The Goal: A Process of Ongoing Improvement Read Online Free Page A

says.

"We’ve only been here six months,’’ I say.

"Is that all? A mere six months?’’ she says. "Al, I have no friends here. There’s nobody except you to talk to, and you’re not home most of the time. Your family is very nice, but after an hour with your mother, I go crazy. So it doesn’t feel like six months to me.’’

"What do you want me to do? I didn’t ask to come here. The company sent me to do a job. It was the luck of the draw,’’ I say.

"Some luck.’’

"Julie, I do not have time to get into another fight with you,’’ I tell her.

She’s starting to cry.

"Fine! Go ahead and leave! I’ll just be here by myself,’’ she crys. "Like every night.’’

"Aw, Julie.’’

I finally go put my arms around her. We stand together for a few minutes, both of us quiet. When she stops crying, she steps back and looks up at me.

"I’m sorry,’’ she says. "If you have to go back to the plant, then you’d better go.’’

"Why don’t we go out tomorrow night?’’ I suggest.

She turns up her hands. "Fine . . . whatever.’’

I turn, then look back. "Will you be okay?’’

"Sure. I’ll find something to eat in the freezer,’’ she says. I’ve forgotten about dinner by now. I say, "Okay, I’ll probably pick up something on my way back to the plant. See you later tonight.’’

Once I’m in the car, I find I’ve lost my appetite.
    Ever since we moved to Bearington, Julie has been having a hard time. Whenever we talk about the town, she always complains about it, and I always find myself defending it.
    It’s true I was born and raised in Bearington, so I do feel at home here. I know all the streets. I know the best places to go to buy things, the good bars and the places you stay out of, all that stuff. There is a sense of ownership I have for the town, and more affection for it than for some other burg down the highway. It was home for eighteen years.
    But I don’t think I have too many illusions about it. Bearington is a factory town. Anyone passing through probably wouldn’t see anything special about the place. Driving along, I look around and have much the same reaction. The neighborhood where we live looks like any other American suburb. The houses are fairly new. There are shopping centers nearby, a litter of fast-food restaurants, and over next to the Interstate is a big mall. I can’t see much difference here from any of the other suburbs where we’ve lived.
    Go to the center of town and it is a little depressing. The streets are lined with old brick buildings that have a sooty, crumbling look to them. A number of store fronts are vacant or covered with plywood. There are plenty of railroad tracks, but not many trains.
    On the corner of Main and Lincoln is Bearington’s one highrise office building, a lone tower on the skyline. When it was being built some ten years ago, the building was considered to be a very big deal around here, all fourteen stories of it. The fire department used it as an excuse to go buy a brand new fire engine, just so it would have a ladder long enough to reach to the top. (Ever since then, I think they’ve secretly been waiting for a fire to break out in the penthouse just to use the new ladder.) Local boosters immediately claimed that the new office tower was some kind of symbol of Bearington’s vitality, a sign of re-birth in an old industrial town. Then a couple of years ago, the building management erected an enormous sign on the roof which says in red block letters: "Buy Me!’’ It gives a phone number. From the Interstate, it looks like the whole town is for sale. Which isn’t too far from the truth.
    On my way to work each day, I pass another plant along the road to ours. It sits behind a rusty chain-link fence with barbed wire running along the top. In front of the plant is a paved parking lot—five acres of concrete with tufts of brown grass poking through the cracks. Years have gone by since any cars have parked there. The