None the WISR
I’m not a psychologist, but I do have a (metaphorical) PhD in Self-Sabotage. One of the ways I have, and have witnessed countless others engage in self-sabotage is by sweating the small stuff. That’s about as pointless as a termite gnawing on a temple; God only knows why we do it anyway.
But I want to be the best at what I do! You might be thinking. And fair enough. Aspire away. I’m just telling you, your customers do not care if you’re the best. And they do not care about the mistakes you’ve made in the process of producing your product. All they want is what they want. So give it to them.
You don’t want to be perfect anyways. Why would you? There’s only been one guy who’s ever been perfect, and we nailed Him to a cross. You’re not going to be perfect. Perish the thought. And for God’s sake, don’t sweat the small stuff. Your customers don’t give a damn about your mistakes. In fact, they’re none the wiser.
Take me for example.
I never aspired to be a Manager at Subway. But when the Subway at 401 Baldwin Street was within inches of going out of business, I thought what the hell? I have no idea what I’m doing but sure, I’ll do it.
I figured whether the store survived or thrived as a result of me being Manager, the customers wouldn’t give a damn. They’d just want to keep getting their Cold Cut Combos, Spicy Italians, and Chicken Bacon Ranch sandwiches. And they sure as hell wouldn’t care about any of the mistakes I was bound to make along the way. In other words, they’d be none the wiser.
October 28, 2023
I parked behind the Subway at 401 Baldwin Street at 2:49 PM. My shift began at three. At that time I was the Assistant Manager—a glorified Sandwich Artist. I always showed up early, ten minutes, at least. College football will do that to you. I liked to get in there, clock in, and tune the radio to the Grand Valley State game, where I played ten years ago, before I started doing my thing.
The game would finish around six, maybe half past. The dinner rush would come next. By the time that was over, it’d be seven-ish. A bathroom cleaning here, a restocking-of-the-Doritos there, and the clock would strike nine before I knew it. The store would be dead by then. That would make the perfect setting for yours truly to sit in the office and do my work, which was—and is—writing.
That was a typical Saturday for me. That Saturday in late October, however, was anything but typical. And I’m glad. If it was, I would have been none the wiser.
“Hey,” my manager Alicia said as I stepped halfway through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. She was spinning the cutting wheel for green peppers. Her hair was a mess. A bead of sweat cut a trail down her temple. “Can I talk to you real quick?”
“Sure.” I said, slipping my backpack off my shoulder, setting it on a pickle bucket. “Everything all right?”
“Hey Ange!” Alicia hollered to one of my coworkers. “Can you take over this for a sec?” Angela obliged. Alicia ushered me behind the partition separating the food line and the backroom. “So,” Alicia said, readjusting her hat. “Have you ever met the manager up the road?”
“At the Hudsonville store?” I said, (our boss owns four Subway restaurants in West Michigan, Hudsonville being the flagship). “I think she came in here once when I was wor—”
“Well she just quit today.”
I felt my face scrunch in on itself. “Huh?”
“Oh yeah,” Alicia said, shaking her head. “She didn’t put in her two weeks. She didn’t give anyone any kind of heads up whatsoever.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. What would you have done? “That’s crazy. Why’d she quit?”
Alicia frowned. “Too much stress I guess. Couldn’t handle it.”
I shrugged. “So? Now what?”
Then Alicia shrugged. “That’s the thing,” she said. “We don’t know. With no manager in place, that store could shut down.”
“Could shut down?” I said. “As in, go out of business? Like, close?"
Alicia frowned, nodding. “Yeah and uhh,” she sniffled, wiping her nose. “And it’s not looking too good I guess.” Alicia readjusted her hat again, then said: “I’ve already been asked if I could manage this store and Hudsonville.” Alicia buzzed her lips, then continued: “I said: ‘Hell no. I’m less than a month into being the manager of this store and I got three kids at home.’”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”
Alicia took a deep breath. “Pray we find a new manager,” she said. “Because if we don’t, then we risk not only losing that store, but this one too.”
“Well, if you want to come back here tonight so you and I can strategize to see how we can possibly fix this, I’ll be here.”
Fast forward to a minute or two after ten. I was at the cash register closing the day when I heard a tap tap tap! at the front door. It was Alicia.
“How’re things at Hudsonville?” I said.
“It’s a mess,” she said, brushing past me. “I don’t know what to do. I’m scared both stores are going to shut down unless something…” her voice trailed off as I thought: if this is you God, if you’re opening this door, I’m going to walk through it.
Alicia kept on with what was effectively a miming charade until I lifted my hand up. She paused, then said: “What’s up?”
“Have you ever heard the story, What the Hell is Water?”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “No.” She said, crossing her arms and leaning against the line in front of the veggies.
“One day,” I said. “Two young fish were swimming along when an older fish swam by and said: ‘Morning boys! How’s the water?’ The two young fish kept swimming. One of the younger fish leaned over to the other and said: ‘What the hell is water?’”
Alicia’s eyebrow arched slightly.
“Sometimes, we’re so close to a situation, we can’t see what’s right in front of us. You said we need a new manager, yes?”
“Yeah,” she said with a kind of anticipatory relief.
“Do you think you might be talking to him?”
Photo by Mathias Reding on Unsplash
I’ve been the Manager at the Subway at 401 Baldwin Street ever since. Has the learning curve been steep? Oh God yes. Just ask my boss what the first Weekly Inventory and Sales Report, (WISR) I presented him looked like. Apparently, 900 strips of bacon had walked out the door at some point. We had, by my count, over 8,000 salad bowls. But one thing we never had to worry about was anyone dying of thirst; the WISR showed the store having 300 bottled waters. Nice.
You wouldn’t have known that if I didn’t tell you, nor would any of my customers. You would have been none the wiser. That’s the point. What matters is neither store shut down. And they aren’t merely surviving, either—they’re thriving. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t because of anything Mr. Eight Thousand Salad Bowls is doing. All my customers care about is getting their Cold Cut Combos, Spicy Italians, and Chicken Bacon Ranch sandwiches.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, don’t sabotage yourself by sweating the small stuff. More often than not, the only time someone learns of a mistake you’ve made is because you tell them—and usually they couldn’t care less. No matter what you do, you’re going to make mistakes. That’s a fact. Don’t get it twisted, mistakes aren’t nothing. But they pale in comparison to what matters, which is giving the customer what they want.
If you’re an author, give your readers another book. If you’re an entrepreneur, fill another demand in the marketplace. If you’re a singer, give your fans another album. If it took you fifteen drafts to finish a book; if it took you pitching twenty banks to finance your deal; if it took you a hundred hours recording to hit the note on the third track just right, the customer won’t hold it against you. They’re none the wiser.
.