With caution and care, change can lead to unexpected results
“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”
-Deepak Chopra
The Board of Commissioners noticed a pattern. Of the many commodities and services our park system engaged (e.g., office supplies, aggregate stone, food for zoo animals, etc.), the same awardees were recommended year after year.
The board asked if I, as the procurement director at the time, had noticed this pattern. I explained that I had, but in my effort to give business to the “lowest and best” contractors, I was obliged to provide the best value for the dollar. These particular vendors had distinguished themselves.
One of the commissioners, whom I respected greatly, said, “Maybe we need to redefine your job description to include a sort of ‘outreach’ effort to seek and develop vendors that have not yet reached the status of some of these more defined and time-tested companies.”
With the help of the Treasurer and Executive Director, we put together a plan. And, though it took a while to iron out the rough spots, it delivered ROI with greater diversity in providers and better competition from the field of vendors.
It’s important to note that, in order to develop a more competitive process, we had to abandon strict adherence to business rules and instead incorporate a more artistic approach. It was a poorly kept secret that I was an emotional manager. I was close to my staff and was often reminded to maintain a safer distance from the people I supervised. Try as I might, I never could step away from my affection for people and my interest in helping them. Suddenly, however, this personality trait became exactly what I needed to make the new outreach plan work.
The Little Vendor That Could
The first attempt almost ruined me, but it was a good lesson.
Every year, I put out a bid for park stoves. These are the steel grills mounted throughout the park system. Picnicking families can use them as long as they provide their own charcoal. One supplier had provided our system’s park stoves for years. Thus, he had an advantage because all the mounting hardware and grill trays were unique to his company. Switching to a new supplier would require a complete overhaul.
I put out a notice seeking welders and other steel-related companies that could make this commodity more generic, opening space for a more versatile supplier. Roughly 10 people showed up to the informal discussion, and a new idea was hatched. If my department selected a competing stove style and employed a vendor that could custom-make the hardware during the conversion (so existing stoves could be repaired and new stoves blended in), we would no longer need to rely on the same vendor.
I reshaped the bid and released it to a hearty response. The lowest offer came from a small-time, local vendor, and I invited him to a pre-award meeting to determine if he had the capacity to fill such a substantial order. He was a “salty” old fellow. He snickered at my questions, assuring me the order for 100 new stoves and retrofit of 25 units was “no big deal.” I had my doubts but wanted to oblige the commissioners, so I recommended the new company (secure because I held his bond, which I could liquidate accordingly if he didn’t complete the task). A delivery date was set, and the first 25 units were due in three weeks. After a week passed, I stopped by his shop, but there wasn’t a stove to be found. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, assuring me, “My nephew’s coming in next week, and we’ll knock those 25 out in two days.” I left unconvinced and a bit rattled. A few days later, I stopped by after dark and looked in the window. My new vendor was asleep on the worktable with grill parts scattered on the floor. He looked like Cool Hand Luke after eating fifty eggs. I put my head in my hands. Our well-intended experiment to employ the small-timers was off to a booming start. I tried to keep in mind the directive that new vendors might need more guidance, more support.
On the next day, I found two independent welders. I called my snickering contractor and suggested he hire them to help him meet his deadline. I explained it might eat into his profit margin, but it would be better than paying penalties for non-delivery. He begrudgingly accepted my suggestion, and I breathed a little easier.
Three days later, I received a phone call from guess who. “If you want these darn stoves, you need to send a truck to pick them up. I’m on the side of the highway, and my axle broke under all this weight.” I sighed and made a call to park operations. Our truck picked up the stoves and gave the new friend a ride back to his shop. I called him the next day and explained I would be liquidating his bond and awarding the balance of the bid to the next lowest bidder. He called me a bunch of foul names and hung up angrily. But here’s the punchline. The stoves were beautiful, and they were so sturdy that they held up much longer than the ones we’d bought previously. After the dust settled and everyone stopped yelling at each other, I gave the previous vendor a call and complimented his work. I told him that, if he made another dozen grills, I’d be glad to buy them once I knew they were complete. He chuckled and agreed, and became one of our small-order suppliers for the next 20 years.
The lesson I learned was to employ a more sympathetic approach (still within the confines of the Ohio Revised Code). I couldn’t show any favoritism and had to be willing to apply hardline approaches (as I did when I liquidated the vendor’s bond). But the commissioner’s directive was well-intended and ultimately well-served. Our outreach efforts were modified again and again to build a supplier base with minority-owned businesses and women-owned businesses. It didn’t take a major overhaul of methods; it simply required taking a step back and being more willing to use humanistic outreach.
