Mary Ann Bernal: Book Spotlight and Excerpt: If It’s the Last Thing I Do by David Fitz-Gerald

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It's 1975, and Misty Menard unexpectedly inherits her father's business in Lake Placid, New York. It never occurred to her that she could wind up as the CEO of a good old-fashioned manufacturing company.

After years of working for lawyers, Misty knows a few things about the law. Her favorite young attorney is making a name for himself, helping traditionally owned companies become employee-owned, using a little-known, newly-passed law. When he offers to help Misty convert Adirondack Dowel into an ESOP, pro bono, Misty jumps at the chance.

The employees are stunned, the management team becomes hostile, and the Board of Directors is concerned. Misfortune quickly follows the business transformation. A big customer files for bankruptcy. A catastrophic ice jam floods the business. Stagflation freezes the economy. A mysterious shrouded foe plots revenge. Misty's family faces a crisis. The Trustee is convinced something fishy is going on, the appraiser keeps lowering the company's value, and the banker demands additional capital infusions. Misty thought she had left her smoking addiction and alcoholism in the past, but when a worker's finger is severed in an industrial accident, Misty relapses.

Disasters threaten to doom the troubled company. After surviving two world wars and the Great Depression, it breaks Misty's heart to think that she has destroyed her father's company. All she wants is to cement her father's legacy and take care of the people who built the iconic local business. Can a quirky CEO and her loyal band of dedicated employee-owners save an heirloom company from foreclosure, repossession, and bankruptcy?

Get your copy of the thrilling If It's the Last Thing I Do now... if it's the last thing you do!

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Excerpt

During my first week at Adirondack Dowel and Spindle Company, I learned a lot about Father's employees by greeting them in the morning and seeing them off each day, to the chagrin of the general manager. I was determined not to let The Three Stooges make me lose my cool. But Moe, Larry, and Curly must not be permitted to have their way. Whether they liked it or not, I was the owner and president of the Adirondack Dowel and Spindle Company, and that meant that I had the right to do with the company as I deemed best. The sooner they came to accept it, the better, as far as I was concerned. Despite my determination, I dreaded the confrontation, and it rattled me all weekend, knowing that it was coming. Comparing them to famous comedians amused me, but there was nothing funny about my predicament.

After everyone arrived, I asked Joanne to inform Stuart, Art, and Doyle that I wanted to meet with them in my office at 10. Judging by the looks on their faces, they didn't appreciate being sent for. Maybe they didn't like the idea of being called to a meeting, or perhaps they took issue with the short notice. I had set five chairs so that we could face one another.

Doyle crossed his arms over his chest, sat back in his chair, and spread his legs widely. His red cheeks and scowling face made him look angry, and there was no mistaking his dark mood.

The business manager's small frame squirmed on his seat, and he cast his gaze about the room as if he were looking for a safe corner in which to hide. His fingers tapped on his leg, one after the other in a repetitive loop. He never made eye contact with me, and I couldn't help wondering why he had brought his briefcase with him. I began to wonder what he carried that was so important to him that he couldn't be apart from it.

Stuart had a smirk on his face, and I couldn't tell whether he was amused by the novelty of meeting with his colleagues, entertained by the predicament I had found myself in, or eager to watch the sparks fly. Some people revel in drama at work to help pass the time or lessen the dullness of their daily routines.

Joanne looked surprised when I called her in and asked her to bring her stenographer's notebook. "Would you take notes for our meeting? I'd like to keep a record of the things we discuss and the decisions we make." Joanne crossed her legs, set the notebook on her lap, and prepared to record the first meeting I had ever conducted at work. At the law firm, I'd attended quite a few, but running meetings was new territory for me.

I took a deep breath and looked at Doyle. "We are the leaders of this company, and I think it is important that we work together to make it better. Every Monday morning, I'd like us to sit down together like we're doing now."

Doyle blew air through his lips like a toddler in his high chair, rejecting unwanted baby food. "Why on earth would we want to do that? Meetings are just a waste of time. Every minute someone is talking is a minute they're not working. I've got real work to do. There are two lathes out there that need fixing and dozens of employees that need watching over. Employees slow down to half speed when nobody's watching. You know that, don't you?"

I was prepared for Doyle's arguments. "Communicating is crucial. When we know what's important to one another, we can help each other out. And I'd like to think you could place more faith and confidence in our workers, Doyle."

"Shows what you know. If I don't ride herd on them, they'll take advantage, and before you know it, nobody will get anything done. I went to business school, Missy, and I spent a couple of years in the army. So I know a few things about subordinates, and if I've learned one thing, it is that people need to be told what to do."

I can't help wondering whether Doyle recognizes that the general manager of a company reports to its president. How could he not know that? Coolly, I said, "My name is Misty, not Missy. You should be very proud of our workers, but I don't want them to feel like soldiers."

I hoped to move on to another subject, but Doyle wasn't willing to drop the matter yet. He practically spat his words at me. "What's wrong with feeling like a soldier? And since when do we care how they feel? They are paid to do a job. I expect them to do it. I'm not going to burp and diaper them or wipe their noses."

Doyle was pushing my patience to the limit, but I reminded myself that I wasn't going to lose my temper. I placed my hands on my knees, leaned forward, and said, "We're not at war, Doyle. People deserve to be treated with respect and decency. Yes, they should do a fair day's work for their pay, but they should also know why they're doing the things they're doing. I believe any task can be performed with dignity as long as one knows why that task is important and how it contributes to the reason we're all here."

The retort came hot and fast. "If I want them to do something, I'll tell them what to do, and they'll do it without a fuss, by God, or they'll find themselves in the unemployment line so fast their heads will spin. As long as I'm the general manager here, I run the factory, and we'll do it my way."

That's when I lost it. I could feel my face twist with rage. I was so angry, I didn't know exactly what I was saying, but Joanne wrote it all down. Spittle flew from my lips as I screamed at the man. "This is my company. You work for me. If I want you to sit in a meeting all day, that's what you're going to do. I'll treat you with respect, but if you can't do the same for me, it will be your head spinning in the unemployment line." I could feel the daggers shooting from my eyes into his perpetually worried-looking forehead. My hands balled into fists, and I pounded my knees with each word as I finished, "Is that clear, Mr. Polk?"

He answered firmly with one word, "Yes." But I heard, "Yes, sir." It was clear to me that he understood and was deferring to me because I was his superior officer and for no other reason. That would have to do.

I looked at the clock and was surprised to see how little time had passed. I wished that I could have a few minutes by myself to collect my wits before continuing. In my imagination, a smoke break provided a brief interlude. Instead, I swallowed hard and looked from person to person. "The next thing I want to talk about is our profits. Friday afternoon, I met with our accountant, Vernon Crawford. He has finished the company's taxes for last year. We just barely squeaked out a surplus. The good news is that we will not have to pay a lot of taxes, but Mr. Crawford said that a successful business needs to generate income in order to grow and prosper. If it loses money, it cannot survive, and we came close to losing money last year. I know everyone is working hard, but we're not making money. If you have any thoughts about that, I'd like to hear them. If you want to think about it, we'll talk about it again next week. Perhaps we should discuss it every week."

Doyle found his voice again. "Hey, my job is to get the product made and delivered on time. The rest is up to Art and Stuart. Maybe you should get up in their business instead of mine."

Trying to regain my composure, I said, "I don't want to get up in anybody's business. I want to work together so that the company can make a profit."

I looked from Doyle to Art, but Stuart spoke instead. He said, "I thought you cared how the people felt, not about how much money you make."

"If we all work hard, we should all expect to make more money, shouldn't we, Stuart?"

The sales manager grinned, shrugged, and nodded.

"That's why I'd like to put in a profit-sharing program. When we make a profit, we should distribute a portion of it as a bonus, and everyone in the company will share it. Most of the profits have to go back into the company, but I think if we're successful, we should be able to give ten percent of it back to the employees."

Art's eyebrows twitched frightfully. "Oh, no, no. That will never do. What if the customers find out? They'll demand we drop our prices. There won't be any money in the checkbook by the time we're through."

"I think it will be alright, Art. As long as we charge a fair price, it is up to our company to decide how to split the profits. Anyway, think about the bonus idea, and also think about how we can make a fair profit. We'll talk again about it next week."

We'd covered a lot of ground, but we still hadn't filled an hour yet. I asked Stuart what he could tell us about his visits with our customers. He sat up and talked about his plans to visit hardware stores downstate, but it was clear that Doyle and Art weren't listening. Warning bells went off in my head, but I stopped Stuart anyway. I said, "I'm sorry, why isn't anybody paying attention to Stuart?"

Doyle said, "That's just sales talk. I don't want to hear about all the time Stuart spends skiing, golfing with customers, and plying customers with martinis during two-hour-long lunches at the country club. I'll pay attention to the orders when they come in. Getting the orders is Stuart's problem. Figuring out how much to charge is Art's job. What's it to me?"

I held my head in my hands, frustrated, and said, "Don't you numbskulls get it? We're all in this together. If we succeed, we succeed together. If we flounder, we all suffer. If the ship goes down, we're all sunk. That's what I'm trying to tell you."

Art said, "It's eleven o'clock. Time's up. I have to get to the post office and pick up the mail and then the bank." His bony fingers grabbed the briefcase handle as he stood and backed away from the group as if fearful of turning his back to us.

I shook my head and looked up at the ceiling just as a spider dropped from a long strand of web and landed on my face. I jumped to my feet, slapped my face, and knocked over my chair. My management team was gone, but Joanne hurried to my side. Thank heavens for Joanne.

David Fitz-Gerald writes historical fiction in his spare time with the hope of transporting readers to another time and place.

If It's the Last Thing I Do is his 7th novel.

Dave has worked for more than 30 years as an accountant, employee-owner, and member of the management team at a "silver" ESOP (employee-owned) company. He has championed the cause in national, non-profit association leadership roles.

Dave’s family roots run deep in the Adirondacks, going back generations. He attended college and worked at a deli in Saranac Lake during the 1980s. He spent two summers as an elf at Santa’s Workshop on Whiteface Mountain in the 1970s and is an Adirondack 46-er, which means he has hiked all of New York’s highest peaks.

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