And with that, the chain reaction began. Tristan and Migo started flipping chairs. Carl hit the lights. Joleen and Patty cleared the last of the dishes from the tables by the door.

The bus pulled up close enough for the crew, who had already retreated to their corners, to see. Brian could feel their anxiety, and even empathize with them a little. He knew that this was a moment of truth.

As one of the parents hopped out of the bus, the staff members held their collective breaths. And that's when Brian made his move.

First he flipped on the dining room lights, to the horror of his employees. Then he went to the door, opened it, and waved the bus full of hungry basketball fans inside.

When he returned to the dining room, the crew was speechless. Brian took them on.

“Come on folks, we have a bus full of hungry customers out there. And if my judgment is correct, they lost tonight's game and they need some kindness. I know it's late, but this is what we do. So let's make the most out of this and have some fun.”

Slowly, the staff emerged from their hiding places to prepare for the crowd that would fill the dining room. Though they were initially less than excited, as soon as the customers started coming inside, the mood changed. Within ten minutes, the dining room was as lively as it had been just an hour earlier, and the crew had regained their momentum. Brian was relieved. And proud.

By 10:15, the last of the Lakeview High School boosters club was gone, and the staff was looking at another thirty minutes of work before the place would be closed. That's when Brian had an idea.

Though any resentment they had felt for him earlier was gone, Brian wanted to do something to demonstrate his appreciation. Going to the kitchen, he packed up all of the extra food—a pizza and enough rigatoni with meat sauce to fill five orders, and left, saying, “I'll be right back.” No one knew where he was headed, or why he had taken food with him.

Twenty minutes later, Brian returned, with two different kinds of bags in his hands. He went to one of the dining room tables and started unpacking them.

“Whatcha got there?” Joleen wanted to know.

“Food.” Brian answered, without fanfare.

One by one, the rest of the dining room crew started to come by. “Go get the guys in the kitchen,” Brian told Tristan. Within minutes, everyone was there, watching as Brian unloaded enough Chinese and Mexican food to feed, well, at least ten people.

It was as though the staff, who had been up to their elbows in pizza and pasta for the past six hours, hadn't eaten in weeks.

“Where'd you get this?” Migo asked.

“I went to Mandarin Palace and Pablito's and traded them some of our stuff for it. They were thrilled.” Brian knew that the prospect of eating Italian food, especially the food they had to serve night after night, had no appeal to his employees. He figured, and rightly so, that the same held true for any other restaurant crew.

For the next forty-five minutes, Brian and his staff ate a bizarre combination of what they started calling “Chixican” food. With their manager's permission, they had complimentary beer and wine, though Brian was careful to see that none of them had enough to impair their driving.

Conversation during dinner ranged from interesting customers they had that night, to Harrison's quitting, to the need for different kinds of beer in the restaurant. And probably because of the food that came from other kitchens, they talked about their experiences working in other restaurants.

This fascinated Brian, for a few reasons. First, even though most of them seemed to have been pretty miserable in their other restaurant jobs, they seemed resigned to the fact that they'd keep working in the industry.

Second, and more important for Brian, it was the first time that he could remember hearing them talk at any length about their lives outside Gene and Joe's. Aside from brief offhand comments about a girlfriend or a car problem or a movie that someone had seen, there had been relatively little self-disclosure, and certainly nothing terribly personal.

Though Brian couldn't be sure, he felt that this somehow factored into their job dissatisfaction. He was determined to find out how.

Anniversary

Monday night marked Brian's two-month anniversary at Gene and Joe's, and to celebrate the odd occasion, Leslie took her husband to dinner. Quickly deciding against Italian, Leslie suggested a Thai restaurant on the California side of South Lake Tahoe.

Brian promised not to talk about work, which reminded Leslie of their conversation in Napa. “Wow. Six months ago we were at Tra Vigne talking about your retirement over dinner.”

“Was that just six months ago?”

Leslie smiled. “Yep. And if you'd have told me then that we'd be sitting here today celebrating your two-month anniversary of managing a slightly dumpy Italian restaurant, I'd have cried a lot more.”

They laughed.

“I'm sorry, Les. I'm not much fun being married to, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, quit it. You're an adventure, and I wouldn't trade it for anything.”

They spent most of dinner talking about their kids, the cabin, and their next snowmobiling adventure. Finally, it was Leslie who broached the subject of work.

“So, how do you think things are going for you at the restaurant?”

“Well, revenue's up. Tips are up. I think this month is going to be huge.”

Leslie smiled. “No. I mean how is your job misery experiment going?”

Shifting gears, Brian thought about it for a minute. “Well, I figure I'm about halfway toward figuring it out.”

“You mean halfway in terms of time?”

“No. I'm not sure how long it's going to take. I mean in terms of rounding out the theory.”

“I thought you said they seemed to be liking their jobs more.”

“Yeah, I think so. But I don't know how long that will last, and whether it's just a function of having a new manager. For all I know, this is how it always is when someone new comes.”

Leslie shook her head. “Give me a break. You think if you came in there and started being a jerk that they'd like their jobs more? You're smarter than that. Don't pretend that you're not making a difference.”

“Okay. Okay. But I'm honestly concerned that it's not sustainable. I think something's missing still, and if I don't figure it out before I have to cut their wages back on Saturday, my window to prove this thing might close.”

“Why don't you tell me about your theory?”

Brian took a breath and smiled. “I thought you'd never ask.”

Immeasurement

As the couple ate their dessert, Brian dove in.

“Okay, I want you to push back on me if something doesn't sound right. Because I really need to be sure that this makes sense.”

Leslie held up her hand as if to say I promise.

Brian began. “The first part of my theory I'm feeling pretty good about. Basically, a job is bound to be miserable if it doesn't involve measurement.”

Leslie frowned. “Where'd you get that one?”

“Well, my grandfather taught it to me when I was a kid, and I've used it in every management job I've had.”

Leslie had a mouthful of ice cream, but she motioned for her husband to continue. So Brian did. “He used to say that if you couldn't measure what you were doing, then you'd lose interest in it. And I think he was right.”

Leslie swallowed and asked her first question. “I don't get the connection?”

“Well, if a person has no way of knowing if they're doing a good job, even if they're doing something they love, they get frustrated. Imagine playing a football game and not knowing the score. Or being a broker and not knowing if the price went up or down after you bought a stock.”

“Does that really happen?”

“Well, not in those situations. But in most jobs it happens all the time.”

“Give me an example.” Leslie was a little more forceful than usual because of the promise she'd made.

“Okay.” He thought about it. “Let's say Lynne takes that internship with the hotel in South Lake Tahoe, and they put her at the front desk.”

Leslie liked it. “Go on.”

“Every day she comes to work and checks people into the hotel, gets them their keys, takes their credit cards, and checks others out. People in, people out. That will be okay for a few days or weeks, as long as she's learning something new. After a while, though, it gets old. It's an endless cycle. There's no sense of progress.”

“Sounds like being a mom. Laundry, dishes, cleaning.”

“Yeah. But it's not just about monotony. It's about lack of feedback. “

“And that's the problem with being a mom sometimes. You don't get feedback.”

Brian was nodding now. “Oh, right. I need to be clearer here. I'm not talking about feedback from a person, like an attaboy or attagirl. That's something else. I'm talking about objective evidence that tells you you're doing something right. Even supposedly exciting jobs get old when there's no way of measuring progress.”

“I think I need another example.”

Brian looked at the floor, thinking. “Okay. Think about Hollywood. You ever wonder why people in the movie business hate their jobs?”

“What do you mean? I thought everyone wanted to get a job in Hollywood?”

“Have you ever met someone who worked in that industry?”

Leslie thought about it, and shook her head. “Have you?”

“Sure. Remember Hunter Knox? He was in my high school class. He's a film editor now, and he's doing well. Making feature films. Anyway, I talked to him at our reunion a couple of years ago, and he told me that working down there is horrible. Everyone complains about it.”

“Did he say why?”

“Yeah. He said it's all too subjective. Everything's based on someone's opinion, and most of the opinions are uninformed. There's no real sense of progress or achievement.”

Leslie frowned. “What about box office receipts, or TV ratings, or Academy Awards?”

Brian shook his head. “I asked him the very same question, and he said that by the time you know what the ratings or ticket sales are, it's months and months after you've finished the project. And the awards take even longer, and even then they're based on total subjectivity.”

“Well that explains the bizarre choices for Oscars and Emmys.”

“But let's forget about Hollywood for a second, because it's really not about any particular industry. Whether you're a doctor, a lawyer, a janitor, or a game show host, if you don't get a daily sense of measurable accomplishment, you go home at night wondering if your day was worthwhile.”

Things were starting to click for Leslie. “When I was teaching, I liked the test days. Even though most of the teachers hated doing it, I liked going home to grade the exams and the papers, because I wanted to know if the kids were learning what I was teaching them.”

“Right. Otherwise, how do teachers know if they're succeeding?”

Leslie rolled her eyes. “Well, some of them used to say that as long as they were trying hard and they cared about the kids, they were doing a good job.”

“I bet the best teachers didn't say that.”

Leslie thought about it. “No. It was usually the bad ones who did. Why is that?”

“Because people who aren't good at their jobs don't want to be measured, because then they have to be accountable for something. Great employees love that kind of accountability. They crave it. Poor ones run away from it.”

“Did employees at JMJ do a lot of measuring?”

Brian laughed. “Oh yeah. But they didn't measure everything. We didn't want them creating a bunch of bureaucratic tracking systems for every little activity. Did I ever tell you about ISO 9000?”

Leslie shook her head. “What was that?”

“Forget about it. It's a long, boring story and it was a waste of time because it was measurement for measurement's sake. The key at JMJ was always to measure the right things. If you measure the wrong things, people still lose interest.”

“How do you know what the right things are?”

He smiled. “I think I figured that out last week.”

Irrelevance

Brian was getting more excited now. “The second cause of misery at work is irrelevance, the feeling that what you do has no impact on the lives of others.”

“What does that have to do with measurement?”

“I'll get to that in a second. First, let me explain what I mean by relevance.”

Leslie didn't let him. “You mean like a doctor caring for patients or a firefighter helping people get cats out of trees.”

Brian forced himself to nod. “Those are some of the more obvious ones.” Now he decided to turn the tables on Leslie and question her. “But what about all the other jobs? The unsexy ones. The car salesmen. The software programmers. The receptionists—”

She interrupted him, smiling. “The restaurant manager.”

“Ouch.” Brian laughed. “So how do they make a difference in the lives of others?”

Leslie thought about it, and answered as though she were taking a test. “Okay, the teacher's aide helps teach the children. The restaurant manager helps people get food for—”

Brian interrupted. “No, no, no. I'm not looking for a specific answer. Because there aren't any. It really depends on the situation and the job, and more than anything else, the person.”

“Okay, you lost me.”

“Yeah, I lost myself, too. Let's get back to basics. Every human being that works has to know that what they do matters to another human being. Not just in terms of bringing home a paycheck. I'm talking about the actual work they do. In some way, their work has to make a difference in someone else's life.”

Leslie listened carefully, nodding her agreement, but with a perplexed, almost disappointed look on her face.

“What's wrong,” Brian wanted to know.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you have a look on your face. Is this not making sense?”

She hesitated for a second. “No, no. It makes perfect sense.” She winced. “It's just, I don't know. Don't take this the wrong way.”

“I won't. Go ahead.”

“Well, isn't this all just a bit obvious?”

To her surprise, Brian wasn't the slightest bit hurt by the comment. In fact, he came alive. “Absolutely! It's completely obvious!”

Leslie laughed at her wacky husband. “Why are you so excited?”

“Because as obvious as it is, no one does it! It's so ridiculously clear, and yet almost none of the managers out there take the time to help their people understand that their jobs matter to someone!”

Now Leslie decided to be difficult. “Isn't that the responsibility of the employee to figure that out?”

Brian's eyes went wide. He was incredulous. “Well, no, it's the manager's.”

“I don't know.” Leslie was doing her best job of acting now. “It seems to me that if employees can't do that for themselves, maybe they don't deserve to have that job in the first place.”

Brian didn't know how to react. The look on his face said, who is this awful woman? Finally, he spoke, in a frustrated if not slightly judgmental tone. “Leslie, if a manager has any responsibility in the world, it's to help people understand why their work matters. If they don't think that's their role, then they're the ones who don't deserve their job. I mean, don't you think that every human being deserves to know how they make a difference in—”

Leslie started laughing, which brought Brian's tirade to a halt. “What's so funny?”

Through her laughter she explained. “I'm sorry. I was just teasing. I was trying to be tough.”

It took Brian a second to adjust his disposition. “Oh. Okay.” He smiled at his wife. “Then this makes sense?”

“Of course it makes sense. Who could argue with that? I just can't understand why every manager in the world doesn't already do it.”

“Well, that's a good question. And it's got a few possible answers.” Brian had certainly thought about this. “Some of them don't think the jobs of their employees, or their own jobs for that matter, are important. They grew up with the same low expectations of work that their parents and grandparents had. And they don't know any different.”

Leslie could see that. “What else?”

“This is going to sound strange, but I think a lot of managers are embarrassed to talk to their people in these terms. It feels corny or juvenile or, I don't know, patronizing, to sit down with an adult and explain how to make a meaningful difference in the lives of others.”

Now Leslie was thinking about something. “You know, even when I was teaching, and for that matter, volunteering at church, no one ever really talked to us about this kind of stuff. It was implied—but never really discussed seriously. And I honestly don't think people really saw themselves as making a difference.”

She thought about the situation for a moment. “And I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I'm not sure the job satisfaction at school and at church was much higher than at your pizzeria.”

Brian was popping out of his chair now. “That's the amazing thing. Professional football players, actors, CEOs, politicians. Everyone thinks those people love their jobs, but they're bound to be just as miserable as anyone else if they don't have a real sense of how their work is making a tangible difference in other people's lives. And based on the people I know in those fields, I don't think most of them do. I see lots of misery out there.”

“Anything else?”

Brian was lost now. “Anything else what?”

“Any other reasons why managers don't do this?”

“Oh yeah. Right. I think there's one more, and it's a tricky one. I think managers are often afraid or ashamed to admit to their employees that they are the person whose life is most impacted.”

Leslie was confused. “Whose life? The manager's?”

“Yeah. For some employees, the manager is the person whose life they impact. But managers don't want to admit it, because it makes them feel egotistical or elitist. So they pretend it's not true, which, ironically, only leaves the employees wondering if their work matters.”

Leslie had an epiphany. “That's what happened to me in my first year as a teacher's aide. Emma Riley always said that my job was to help the students. And then she would feel bad about asking me to do so many things for her, and I would feel bad about not doing more directly with the students. When in fact, if she had just said, ‘When you help me, it allows me to help the students, and that makes all the difference in the world,’ that would have been fine with me.”

Brian was nodding now. “I've got a young guy down at the restaurant like that. Migo.”

“You seem to like him, don't you?”

“The kid's great. But his job is tough to nail down. He does anything and everything. Well, one day I realized that the person he helped the most was me, because I was usually the one asking him to do something. If it weren't for him, my job would be so much more stressful. So you know what I did?”

“What?”

“I told him. I said just that: ‘Migo, if it weren't for you, my job would be so much more stressful. You make such a difference in my work every day, and that makes me a happier person.’ Pretty much in those exact words.”

“What did he do?”

“He smiled, thanked me for telling him, and started coming to work earlier and staying later and working harder than ever before. Which makes me want to remind him how great he is, which makes him work harder. It's a beautiful cycle, and it's all real.”

Leslie was completely into the discussion now. “Okay, remind me about your theory again. Job misery is caused by lack of measurement—”

Brian corrected Leslie's description of his theory. “Well, I call it immeasurement, but that's right.”

She smiled and mocked her husband gently. “Well I don't think immeasurement is really a word.”

“Well, it is now,” he countered.

They laughed and she continued. “Job misery is caused by immeasurement and,” she paused, “what do you call the second one?”

“Irrelevance.”

“Immeasurement and irrelevance. Did you ever explain how they're connected?”

“No. I didn't. It's pretty simple, though.”

“All of this is pretty simple, isn't it?'

Brian breathed hard. “It's so simple it's frustrating. There are consultants running around out there trying to figure out how to give people more stock options or better 401(k) plans or more ergonomic chairs—all of which is fine—but until someone teaches managers how to figure out what to measure and why their jobs matter, it's not going to make much difference. It's really insane.”

“Okay, okay. Enough about that, preacher boy. How are measurement and relevance related?”

“Here's how. People ought to think about measuring those things that make a difference to the person or people they serve. If you exist to help students, measure something related to that. If your purpose is to help your manager, find a way to measure that. If you deal directly with customers—”

“Measure it. Got it. Let's move on.” Leslie was enjoying her role as the questioner. “Is that it? Immeasurement and irrelevance?”

“Well, until last week I thought so. But I think there's one more.”

Silence.

“Well, are you going to tell me?”

Brian was now doing the acting. “Nah. I don't want to bore you. We can talk about it later.”

Leslie knew when her husband was being coy. She picked up her knife and pointed it at him. “Oh, you're going to tell me, all right.”

Anonymity

Brian wasn't joking completely when he said that he wasn't going to tell Leslie the third part of his evolving theory. “Let's not talk about it right now. Instead, let's go for a drive and I'll show it to you.”

“What? Are you serious?”

He smiled. “Yeah. Trust me.”

They paid their bill, got in the Explorer, and drove away from the lake for fifteen minutes before turning into the parking lot of what looked like a warehouse. A number of cars, not terribly nice ones, were parked around the building.

“What's this?” Leslie asked.

“You'll see.”

They got out and went into the structure, which wasn't a warehouse at all but rather an arena of sorts, complete with artificial turf on the floor. On the “field” were twelve young men, mostly Hispanic, playing soccer. Sitting in bleachers three rows high were a collection of women and children and elderly people, alternating between watching the game and watching the kids.

“Brian, what are we doing here?” Leslie wanted to know, but not impatiently.

“You see that guy in the orange shirt? And the little guy in the yellow one?”

Leslie nodded.

“That's Migo and Salvador from the restaurant. They play in this indoor soccer league on Mondays.”

“Does this have something to do with your theory?”

Brian nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

At that moment Migo saw Brian and Leslie and waved.

Brian then explained to her what had happened on Saturday night when he brought food back to the staff and they stayed after hours. He told her that he started learning things about them that he wouldn't have imagined.

“What about the owner?”

“Joe knows next to nothing about these people. Most of them don't know a heck of a lot about one another. It's crazy for so many reasons. And don't you think that must have something to do with someone not liking their job?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Leslie indulged. “You mean wanting people to know what kind of person you are outside of work?”

“Basically, yeah. How can a person really feel good about going to work when they don't feel like anyone there knows who they are? Or cares?”

Leslie shifted back into her role as interrogator. “Well, I'm guessing that Migo and—what's the little guy's name?”

“Salvador.”

“I'm guessing Migo and Salvador know each another pretty well.”

Brian clarified. “Yeah, I guess it's really the person's manager who needs to know them. Coworkers too, but the manager has to be key. When I think back to the auto plant, it was Kathryn who made me love my job, and it was as much about her taking an interest in me as a person as it was anything specific she did connected to my work.”

Leslie did her best to push back. “But isn't that a little touchy-feely? And aren't you supposed to keep your work life and your personal life separate? Why should a manager care what people do when they're not at work?”

“Because you shouldn't have to be a different person at work. That's part of what makes people miserable, pretending to be something or someone they're not. And that means their boss needs to know who they are beyond the job description alone. Les, can you see any justification for a manager not doing that?”

Leslie answered quickly. “Sure. Maybe the—”

Brian interrupted to clarify. “I'm not asking you to make up an answer just to push me here. I honestly want to know what you think.”

Her demeanor changed immediately. “Oh, heck no. I don't think there is any excuse for a manager not getting to know the people who work for them. It's just part of being a good person.”

They watched for a few minutes as Migo and Salvador's team gave up a goal.

Brian restarted the conversation. “Remember that great waiter kid at the diner? The one with the braces?”

Leslie nodded. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember what his manager said when we asked about him?”

Leslie thought about it. “Yeah, he told us that he had just moved to town, that he was going to junior college, and had just gotten married.”

“Do you think he knew his employees?”

Leslie nodded. “Did you know your people at JMJ?”

Brian thought about it. “Sure. I mean, not every single employee. But that's not really possible in a sizable company. The people I needed to know were those who worked directly for me, and others who I came in contact with fairly regularly. And somehow, just by doing that, I think we created a culture where others did the same.”

“So I guess you didn't have this whole theory worked out back then.”

Brian shook his head. “No way. We were winging it, other than the measurement thing. We just treated people like human beings. Human beings who wanted to be needed, and wanted to be known.”

Leslie was shaking her head.

“What's wrong?”

“I just can't believe that with all of the money and technology and information that companies have, they don't do this simple stuff. It's crazy.”

At that moment the whistle blew, and before he knew it, Migo and Salvador were jogging over to where Brian and Leslie were standing. “Hey, boss,” Salvador called out. “Is this your lady?”

Brian introduced them to Leslie, and then went over and met Migo's wife and children, and Salvador's brother. They talked about soccer, and the restaurant, and kids and Mexico for a half hour before saying good night.

As they were driving home, Leslie and Brian thought about Salvador and Migo and their families and how much they had learned about them in just thirty minutes. They were both surprised at how much education Migo had received before coming to the United States, and how someone studying to be an engineer could suddenly find himself chopping vegetables and busing tables in a roadside Italian restaurant, unnoticed. He was a diamond in the rough, and no one was even looking at him.

Leslie asked her final question of the evening. “Why do you think people like Joe don't get to know their employees?”

Brian thought about it. “Well, I shouldn't be too judgmental, because I've been there for two months and I haven't gotten to know them.”

Leslie defended her husband. “But to be fair, you're only there on a temporary basis.”

“Yeah, but that's not a good excuse.”

Leslie continued her defense. “And you did know your people at JMJ. Stop being a martyr. I'm trying to figure this out.”

He laughed. “Okay. I guess I don't know why Joe doesn't take time to get to know his people.”

“I've got a theory.” She paused before continuing. “I think most managers don't understand how they're relevant.”

“Whoa. That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

Leslie continued. “Managers need to understand that the people whose lives they impact are their employees. And if they don't know who those people are, and what their lives are all about, how can they possibly do that?”

“I think you're right.” Brian was quiet as he thought about it. “I think there's one more reason why they don't get to know their people. And I think it's the reason why I didn't do it.”

“What?”

“It takes time. Managing people takes a lot of time. It's a full-time job, not something you do in between your regular work. Most managers don't see it that way. They see management as an extra activity, something you do when and if you have time. So the last thing they're going to do is sit down and talk to their staff about their lives.”

“Or go watch them play indoor soccer.”

Brian shrugged. “I guess so.”

Full Steam

That night would mark a turning point in Brian's experiment, and in his career.

With his theory feeling somewhat complete, and with Leslie's full interest and support, he was now more committed than ever to getting his motley crew at Gene and Joe's to like their work. He hoped they'd give him enough time to pull it off. It certainly helped when Joe agreed to extend the wage increase another month.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Brian continued on his measurement and relevance plan, realizing that making it a habit required consistency over time. He also committed to taking an interest in his people and their lives.

But he was careful not to be disingenuous. Rather than interview them one by one, or ask them to fill out a questionnaire, Brian simply decided to become more human.

“These are people like you and me,” he explained to Leslie—and himself—as he got ready for work on Thursday afternoon. “And if I can't find it within myself to know them as human beings, then I'm a hypocrite for saying I care about being a manager.”

Here and there Brian began to make observations and ask questions. How long have you lived in the Tahoe area? Where did you grow up? Where'd you get that tattoo, and why? What did you do for fun this week? Here and there.

Soon enough, Brian was finding ways to demonstrate his commitment to knowing his people. If he saw a story in the paper about Mexico, he would take an extra few minutes to read it so he could discuss it with Salvador at work. When he learned that Patty's daughter was allergic to wheat, he worked with Joaquin to find gluten-free pizza dough for her.

He did other little things, nothing particularly indulgent. Whether it was bringing in a Michael Crichton book for Carl, who loved all things science fiction, or teasing Migo when his favorite Mexican soccer team lost a game to a rival, Brian merely wanted them to know that he was interested in them as people. And of course, he was.

When Salvador—who'd been there for two years—decided to leave the restaurant to move to Idaho with his brothers, Brian organized a special lunch for him to say good-bye. As modest as that lunch was, it turned out to be the first time that an employee's departure had been really acknowledged in any way other than Joe asking if anyone knew someone who could take their place.

And when Salvador's replacement and the new delivery driver started at the restaurant, Brian formally introduced them to the crew during a brief staff meeting, assigned a colleague to help them get adjusted during the first two weeks on the job, and promptly took them through “the program” around measurement and relevance, taking a little extra time with them to find out who they were and what made them tick.

Results

Not long after adding the anonymity element to his theory, Brian watched as the momentum at Gene and Joe's began to accelerate. He decided that could not have occurred with just two of the three principles in play.

With no doubt in his mind that there was a new level of energy and engagement at the restaurant now, Brian felt that it was time to put some structure around his experiment so that any progress that had been made wouldn't slip away. So he created a simple spreadsheet, listing brief information about each of his employee's measurables, relevance, and personal interests. More important, he printed and carried the spreadsheet with him, reviewing it for five minutes every day before work, occasionally adding or modifying it as necessary.

As simple as that sheet might have been, over time Brian became convinced that it was key to turning things around at Gene and Joe's, both in terms of the level of job satisfaction among employees, and also—unsurprisingly—in terms of the financial performance of the business.

The increase in revenue over the past several weeks had been steady, and tips had skyrocketed. Beyond those two financial indicators, however, the energy in the tired Italian joint, among both customers and employees, was higher than it had been in years. Just as important, the crew was seeing more and more repeat customers, people everyone was coming to know by name.

When the time came for Brian to return the hourly wage to its previous level, he was confident that it wouldn't cause much of a problem. He was wrong.

Money

The employees who earned tips had no problem with the return to the old hourly wage. They were doing better than ever, and more than making up for it by inspiring customers to thank them generously for their service. The others in the restaurant were a different story.

During the short staff meeting when Brian reminded them of the need to readjust their salaries—with Joe on hand observing—it was Migo, of all people, who made the first comment. To be fair, his protest was calm, and as Brian would have to admit, reasonable.

“If Kenny's and Joaquin's job in the kitchen is to help Patty and Joleen, and they're making more tips and the restaurant's doing better, then shouldn't they get some of the reward for doing that?”

It was a question that Brian had no good explanation for. He was tempted to go into a long dissertation about the history of restaurants and the difference between a customer-facing employee and a cook or a dishwasher. Instead, he gave the only answer that he felt comfortable giving. “Yes.”

The room was stunned. Migo had heard Joe fend off similar requests from the kitchen before, and he had friends at other restaurants who had unsuccessfully challenged the status quo. As a result, he and his comrades had come to accept their fate, that as long as they worked behind the scenes, their financial upside (though that's not what they called it) would be limited.

But with a new sheriff in town, Migo had decided it was worth another try.

Brian's answer certainly caught Joe off guard, as he expected it would. But to keep the meeting from spinning out of control, and to ensure that the restaurant opened on time, Brian stopped short of making any promises that he couldn't keep. Not without the majority owner's permission.

“You make a good point, Migo. Let me think about this. I'm sure there's a way to do this right.”

Again, the room was a little stunned.

Brian continued, deciding to be blunt. “But let me be clear. I don't want you guys losing sight of your measurables tonight because you're wondering what we're going to do.”

He looked at Joleen and Patty. “Don't get caught up worrying that we're going to start pooling the tips and splitting them up among the whole restaurant. Because frankly, I don't think that's what we're going to do. What I do know is that if we keep making progress, all of us are going to be doing better. If we slip back to the old ways, we all lose.” He paused to let that sink in. “Okay, let's get to work.”

And with that, the room scattered. Joe asked Brian for a word in the back parking lot.

The Mat

Joe wasn't overly angry, but he certainly wasn't pleased. “I hope you know what you're doing. Because this whole thing is probably going to blow up in our faces.”

“You think so?”

Joe nodded emphatically. “This is a lightning rod in the restaurant business, and I don't want to touch it. Waitresses are coin operated, and if you go near their coins, they revolt.”

“How do they do that?”

“First, they bitch like you've never heard. And then, after they've created a path of destruction like a tornado, they usually quit.”

Brian nodded, thinking. Finally, he gently challenged his partner. “I don't think it's about money, Joe.”

Joe's eyes went wide. “It's all about money, mister.”

Brian was shaking his head now. “No, it's more than that. I mean, sure they want more money. Who can blame them? They live in a relatively expensive place and they earn relatively low wages. Anyone in their situation would naturally hope to make more money. I know that.”

The look on Joe's face said exactly what was about to come out of his mouth. “No shit, Sherlock.”

Brian laughed. “Yeah, that was brilliant, huh?”

Joe chuckled.

“But come on. A dollar an hour is not going to change their financial situation in any meaningful, or even noticeable way. It's not just the money. It's about feeling like they're being rewarded for their contribution.”

Hesitantly, Joe could see a little logic there. In a tone that was somewhere between skepticism and sarcasm, he asked his business partner the big question. “So what do you suggest?”

“How about this?” Brian smiled. He was working without a script. “Let's let the kitchen crew and the other support staff keep the dollar an hour that I gave them before.”

Joe winced, as he seemed to be adding up the numbers in his head. Brian didn't let up.

“And if the restaurant continues to improve, let's adjust it, up or down, every month. That protects you from a slump in the business, but lets them share in the success. Heck, it gives them an incentive to keep all this going.”

Joe just sat there, peering at Brian and thinking about his proposition. Finally, he began to shake his head slowly. “I knew I shouldn't have hired you.” And then he smiled. “Okay, let's try it for a few months on a temporary basis, and see how it goes.”

Brian was pretty confident that it would work. What neither he nor Joe realized was that Brian wouldn't be there to find out.

The Call

It happened at the beginning of a busy Thursday evening.

Tristan answered the phone and called Brian over. “It's for you, boss.”

Brian came to the counter and took the phone. “This is Brian.”

“I'd like to order a large pepperoni and anchovy pizza.”

At first, Brian wondered why Tristan hadn't taken the order. And then the caller continued. “Do you guys deliver to San Francisco?”

It was Rick.

Brian did his best to be nonchalant and cheerful. “How in the world did you track me down here?”

“I talked to Leslie. She told me where to reach you.” Rick paused, then laughed. “She also told me where I could go, if you know what I mean.”

Brian laughed, more than a little curious. “What did she say?”

“Nothing that I wouldn't expect from a woman strong enough to put up with you.”

Brian smiled. He couldn't wait to talk to Leslie.

Rick continued. “Anyway, I heard you were gainfully employed again, so I thought I would give you a call. How's it going? Sounds busy there.”

For some reason, Brian did not like the fact that Rick Simpson could hear the restaurant noise behind him. Part of it was pride, certainly. The other was that he didn't want his sarcastic friend to enter into the world of Gene and Joe's.

“What can I do for you, Rick?” Brian was a little abrupt now.

“Well, I talked to Wiley Nolan yesterday, and when I heard what you were doing, I wanted to call to see if you had lost your mind.”

Brian expected nothing less from Rick. In a completely serious tone he responded. “So Leslie didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That I'm seeing a doctor and taking medication. He said it's something related to schizophrenia.”

The line went silent. “Wow.” Rick was at a loss. Embarrassed. “I had no idea, buddy.”

Brian couldn't let it go on. “I'm pulling your leg, you knucklehead.”

Rick laughed hard. “Okay. Well, you had me.”

The restaurant was getting full and Brian needed to help Joleen move some tables to accommodate a big party in the dining room, and he wasn't exactly in the mood for Rick. “I'm fine. But I am busy right now. What do you need, Rick?”

“Well, I'm actually calling about business.”

Brian was caught off guard. “What do you mean? Something about JMJ?”

“No, other stuff. Why don't you call me when you have the time. I'll be home tonight, and I'll be up 'til midnight.”

Brian told him he'd call when he got home, probably sometime before eleven, and hung up. For the rest of the night, he couldn't stop wondering what Rick might want from him.

The Bait

Brian drove the half mile home from the restaurant a little faster than normal. When he arrived, Leslie was already asleep. Desperately wanting to wake her to hear about her conversation with the infamous Rick Simpson, he decided against it and called Rick himself instead.

Disappointed when no one answered, Brian began leaving a message on the Simpson answering machine. “Hey Rick, returning your call on Thursday night. I'll be up for—”

And then Rick picked up the phone. “Hey buddy. Sorry about that. I couldn't find the phone. How's it going?”

“Fine.” Brian wasn't prepared for small talk.

“So, what's it like doing real work for a change? I was a cook in a seafood place in high school, and I waited tables in college. Sometimes I really miss doing that kind of work.”

Brian was surprised at Rick's diplomacy, and let him continue. “But I have to tell you, working in a restaurant's a grind. Those people work their tails off.”

Now Brian engaged. “They certainly do. I think that being a waitress for ten years would be like working in an office for thirty.”

“Yeah, when my dad was out of work for a while, my mom waited tables. It crushed her. So tell me about your restaurant.”

Disarmed by Rick's humble disclosure, Brian decided he had nothing to lose by opening up to the guy. So he described the whole Gene and Joe's story. How and why he had become a part owner. How he was trying to transform the staff and the culture in much the same way he did at JMJ. As usual, Rick couldn't resist a debate.

“Well, I'm not sure much can be done in that industry. But good luck.”

“Actually,” Brian countered, “I've already seen huge changes just by doing some of the things we did at the factory.”

Rick continued to challenge him. “Well, it's one thing to do it in a little business where you don't have much vested interest in the operation.”

Brian found himself getting frustrated again. “Well, I am part owner of the place. How can I be more vested than that?”

“Come on. What did you put in? Thirty thousand?”

“Twelve. But that's not the point.”

“It is the point, Brian. Turning around a little operation as a hobby is not the same as having your reputation or career on the line. You know that.”

Rick was being much more confrontational than usual. Gone was the subtle humor and clumsy teasing, replaced by plain old disagreeableness. Later Brian would kick himself for not seeing that his old friend had an ulterior motive.

Though he considered ending the conversation right there, Brian was too curious about why Rick had called. “Anyway, you said you wanted to talk business?”

“Yeah, I know you're semiretired and all. But I was just wondering if you might be open to a real opportunity I have.”

Hook

For the next hour, Rick laid out the details of the opportunity. It was a company, a little smaller than JMJ, that was looking for a CEO.

Desert Mountain Sports was a regional chain of twenty-four sporting goods stores sprinkled around Nevada, Idaho, Oregon, Utah, and Montana. It had been underperforming financially for the past five years in terms of both revenue and profit, and needed to be propped up for a while to make it attractive to a potential buyer.

Though Brian was more than intrigued by the idea, he knew that he couldn't even consider diving back into a full-time role, one that would require Leslie to move again so soon. But Rick was holding back two pieces of information that would change the equation drastically.

“You should know that the company's headquarters are in West Reno.”

Brian didn't see that as being relevant. “Well I live in Lake Tahoe now, and I'm not going to—”

Rick interrupted. “It's eighteen miles from your house.”

That was enough to stop Brian. For a moment.

“Look, Leslie is not going to want me going back to work like that. She's been more than patient with my situation at the restaurant—”

Rick interrupted again, this time to play his best card. “I already talked to Leslie about it. I think she's open to the idea.”

Brian was dumbfounded. “You did what?”

“I mentioned it to Leslie earlier tonight. She and I had a nice talk. At least after she told me I was a jerk.”

“She did?”

“Well, she didn't exactly use the word jerk. But that was the basic—”

Brian interrupted. “No, I mean, she said she would be open to the idea?”

Rick hesitated. “Well, don't quote me here, because I don't want to get back on her bad side. But yeah, she said it seemed like it might be something you'd enjoy. She did negotiate that you could work from your house one day a week, or spend it in one of their stores, which is in downtown South Lake Tahoe.”

Brian didn't say anything, too overwhelmed by what he was hearing.

Rick continued. “Your wife certainly understands you, my friend. And for some reason, she seems to like you too.”

Now Brian laughed. “Well, she's not going to like me when I wake her up. Let me talk to her and get back to you sometime in the next few days.”

“Take your time. I don't have any other good candidates right now, anyway. No one I know is dumb enough to take the job.”

They laughed and said good-bye.

Patience

In spite of his promise to Rick, Brian waited until morning to talk to Leslie, letting her sleep and giving him some time to think, and pray.

By morning, he came to a clear decision: whatever Leslie wanted him to do, he would do. Their conversation over breakfast was going to have a significant impact on the next few years of both of their lives.

“So you spoke with Rick Simpson last night.” Brian was smiling, eager to hear what she had to say.

Leslie wiped the sleep from her eyes. “I'm guessing that means you did too.”

He nodded. “So?”

“So the man is impossible to hate. I wanted to wring his neck, and then it occurred to me—the guy really cares about you.”

Brian smiled and let his wife continue.

“I gave him a piece of my mind, though, and he took it like a man. He's a remarkably annoying and decent human being.”

Brian laughed. “Yes, he is.”

Leslie poured herself some coffee. “So what do you think of his offer?”

“That's my question for you!”

Leslie shook her head. “I asked first.”

Brian smiled. “Okay, then. My decision is that you get to decide.”

“That's not fair. You have to give me a real answer.”

“That is my real answer. I am not going to do something that in any way diminishes this.” He looked around the kitchen. “As much as I love solving problems, the thought of leaving you out, making you feel secondary, is not something I can handle. I'm not being nice here. I'm just telling you the truth.”

Leslie wiped her eyes again, though this time not because of the sleep in them. She sat down at the table with her husband. “How long do you think it would last?”

“What? The assignment at the sporting goods company?”

She nodded.

“I want to err on the side of overestimating. So I'd say eighteen months, tops.”

“What do you really think it will be?”

He had an answer ready. “Eight. Maybe nine.”

Leslie took another drink from her coffee and asked the next question in a particularly serious tone. “So you think you could be available for next ski season?”

He thought about it. “Yeah, I think I can make that commitment.”

Leslie reached out to shake her husband's hand. “Deal.”

For the next hour, Brian worked out the conditions with his wife.

He would work from home at least one day per week, and limit his travel to Tuesdays through Thursdays, with occasional exceptions that she knew would occur.

But it was her last condition that surprised him most. “You can't just walk away from Gene and Joe's. You need to find a way to keep your experiment there working.”

Brian was taken aback, pleasantly so, by the fact that Leslie would be so concerned about the restaurant. Or more specifically, the people there.

“I'm really glad you said that. I thought that I would continue to drop by the restaurant on Saturday nights for a while after I start at Desert Mountain, just to make sure that things are moving along.”

Leslie asked the big question. “Who are you going to get to manage the place?”

Brian frowned. “I've been thinking about that for the last few hours. And the best answer I could come up with was, for right now, Joe. Eventually, I think Migo could do it.”

Leslie raised her eyebrows, considering the idea. “Really?”

“Yeah. He's bright, educated, knows more about every aspect of the restaurant than anyone. And they respect him.”

Leslie nodded. “That would be great. I hope it could work.”

“Well, I'll have to start at Desert Mountain in less than three weeks. So it has to work.”

Hand-Off

For the next two weeks, Brian split his time between pushing hard for measurements and teaching Joe how to step in and fill the management role for a while. Joe proved to be his bigger challenge.

With more than thirty years of ingrained distrust of employees, Joe was having a hard time seeing his role as being anything more than keeping the inmates from running the asylum. Brian had to convince him that the inmates were actually quite sane, and that they really wanted the asylum to work.

The two assets that Brian had, which would ultimately get Joe to convert to his way of thinking, were the financial results of the restaurant during the last few weeks, as well as the imminence of his own departure.

They had a few difficult conversations along the way.

“Come on, Joe. You've seen it yourself. They're coming to work on time, if not early. They're helping each other close down the restaurant at night, instead of scattering like sixth graders heading for recess when the bell rings. Customers are happier. Revenue is stronger. What in the world do you have to lose by changing your mind here?”

Joe looked around the place. “Listen, I've been here almost half my life, and you've been here for ninety days. I think I have a little more at stake here.”

Brian remained calm. “Okay, but how are you going to feel when it all goes back to the way it was?”

Joe looked just slightly hurt, so Brian corrected himself. “What I mean is, these people are excited about Gene and Joe's now, and they're getting something out of work beyond their eleven bucks an hour.”

That's when it hit Brian. What was Joe getting out of it?

“You know what? I think you need to be part of the program.”

Joe looked confused.

“How do you measure your success, Joe? And whose life do you impact?”

“Come on. Don't try that stuff on me.”

“Stuff?” Brian was just slightly offended. “You think this is some touchy-feely hocus pocus? You don't think you need it?”

Joe shrugged.

“Give me fifteen minutes of open-mindedness here, Joe. Fifteen minutes.”

Slowly, the owner nodded his head.

“Tell me first who you think you serve? Whose life do you impact here?”

“Brian, I'll go along with this, but don't make me answer the questions. Just tell me what you think.”

Brian agreed. “Okay, I'll tell you whose lives you impact. And I think you already know the answer. These employees depend on their jobs for more than you know. Sure, they get their paychecks here, and that isn't something you or I can take lightly. But they get a sense of accomplishment, self-esteem, sanity, and community here too.”

Joe was trying his best to remain skeptical, but Brian wasn't about to let him.

“As long as you think you've hired a bunch of misfits who don't want to be here and will only do what they're required to do, then that's what you'll get.” Brian decided that Joe needed some tough love now, so he gave it to him. “And that's all you've been getting for years. And now you have a chance to change things, to be something real to these people, and wake up a business that's been asleep for years. It's up to you, Joe. It really is.”

Joe got up from the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. When he came back to the table, he said, “Has it been fifteen minutes yet?”

Brian, clearly frustrated, shook his head. “I don't know.”

“Because I thought maybe we should talk about how I'm going to go about measuring all of this stuff.”

Brian smiled, pulled a napkin out of the dispenser on the table, and got to work.

Ninety minutes later, the co-owners of the restaurant had agreed that the four measurements would be nightly receipts, tips, return business, and employee satisfaction. Some would be easy to measure, others would require a little qualitative assessment and feedback. But they would form the basis for Joe's job, and his ongoing training of Brian's successor, Migo.

Reorientation

As the time for Brian to start his new job approached, he slowly began to move more and more of his responsibilities back over to Joe and Migo. During his last week at the restaurant, he stepped out of the nightly operations for longer and longer chunks of time, so that his absence the following week wouldn't seem so stark.

On his final night, the staff stayed a little late, and Joaquin brought in a small cake he had made, with the words “Adios Brian” written across the top. Though the occasion was certainly far less emotional than his farewell at JMJ, Brian was surprised at how attached he had become to Joe's motley crew in such a short period.

He addressed the staff briefly. “Okay, I want you all to remember that I'm a part owner in this place, so I'll be stopping by from time to time to check on your measurements. And I'll be ordering food for take-out using a fake name or coming through the drive-thru in disguise, just to make sure you're not running the place into the ground.”

They laughed.

As he went home that night, any sadness Brian had been feeling was quickly overridden by his excitement about starting his next assignment.