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Self-worth pays off |
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Without naming names, I can think of a
few thousands small business owners who survive and prosper in spite of
themselves. Their one true talent is finding quality people to manage
their business, then hanging on to them.
Having rendered myself nameless let me
go on in anonymity.
I’m a clinger. I’ll find a patient,
meticulous, detail-oriented workaholic (everything I’m not) and latch
on, riding them all the way to the bank. And I’ll do my best to not let
go.
Holding on to good people is a constant
battle for small business owners. It seems it isn’t enough to throw a
Christmas party once a year and expect loyalty forever. The pats on the
back will also only go so far. Good people in today’s business world
want (and I shudder to confirm this) to be paid what they’re worth.
Fortunately, I realized it’s not a
question of what I think they’re worth, but rather what they think they’re
worth. There is no way I could afford to pay some of them what I think
they’re worth. Others I might consider very adequately compensated.
Their idea of their own worth, though,
might be very different than mine. But how would I know? By the end of
1992, after all bonuses (if any), would they consider their annual income
figure disappointing, satisfying or stimulating?
Rather than shoot in the dark, I
decided to find out. For the first time, I asked my key managers to tell
me what they believed they were worth. Specifically, I asked them to give
me three levels or worth depending on the performance of the company: (1)
stagnant sales, (2) moderate sales increase and (3) banner year.
Being an optimistic sort, I was most
interested in their "banner year" number. I asked them to tell
me what personal income figure accumulated by the end of 1992 would put a
big, wide smile on their face and convince them once and for all they were
working for the finest, most rewarding company in the world.
I gave them a few days to think about
it, stressing the importance of realism and soul-searching. Then I sat
back and waited for their answers, hoping that the only flaw in their
otherwise impeccable characters was low self-esteem.
Ralph, my general manager, was the
first to reply. No problems with self-esteem here.
I read his three-page memo extolling
his virtues to the company and then read his "stagnant sales"
and "moderate sales increase" personal income expectations,
which were in line with my thoughts. But when I read his "banner
year" fat-cat personal income goal, I caught myself hoping we wouldn’t
have a banner year.
"Thank for your input,
Ralph," I said. "Remember, I won’t hold you to any of these
figures. I just wanted to see if we were in the same ballpark."
Ralph was enjoying this. "And are
we?"
"Let me put it this way," I
replied. "How would you like the title of vice president added to
your business cards?"
"I’ll take the money,
thanks."
My ace in the hole had failed me. How
come banks get away with it? I should have said Assistant Vice President,
then negotiated away the assistant.
In the end, Ralph might be tough to
please, but if the banner year included a Super Lotto victory, I might be
able to come through.
Ms. Ferguson, my loyal office manager,
and three other department managers were more reassuring. Their figures
matched almost identically with the amounts I had envisioned for them. It
was comforting to know that their sense of worth to the company coincided
with my sense. I not only had that knowledge but also the capability of
achieving it for them.
And finally, there was my favorite
response. It came from Pierce, my visual display manager, who is to put it
mildly, an artist type.
He had a lot of trouble with the
questions. Primarily, he couldn’t figure out why I’d be asking.
"I’m very happy with the money I’m
making," he said. "You’ve always been very generous."
I looked behind me, but sure enough, he
was talking to me.
"But Pierce," I said,
"what if we have a banner year? What’s your ultimate goal for
1992?"
He shrugged, and this was his answer, I
swear: "If you give me any more money, I’ll just spend it."
He’s mine, and I’m not letting go. |
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