If You Don't Have Big Breasts, Put Ribbons on Your Pigtails (16 page)

/. Make a list of your salespeople in order of production.

Do it every quarter. The idea here is to purge the company of its deadwood, that is, the bottom 25 percent of the salesforce.

2. Fire a warning shot.

Meet with each underachiever and find out what you could do to help them turn their production around. Put the plan on paper.

3. Establish a deadline.

The deadline should be reasonable and match your degree of confidence in the individual's ability to become productive. A clearly stated deadline is a surefire way of finding out who can swim. Usually only one in four does.

Allow One Pet per Office.

Our sales managers can choose to keep one nonproductive salesperson. This is usually an individual who the manager believes helps the whole group in some collective way—someone, for example, who boosts office morale or helps the team. It's the sales manager's equivalent of a "governor's pardon," and we affectionately call the policy "One pet per office."

Firing is never easy. By establishing clear parameters, we built a reliable system for making our company highly productive. It was also a lot more efficient than having the bunny shoes hop all over town. Here are some tips to keeping firing friendly:

1. Fire with someone else present.

When you sit down to break the bad news, it's sometimes easier to do it with another manager present. That person not only provides moral support, but you hold each other accountable for getting the job done.

2. Ask for their permission to be honest with them.

Ask, "Do you mind if I'm honest with you?" Everyone always agrees, and everyone really prefers honesty.

3. Tell them the truth.

Nothing is worse than being hanged when you don't know what the crime is. It's simply not fair, and it leaves the person wondering for the rest of his life.

4. Always start by telling them what they do well.

When you fire someone, you want to ensure that they leave with their self-esteem intact. If you take the time to prepare a list of what they do well and acknowledge it, it will be easier for them to accept your critique of why they're not suited for their present job.

5. Cut to the chase.

Someone being fired doesn't want to spend a lot of time discussing it. Tell them what you tell them and make your good-bye short.

more than $100,000. I was happy to note that per my instruction, both the office rent and the payroll were paid to date, but according to my quick calculation, we owed another $200,000 for printing, office supplies, equipment leases, insurance, accounting fees, and telephone. I added up our accounts receivable, and if our deals closed within the next four months as projected, our net commissions would total only $36,000.

"Whew," I gasped, shaking the number out of my head, "that leaves us with a shortfall of two hundred sixty-four thousand dollars!" I pulled the tape from the adding machine, circled the red figure, walked to my desk, and hid it in my file drawer. •

When I reached for my purse, I found a note clipped to it. It read, "Don't forget we have the $300,000 credit line at Citibank." (Signed) "Esther."

Dad's La-Z-Boy. Edgewater.

Mom was in her usual rush down the rickety wooden stairs, which led from the bathroom to the cellar, when she took a bad fall and broke her ankle in two places. She was on her way to check the furnace, which kicked off whenever the Roanes filled their tub at the same time we did. She was trying to get down and back before the breaded veal patties burned in the frying pan.

Even with her leg in a cast, Mom kept charging at full throttle. She hopped up and down the front steps on her good leg, almost as fast as we ran them on two. She had a wheelchair, a walker, crutches, and, most important, another foot.

Mom altered her daily routines to accommodate the new annoyance and used her walker as a temporary clothesline, draping things over it as if it were a drying rack. She discovered that by wrapping the heel of her crutch with a damp rag and a rubber band, she could reach into the tight spots to clean out the cobwebs. Her wheelchair

soon sat parked in the side yard, where it served as a temporary stool for peeling potatoes.

Mom's new condition didn't change Dads routine at all. Each night before leaving for his second job as night watchman at the Lever Brothers Co., Dad still settled into his La-Z-Boy chair in the living room for his evening smoke. He opened his tin of Half and Half Tobacco, took a large pinch, and carefully stuffed his burled-wood pipe. After a few puffs, he leaned back, rested his pipe on a beanbag ashtray, cocked his head back and fell asleep. That was Dad s routine, and that's where he sat the night Mom lost it.

It was shortly before dinner and Mom was crutching around the kitchen, hopping back and forth between the sink, refrigerator, and stove. Baby Jeanine was on her hip and Marty Joe was pulling at her hem. Ellen and I were setting the table.

Mom finished draining the potatoes and dumped them and a stick of butter into her big aluminum pot. She hopped over to the refrigerator, took out the milk, and poured some into the potatoes. With her free hand, she stuck the Sunbeam mixer into the potatoes and turned it on. The pot whirled around once, twice, and then spun right off the counter and onto the floor.

Chunks of potatoes whirled through the kitchen. Marty Joe started to laugh, smearing the potatoes through his hair and into his ears. I looked at Mom, and she looked as if she were about to cry.

"EDDIEEE!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "EDDIE. HELP ME!!!"

Dad jerked his head up from the back of his La-Z-Boy and stammered, '"What? . . . What, what is it, Florence?"

Mom hobbled over to the La-Z-Boy, her hair glued to her forehead with sweat. Ellen and I stood frozen at the end of the table. We looked at each other, then at Mom and back to Dad. Mom spoke slowly through clenched teeth. "Can. you, please, come. here, and, do something? ? "

"Like what, Flo?" Dad answered.

"Like, maybe, help, me, mash, the, damn, potatoes !"

"Florence," Dad replied, "you know that's not my job."

Dad picked up his pipe and Mom hopped back to the kitchen.

When Esther wrote the first check against our credit line, we discovered it had been pulled. Mr. Serling, our ex-friendly banker, had pulled it. He explained that credit lines were really for businesses that didn't need credit.

I knew something had to give, and it wasn't going to be Citibank.

Two silver-haired Italian men arrived at my office, dressed in dark gray hand-stitched suits, and introduced themselves as Mr. Vincent and Mr. Tony Albanese. They had built a new fifty-two-story condominium across from the United Nations and had blueprints rolled under their arms. They sat down in my small eleventh-floor office and the older brother, Vincent, commented on its neatness. "Small, but beautifully kept," he said.

The younger brother, Tony, seemed like the dealmaker. "My brother and I read your comments in yesterday's Times" he began, "and my brother and I are wondering if you'd be so kind as to tell us what you think our new condominium apartments could sell for."

"I'd be more than happy to, Mr. and Mr. Albanese," I replied, my mind warming at the thought of the commission on 250 apartments. "If you can take the time now to walk me through your blueprints, I can have prices for you by tomorrow."

When they left, I unrolled their floor plans and walked out to the sales area. "Linda," I interrupted a salesperson, "would you take a quick look at these apartment plans and give me your best guess as to what each might sell for?" Linda did, I wrote her initials next to each of her estimates, and then moved on to the next salesperson.

Forty-five minutes later, I had collected ten opinions. After

averaging the prices for each of the six apartment sizes, I had a pretty good idea what the Albaneses' condominiums would sell for.

The two Albaneses arrived the next morning, and they seemed impressed by the neatly typed list of prices I had prepared. "Excellent work, Vincent congratulated me, as he examined the list of prices. "Excellent work!"

During the next few minutes of back-and-forth schmoozing, all I could think about was the $264,000 that I owed to my creditors. We needed cash and we needed it now. I decided to go for it.

"Mr. Albanese and Mr. Albanese, Fve never in my entire life seen more beautiful floor plans than yours. They reflect the enormous thought youVe obviously put into every detail. Your buildings location is exceptional, your views the best in the city, and your black marble pyramid top is going to put the Empire State Building to shame! I just love your buildings Mr. Albaneses, and I wonder if you would consider giving The Corcoran Group the honor of selling your property 7 as your exclusive agent?" I bowed my head with respect and waited.

The brothers looked at each other, obviously impressed by my appreciation of their trophy property. It was Vincent who finally spoke, almost painfully. "Unfortunately, Miss Corcoran, I'm sorry to say that it's out of the question! Marty Raynes is a partner in our project and his company is already our exclusive agent."

I thought again about the $264,000. I thought about the credit line that got away. And I thought about this week's sales that only totaled two.

I smiled my most innocent smile.

"Well, how about sales manager?" I asked, trying to disguise my desperation as enthusiasm.

Tony smiled like a kindly godfather, and asked, "But why would you, Miss Corcoran, want to work as a sales manager when you're the president of this successful operation?"

"Because I could learn so much working for you and your

brother," I explained. Tony seemed satisfied with my answer and leaned back.

Vincent, however, was suspicious, squinting his eyes and pursuing the question further. "I think that might be a conflict of interest," he said. "Let's say, Miss Corcoran, that one of your salespeople brought in a customer who bought one of our condos. We would owe your company a full five percent commission. How could I be sure that that customer didn't come into our building first, and that you didn't refer him to one of your salespeople just to get the commission?"

At that, I spread my hand over my heart and gasped. I remembered my "almost a nun" statement that had worked so well years earlier with Mr. Campagna, my landlord who wanted to evict me. I decided right then to take the story one step further.

"Mr. Albaneses, that would be impossible! Why, I'm a former nun!"

I started work with the respectful Italian Albanese brothers one week later for an annual salary of $200,000. I planned to use half of my new salary to pay Esther so that she could give up sales and be in the office full-time. I'd use the other $100,000 to keep ahead on our advertising bill. If we couldn't advertise, we'd be out of business.

In the second week on my new job, a sophisticated Italian woman arrived at the condominium sales office. She looked a lot like Sophia Loren, and I knew she was "a ringer," a spy to test my integrity. She might as well have been carrying a sign.

"I've beena working, witha Eleanora, froma The Corcoran Groupa," she tolda mea. "Do I needa, hera, to showa-mea, thesa condos?"

"Why, that's not necessary at all," I replied. "I'll take you up to see the condos right now." She didn't buy a condo, but I had honored my vows and passed the Albanese integrity test.

I thought back to my memory of my mother quietly hopping back to the kitchen as my dad sat in his La-Z-Boy. Mom's unspoken words still burned in my memory: "In a family, everyone helps mash the potatoes."

For the next six months, I fed my after-tax income back to The Corcoran Group, paying our bills and buying more time.

MOM'S LESSON #17: In a family, everyone helps mash the potatoes.

THE LESSON LEARNED ABOUT HELPING OUT

By moonlighting for the Albanese brothers, I earned the needed cash that bought my struggling company some time. And I discovered that the new job gave me the opportunity to learn something new. and through that job, I learned a lot about marketing new developments. That knowledge would later lead to the opening of a new marketing division for The Corcoran Group.

My willingness to go out and take a second job to keep us afloat set an example that was noticed by everyone at the company. Because I was willing to personally put myself on the line, everyone at The Corcoran Group rallied around the flag and pitched in. They formed listing teams, taught workshops, helped each other negotiate, supported cuts in advertising, and even took pay cuts.

Nothing is more powerful than a team working together. Teams can accomplish anything, but to create an exceptional team, the members must totally believe that no one of us is as smart as all of us.

secretary-bookkeeper, and she had clearly become the most popular person at the office. She answered one call after another from suppliers, offering small goodwill payments in exchange for a little more time.

Esther suggested I use her personal savings to keep the business afloat, and one of my nicest salespeople, Edith, quietly offered me her husband*s pension fund. But not knowing if I would be able to pay either back, I declined. I felt bad enough owing our creditors money, never mind owing money to people I personally knew.

I went over our bills and receivables once more. We were clearly in the red, blood red, and for the first time, I faced the fact that we were going out of business.

I unplugged the office Christmas tree, turned off the lights, and headed home through the holiday hustle of Madison Avenue. I needed to find the right words to tell everyone I was closing the business, but I figured I could wait two weeks until after the holidays.

Friday night. The Corcoran kitchen.

"\ quit!" Mom declared to no one as the kitchen filled with smoke, and she clanged the smoking black pan of charred flounder into the sink. She stomped over to Dad's La-Z-Boy. and handed Mary Jean off with a curt, "She's wet, change her!"

The next time we saw Mom it was almost six o'clock. We were milling around the kitchen when she appeared in her full Sunday dress, hat and all. Nana was standing on her right, and her blue Samsonite suitcase was at the ready on her left.