The Killing Fields of Derby

The Killing Fields of Derby

I arrived at the house in the dead of a rainy night. It was the first time I had been to Scotland. My loud knock brought the landlord. He was of African descent, mysterious, and talked in circles. “Welcome, I’ll show you around,” he said. “Would you like the money for rent?” I asked. He looked at me and beyond me, “No, perhaps tomorrow we can talk about that.” “How many live here, “I asked. “We invite many guests, a community.” His thick accent proved difficult to my ear.

The unpredictable dangerous and steroid driven painting company owner I had left in Belfast robbed me of my recent labor, and this had seriously depleted the grubstake. I had enough cash for one month’s rent and another hundred for food. The financial limiting of choices brought me to this room, a room nearby the new office. It was the job I had prayed for, a job that would bring security and a job that suited my skills and book of work.

“This is the kitchen and this fridge, (there were four) is where you can put your food, but only on the top two shelves.” I looked around focusing on the countertop: old, chipped, badly stained, and filthy. I thought, how can I do this as I held back wretches. With watery eyes, I followed him upstairs where he gave me a clean and spacious room. That’s at least something, I thought.

Stephen, the General Manager greeted me at the secure front door. Unfriendly, tall, awkward with a cold Glaswegian accented, he invited me to his office for a session of jilted small talk. Something felt wrong. Curious, and eager to interrupt the General Manager, the sales manager sauntered into the GM’s private office. Tall, intimidating, with an inch of makeup to mask her insecurity I heard an accent I had not heard before. “Your team is not performing what are you going to do about it, my customers are very unhappy,” the Newcastle accent said to me.

For what seemed like an eternal moment we all engaged in spaghetti western staring.

Abruptly standing, Stephen said, “OK, let’s take you to your new desk.” Stephen led me past the lingering sales manager into the cavernous call center/dispatch/supervisor room. “Here,” pointing, “This is where you will work.” With that, he walked away. It was a cable-littered series of tables littered with supervisors, and a dispatcher, in the middle of the room, another series of tables filled by perfect customer service incompetence. My laptop is situated one seat away from the unwelcoming dispatcher.

I remembered how easy the interview with Michael was in his ‘presidential office’ two weeks earlier. Note to self, when something seems too easy to get, beware.

Within days it was clear the branch was fragmented, dysfunctional, unaccountable, and full of finger pointers. Any hope of help from corporate was misplaced as it was spiraling into its own dysfunctional abyss. I was on my own. The cardiac arrest and coma from eight months earlier weighed heavily in my deliberations and I was constantly in emotional trauma. The difficulty of doing two things at one time was still at play. One week in, daily, the sales manager walks to my ‘desk’ interrupting with caustic and ominous statements. “Your team is not performing, your supervisors and drivers are incompetent, what are you going to do?” she would say.

If you have managed logistical operations, you know that efficiency and consistent service delivery is underpinned by good routing. The ability of a dispatcher can make or break an operation. On one occasion, about three weeks in, there was a substantial route failure. The dispatcher had overloaded the route and it was unachievable. “Dougie, (pronounce Doogie) you are going to have to call all of the clients and let them know about the failure,” I explained. “That’s a customer service job, I canny do that” I was told. “No, today it’s your job,” I said. With that, I left the office to help in the field. Thirty minutes in, a call from customer service: “Dougie says we must make the calls.” “No,” I replied. “Please do not make any calls.” Dougie did not pick up my calls: I was ghosted. “Stephen? It’s Keven. I have a situation and I need your help. Can you please let customer service know the dispatcher is to make the calls to the clients for the route failure and please let Dougie know that this is his responsibility, I gave him that direction. I will be there in about 30 minutes.” I slid my card in the front door: bzzzzzz, it opened. Double stepping the stairs upward, I could hear mayhem. The sales manager was shrieking over the phone to HR, a customer service worker had given notice walking off the job, the remaining three were loudly engaged with a supervisor and Dispatcher Dougie was nowhere to be found. Stephen sat in his office unfazed while concentrating on his P&L statement. He seemed happy. “Where is Dougie?” I asked. “He left,” said William. A lovely man, William is a Glaswegian transplant and a ‘right out of the box’ supervisor. Lightly trained and thrown into the deep end, he brought to play his natural talent, incredible intuition, and an osmosis intellect. “Can you dispatch?” I asked with a prayer. Nodding he took it on. Later, early in the evening, where only the ghosts of the day were present, Andy, who first offered me this glimmer of employment hope on the phone back in Belfast, rolled up. A down-to-earth Glaswegian, smart, corporate, Andy gave the back story.

“Stephen was tasked with putting together four franchises that had been rolled back into corporate. Each franchise had brought its issues and problems and right now, they still operate as distinct cliques. Under Stephens’ leadership the plant manager and workers hated and distrusted the GM and sales, sales distrusted operations and says they are incompetent, the sales manager despises the GM, and customer service is squeezed and squeezed by everyone, and they blame the GM. When Stephen went on his holidays a few months back the entire operation revolted. The only thing everyone has in common is their hatred of Stephen and his bullying management style. The revolt echoed all the way to the President’s office and senior HR. They investigated and Stephen was given a final written warning for bullying.” “You can’t make this stuff up,” I said. Andy nodded,” There is more Keven.” “More?” What on earth could be more I thought. “The sales manager is in a relationship with the dispatcher, and she protects him” “Are you kidding?” I exclaimed. “So, today when Stephen approached Dougie on your behalf, he knew he was not to do that. That is why Dougie lost the plot and left. He is citing workplace stress.”

I flopped straight into my room late that evening. The house had been filled with a putrid stomach gagging revolting smell. One of the roommates had cooked monkey brains. The open window offered no relief, and I found my solace underneath two flat foam pillows. It was a perfect end to a perfect day.

HR offered no advice to bring Dougie back. The sales manager kept on making her daily secret HR calls. “The routes are much better William, delivery is consistent,” I think we have turned the corner.” William looked up, “I think our long nights are behind us.” he said happily. I liked the long days. They provided respite from my hovel-gaging living quarters and the strange seven other males.

One morning, early, he was there. “Are you OK Dougie?” I enquired. He looked at me blankly, made a weird noise, put on his headphones, and went to work. A few ‘Dougie’ days in, the sales manager hovering behind me taps me on the shoulders for the first time in three weeks. “Service is atrocious, I’ve had enough. You should have fixed this by now, or should I escalate?” “I have identified the issue.” I offered. “The problem with service delivery is due to bad routing. The routes are imbalanced, some are too heavy, others are too short, and others are too long. “What do you think?” Before I could revel in joy, my phone rang: it was HQ. “Just a minute Donna.” It was a short call, a kind of a call to arms message. “Donna, we…” Her phone rang: it was HQ. Stephen was now walking over to us, unaware of our phone calls. “We have to go to Derby” he interrupted. “We have to leave tonight!” Both the sales manager and I nodded, “We know,” we said in unison. We were off without a question. Sitting in the middle aisle seat on the plane, Stephen is to my right, Donna to my left. I looked one way and then the other. “Anyone know what this is about.

For whatever reason, the people who invented the English language struggle with sounding the letter e. As I found out an e is an a, so Derby is pronounced Darby by the English. Earlier, looking unsuccessfully for Darby on Google maps, the sales manager rolled her eyes commenting, “It's D-E-R-B-Y Keven, Darby! The morning taxi ride from the hotel gave time for banter that brought none of us closer to discovering what this meeting was about. “All I know is what Michel said,” I offered, “He said we are moving in a new and exciting direction, and we will discuss this in Derby.” A new direction was good I thought. The dysfunction in the branch coupled with the problematic corporate center needed a new and exciting direction. It was a beautiful fall morning when we arrived at the Golf & country club.

Breadsall Priory Golf & Country Club is a stately mansion house rising out of the hills of Derbyshire. The stone-faced tower gives way to the front entrance that opens into a luxurious oak-paneled foyer. A small white sign directed us up the intricately carved wooden banister staircase to the second floor. I could hear a murmur.

Michael is at the door. “Welcome, how was your flight?” putting us at ease, “Go in and have a seat we are about to get started.” We stood together, looking out into the room. I knew no one, the other two dove into the crowd glad-handing and making small talk. There had to be at least 150 people there. “Did you know yesterday, there were 150 people here too.” I was told by someone out of the blue. “Where are you from?” “I am from Livingston, Scotland,” I said. “You don’t sound Scottish or English” I was sternly told. The ‘get settled’ announcement was made, and everyone found a seat. The room was silent, very silent. I looked around for the Livingston teammates. Stephen was to my right, seven rows back, to my left, 12 seats down: Donna.

Michael was at the microphone.

“Thank you all for being here today. You are the backbone of this company, hardworking, your contributions have been first class. — Applause — “So, I would like to thank you all for your work and thank you all for being here today. — So far so good, I thought. “In recent times, we have seen the economic outlook in our marketplace both in the UK and on the continent become very competitive, but we are also competitive.” More applause, — Oh oh, I thought, hear it comes…my memory clicked: I had heard this North American corporate speech before. As Michael droned on into corporate talk, I looked around and all I saw were lambs, lambs, and more lambs. As Michael spoke there was more applause, some cheers, and happiness and joy abounded. It was a kind of slow-motion affair. Looking around, I saw the happy and excited faces of those who had just drunk the Kool-Aid. We are the best they thought. The irony of the occasion at that point was not lost on me. I knew, as a North American, I was witnessing a Canadian multinational ready to inflict a USA-style corporate cull on unsuspecting UK employees. Michael went on, “I am announcing first that the position of General Manager is no longer a fit for our organization. Incredible I thought, a public hanging for my line manager. I turned and looked at Stephen: he just stared forward expressionless. Michael went on: “In our new organization, many positions are to be eliminated today. Those affected will get a chance to apply for any new position. There is a lot of talent in here and we will need you. — More Kool-Aid. I am now going to turn the proceedings over to Darla, your head of HR. She will let you know the format of the rest of the day.”

Note to self: If the President wants to see you with HR: beware.

“Hi everyone.” Darla went on, “I am going to read out some names, your room number, and appointment time. If your name is called, your position in the company is redundant, if your name isn’t called, will be invited to an employee consultation later. Darla began. Each read name was a bullet shot back to its owner. The brutality was full-on. I listened to some whimper, some openly cried, others twitched nervously, waiting, listening, and wondering. I turned to the woman beside me whose name I now knew. Her clapping and cheering now a quiet stream of endless tears running over her cheeks. So, this is how they do it in the UK I thought: mass firings. I looked to my left, Donna was cool, behind me: Stephen had that ‘I was shot look’ on his face. 20 mores bullets are fired, and one hits Donna. Stoic, angry, and holding in her emotion, she breaks, looking to the ground. I am thinking, is this it? Three months in and I have no job? How can I go back to the family and tell them this was all a waste of time; how can I go back to grafting on the streets of Belfast. At that moment I was one of the twitchy ones.

Darla read the names alphabetically. My last name starts with a W. The luxury of time provided me a chance to observe the carnage but with every passing name, with every passing bullet, I felt growing, immense, emotional pressure and increased heart rate. Oh my God, oh my God, In the name of the Father, In the name of the Father, I said to myself. Then, “On ‘T’, Darla paused.

I looked up, “OK, that’s the first round. You all have your room numbers and times; the rest can take a break, and we will see you at 3 pm.” Darla walked away from the microphone. Struggling to comprehend the situation……I said to myself:

“Holy fuck-I was spared, I survived the killing fields of Darby.”