johnmaconline

To be perfectly clear, I’m all for four-day work weeks. Where do I sign up?

But let’s be real for a minute.

The moon landings, the space shuttle, and the mission to Mars don’t happen on four-day work weeks.

The Macintosh, the iPod, and the iPhone don’t make it to market with four-day work weeks.

Amazon, Google, and Facebook don’t launch on four-day work weeks.

By the way, these things don’t happen with five-day work weeks either. Five versus four is semantics when we’re talking about making great things. It’s arbitrary. 

You wanna make something great or be a part of something historical? There is no work-life balance. It’s work-life integration. 

Four-day work weeks are awesome. I’m all in. But let’s not kid ourselves about what can and should benefit from four-day work weeks. 

In 2006, Gladys knocked on my door once more, and I opened it only to the chain stop. 

My chief engineer friend, living in San Francisco and now firmly helping to drive the bus of worldwide technological culture change, called me with an offer. They were deep in the throws of creating “…an iPod…a phone…an internet device.” He asked me to join the party. 

I flew to Cupertino. Walked the halls again. Signed the NDA’s again. Ate sushi with the team again. Talked housing and relocation with HR. Got the offer, complete with stock options that would eventually be worth…well, let’s just leave it at “a pile.”

My dream job, working for my dream company, and working on my dream project.  

I turned it down.

Another regret for this column here? Certainly — you bet your ass — at least, from one perspective. 

But how does one accurately evaluate and sort out feelings about unwalked paths when you don’t regret the journey you actually took? You can’t, at least not rationally. So all you can do is lay in the grass, watch the clouds drift by, and daydream. 

And in our daydreams, we play an additive game whereby we take the best outcomes from what coulda, woulda, shoulda and add them to the unchanged journey we’ve experienced.

Kinda like, “Let’s take our life as it is and add another couple of zero’s to our bank account. Now how does that feel?”

But, of course, that’s a fool’s errand. Our life, our journey, and the effect on those sharing the road with us is a complex model rooted in chaos. The butterfly effect in full regalia. 

All I know is how my journey has turned out so far, and so far, so good. 

I turned it down for reasons I’ll never regret, and those reasons have proven sound and correct. But yes, I sometimes still daydream about the what-ifs. 

Ultimately, though, I’ve concluded that the entire New Shoes experience is about control, specifically, control over one’s self, life, and direction. Recognizing who has it when you don’t. How to gain it, keep it, and respect it. When you have it, how to wield it properly and empathically. 

That tailspin of an experience taught me that I wanted, and still want, to have control. Even if that control means I fail, take the wrong path, or, yes, have regrets. 

That single decision — one over which I had zero control — profoundly impacted me, my career, and my family. 

Both positively and negatively.

A couple months later, I did find myself on the layoff list (as expected), as did most of my pirate friends. I got “saved” (then), but within a month or so, I had quit Agere on my own.

I just couldn’t do it anymore. 

A colleague asked me why I was leaving without a layoff package, and all I could say, because I felt it deeply, was, “I no longer believe.”

And when your profession intersects with your passion, belief is everything. 

I left Agere to try rekindling an old professional romance (it was as awful as the first time around) but returned six months later wiser and reinvigorated. Some time away, dancing with the train wreck of an ex-girlfriend cleansed my pallet and provided perspective. 

It catapulted me onto the path of focusing on what I can control and working to gain control — tech startups (failures), real estate (semi-successful), other marketing adventures (most failures), personal and professional development, and to a large degree, this writing before you. 

Most importantly, it gave me the courage to volunteer for a layoff in my mid-40s, leading me on a journey of interesting professional adventures, personal growth, and an evolving perspective on the intertwining of personal and professional being. 

What could have been, if even by association, sometimes has a way of turning into what is. 

About a year and a half after our disbandment, the marketing manager from the New Shoes team pulled me into his office.

By now, the iPod models that were supposed to be ours had hit the shelves. They were everywhere. 

“Look at this.”

And he pointed to the spreadsheet on his screen.

At the bottom of the summary column was a number around $4 billion. 

But we knew this would happen. We told you it was gonna happen. That single decision saved them, at the time, a few million bucks, maybe a few 10s of millions. It probably soothed the street and secured some bonus for jaw-flappers.

But it cost them the company. 

Because by now, all of Agere was starting to tailspin, not just the mobile phone division. Revenue was down 10% in 2005 and another ten in 2006, but we were about to fall off the cliff. We were jettisoning people and projects. The death spiral. By the end of 2007, LSI, a company from the servant class compared to our nobility status, had bought us. 

Agere was no more. 

It didn’t have to be this way. Twenty guys — twenty focused and excited pirates — had the power to change it all. Twenty guys would have doubled the entire company’s revenue with a single project. 

And that was just iPod. We later learned that Apple also wanted to commit to us the first generation of, well…

“widescreen iPod with touch controls…revolutionary mobile phone…breakthrough internet communicator…“

For God’s sake, just stay on the train. Ignore the ex-girlfriend. You know she’s no good for you. Stop looking back. Start looking ahead. Not what wasn’t, but what can be.

They would have been heroes, not just inside Agere but in the entire semiconductor industry. 

By the mid-2010s, in a particularly cruel twist of fate, the entrails of the former Agere Systems (by now already moved on from LSI to a company called Avago) would merge with and be consumed by Apple’s iPod rebound girl — Broadcom. 

Not just death, but death with an aggrieved, “It didn’t have to be this way.”

We got no answers. None that made any sense, at least.

And that was that.

We said our piece, but it had no effect. We walked in as a cohesive, highly skilled, and angry band of pirates and walked out a fractured, dilettante, and wilted group of lap dogs.

Tails between our legs.

The official disbandment filtered us individually into the myriad of other engineering teams within the division. I ended up back in a group I had purposely left about five years before. Ugh.

But we all knew what was coming. Quarterly reports with bad news beget canceled projects. Canceled projects beget layoffs. Layoffs beget counteractive good news to the street.

And when layoffs happen, who gets laid off? Well…

The chief engineer wasn’t waiting around. He pulled me aside a few days later to tell me he was switching coasts. Gladys had hired him to fix the heaping pile of shit that Agere left (and would cause ripples throughout the semiconductor industry).

Of course, Gladys’s New Shoes would still happen. That train was rolling and unstoppable. Just not with us. We stepped off at the last stop because the ex-girlfriend said she’d be there. But of course, she jilted us again.

I was happy for him and also a little jealous. Was there a spot for me?

Nope. Not right now, at least. But that would eventually come around.

For now, I was just another lap dog, praying my name wouldn’t show up on the list.

“We are canceling this program for two big reasons…

The first is we believe that Apple is about to lose its market share. Microsoft and Sony have both jumped in the game…blah, blah, blah”

Some hushed murmurs around the room. 

This one was at least plausible. As engineers, we had no insight into the market, executive relationships, or product pipelines. What do we know? Microsoft has killed off Apple in the past. Maybe they’ll do it again.

But it’s also an executive funeral service hack. Invoking the “market share” argument with a room full of engineers is a “get out of jail free” card. What do we know about the market?

So, OK, fair enough. Maybe this one has some merit. 

“And the second is that we think the iPod is a fad and has peaked.”

And the room erupted. 

Not exactly trading floor during a frenzied short squeeze, but twenty normally introverted and reserved engineers all talking loudly over each other.

A voice cuts through.

“A fad?! Peaked?! Have you been to the gym? Have you walked down the street? Do you have eyes?”

Who says that to the executive VP of a $400 million division?

Someone who’s exasperated. Someone who’s spent the last year-plus pouring his sweat and humanity into this project. Somebody who’s sacrificed at home to work the long hours required to make something great.

Somebody who doesn’t know business but knows with all of his being that this is the stupidest business decision in history.

We filed into the funeral parlor, knowing but not yet believing our fate.

Emotions are running hot. This is the morning after the leak, and the execs don’t yet know it, but the leak strategy has backfired. 

The tension manifests itself differently in each of us. I can’t even look at them, but my friend on the silicon design team hasn’t broken eye contact since we passed through the door. He’s shooting lasers. Around the room, grown-ass men can’t sit still in their seats. 

Just waiting their turn.

The beginning went according to the familiar project funeral script — gotta cut costs.

“Blah, blah, blah…synergies…blah, blah, blah…core focus…blah, blah, blah strength alignment…blah, blah, blah…”

“Now, we’d like to open it up to questions.”

I was crazed and hopping mad, but I had little courage at this time in my career (and life). I was never the guy to open his mouth. I was too afraid. But I couldn’t let this go. Could I form the words? Could I find the courage?

Luckily, I didn’t have to. My colleague opened the floodgates.

“Mr. [VP], you told us what was happening but never said why, specifically. Why (on earth) are you cancelling this project?”

I assume these guys are good at reading a room; reading this one wasn’t hard. Mr. VP found a sacrifice.

“Sure, I’ll hand it over to Mr. [Lieutentant], who’s more familiar with the details.“

“Thank you, [VP]. We are canceling this program for two big reasons…” 

Word has gotten out.

It always does in these situations. Barry tells me, I tell Doug, and so on. The executives usually leak it on purpose so that the catharsis can begin before the official word comes down. It’s an executive strategy to soften the blow. 

Unfortunately, me and many of my colleagues in this band of pirates have been to this rodeo before. That’s the tech industry. Most of us have a professional past littered with the carcasses of projects that could have been, should have been, or never had a chance.

We know the feeling. Its resignation tinged with a dash of regret and a sprinkle of mourning. And then we move on. A bit like when your favorite Uncle passed on when you were 12. It hurts; you mourn and will remember him nostalgically, but you move on. 

And let’s face it, as engineers, we’re the guys in the ditch with the shovels or 20 feet up in the bucket with the rubber-handled tools. We’re the doers. We make little rocks out of big rocks. We don’t get a say, but why should we? What do we know of the market, balance sheets, or quarterly reports?

But do you know what engineers do know and do care about? 

Making stuff. Making great stuff. 

All we want is to make something that somebody else cares about. Maybe once in your life, you realize the dream of making something truly great. Those opportunities don’t come around every day. 

Official project (or division or company) funeral services follow a familiar script. The leader stands up front and talks about regret, how it’s not our fault, and how we’re gonna come out of this stronger and better. They wax eloquent with buzzwords like synergies, core focus, and alignment like they mean anything to the guys with the hammers and lunch pails. 

But the vibe today at this funeral service is very different. The leak didn’t smooth out the edges. The pirates are angry. 

Because this funeral isn’t for a favorite Uncle. You just murdered our precious baby girl.

We’re gonna say our piece. 

And though we may not have insight into the board room, the handshake agreements, or whose bonus is at risk, we know, sure as shit, that Gladys’s New Shoes is worth making. We know this one is great and will make a difference. For many of us, maybe all of us, this will be our professional legacy. 

Mutiny is at hand.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I wish I was. I’ve been fighting for the last two weeks. They won’t listen. They’re doing it. They’re gonna kill the project. They’ll announce it tomorrow. I felt you should know.”

“How? Why?”

“They [the mobile phone division execs] just lost [their biggest phone customer]. They’re cutting everything so that when they announce the loss to the street, they’ll have something to soften the blow.”

“But this is THE FIX!!??”

“Of course, but they don’t see it that way. Our division’s name is ‘mobile phones’ and this isn’t a mobile phone.” (ah, the fear-driven, short-sightedness rears its ugly head)

“Won’t the street see that we’re gonna make it up on iPod?”

“Apple won’t let us tell them.”

And so here we sat as the early-evening sun flooded the cafeteria with a pall that matched our emotions. I could see he was drained. I had just found out, but he had been living this nightmare for two weeks and had fought the good fight. 

But it was over. 

We stayed for a while as he patiently played therapist while I bitched and moaned, swang from anger to sadness, and started to come to grips with reality. My dream project, the one that intersected my geeky fan-boy past with the impending tech cultural shift of our future, was over. And I had no say in the matter. 

Gladys’s New Shoes had just been run over by a bus full of fearful executives afraid of getting scolded for what they lost rather than being excited and confident about the possibilities of what could be.

“Oh, please, mommy, don’t be mad at me!”

I walked back to my desk in zombie mode and sank into my seat. As I stared at nothing, the lead silicon engineer popped in and said, “Hey, man, did you see that [the VP of the division] just invited us to an all-hands for the New Shoes team? I wonder what’s up?”

“Sorry, man. We just got invited to our funeral.” 

Gladys’s New Shoes were to be the first generation iPod Nano and the first iPod with Video.

Both cutting edge and groundbreaking. Statistically speaking, you probably owned one of them.

In our lab, we have some of the (extremely confidential) new bits and pieces Gladys has shared with us. I’m using them, experimenting, and figuring out how the CPU we’re making is gonna allow them to sing and dance for 24 hours on a single charge.

We’re a year or so into this whirlwind, and I’ve been to Cupertino a couple times. One Infinite Loop and De Anza 8 — where the history of my geeky youth was made. Now I’ve walked the hallways, sat in the rooms, and even scratched out a few of my own markings on whiteboards.

I can’t believe my good fortune.

Every time I show up, I get my ass kicked. They rake me over the coals. But it’s like having David Goggins as your personal trainer. He’s gonna kick your ass. You’re gonna be a dishrag and gonna wanna quit. And then tomorrow, you’re stronger.

At the end of each day’s struggle session, we go somewhere in Santa Clara county, eat sushi, smash a few beers, and talk about conquering the world.

With every fiber in my being, I know this is how great stuff is made.

It’s towards the end of a nondescript day in our office near Allentown, PA. I’m at my desk when the chief engineer of our team walks up and says, “Follow me.”

I’m not alarmed or concerned because this happens a lot. He and I have spent hours on his whiteboard working through the unending pile of hard stuff.

But we don’t go to his office. Instead, he leads me into the empty cafeteria. I can still remember the orange-ish hue of the late-day sun pouring through the large glass windows, casting its early evening glare throughout.

I take a seat, and he sits across from me. OK, now it’s weird.

I know him and his British mannerisms well. We’ve been through some shit on other projects, and certainly on this one. We have an informal manner to our relationship — friends in addition to colleagues. This seems kinda formal.

At first, he doesn’t say anything. He just kind of sighs and blinks. I can read the resignation.

And then I know. This can’t actually be happening.