"By January," says Reeves, "it was just like turning a light on and off. You wouldn't even have known it was the same company." Profitability returned instantly, cauterizing losses at $340,000 so that by year-end 1986, the company was still able to report a 2% pretax profit on $16 million in revenues. "And since then Pioneer hasn't lost a dime."
. . . Which is not to say that Pioneer/Eclipse has suddenly become a precision instrument.
There are still several areas within the company that need attention -- sales is one, marketing is another, and a third might be the committee system, which could use more testing. But as important as these topics are, they are still only minor details. In the end there is really only one issue yet to be resolved, and that is Bill Wilson. Pioneer may have rediscovered its identity, but the same cannot be said of him. He is still struggling with the painful ambiguities -- personal and professional -- that overtook him in 1986. No matter what anyone says to the contrary, Pioneer still looks, talks, and smells like a one-man show. Thus, there seems little room to doubt that it is the outcome of Wilson's inner turmoil on which the company's future must inevitably turn.
"Now that I've been through my six months of successitis," he says, "I'm simply trying to figure out what it is that I want to do next. And let me tell you, it isn't easy."
Indeed. In this process, there seem to be many more contradictions than straight answers. Wilson, for example, does not want to retire, but at the same time he admits that he is a "bit burned out" and no longer has the same enthusiasm for the business he once had; that he has "peaked" as a manager and cannot at all see himself as the manager of a $100-million company, which is what he believes Pioneer could become; that he no longer feels challenged because "from a business standpoint I've climbed my mountain"; that he wants growth but not turmoil; that, in fact, he doesn't want to run the company at all but rather wants it to run itself. And so it goes, back and forth, a rigorous soul-searching, some sense of which can be grasped from the following reaction. Not long ago, Wilson and some of his colleagues regularly shared a drink or two together in his office after work. A couple of Wilson's friends suggested that the practice might not set the kind of example he hoped for. Wilson agreed that, yes, he was drinking too much. Not only did he end the happy hour, but he also asked to be relieved of some of his Witness responsibilities until he felt he could provide a better example for the congregation.
At the moment, Wilson seems to have landed on the notion that he will become the company's "founder-figurehead, the guru, the mentor of other people," someone who although not involved in the "daily hiring and firing" will still "be the one who points the company in the right direction." Even though he has "not found that one single person I could turn the company over to" -- a thorny problem in its own right -- the mentor image attracts him nonetheless. It gives his associates a better chance to become more deeply involved in management, and it may bring him closer to Jehovah. More than anything else, Wilson wants to spend as much time as possible with the Witnesses, walking the neighborhoods and organizing Bible study groups. "In one way or another," he says, "my life has revolved around my religion." But business keeps pulling at him all the same. Every week someone wants to buy the company and Wilson along with it, and the investment bankers descend on him like locusts, offering to take him public so he'll be rich, and he tells them he can't even spend the money he already has.
Not surprisingly, it appears that in the tug-of-war going on inside him, Wilson often fails to give himself enough credit. He will dwell too much on his weaknesses and too little on his strengths. In fact, early experience with the improvements he has made has been encouraging, the company is growing well and it is highly regarded in its industry, and Wilson himself obviously has more than enough native talent to overcome his present discomfiture. It is not so easy, however, to get such observations past Wilson's self-effacement. "I keep trying," he'll say. "It's been an incredible experience. It's brought out the best in me and it's brought out the worst in me. Sometimes I just don't know what to do."
Bill Wilson is leaving People's Drug. On the way out, he passes an elderly employee stacking party favors on a rack. She is staring at him, searching for a memory. Wilson notices, stops, and smiles. "I know you," the woman says suddenly, delighted with herself and looking now at his double-breasted blue blazer with gold buttons, the light gray slacks, and the glossy Ballys. "You used to do the floors here."
"That's right," Wilson says, shaking her hand. "Nice to see you again." He turns and begins to walk away, then stops as if recalling a forgotten errand. He walks back to the woman and shakes her hand again, saying: "I'm still the same old Bill Wilson."
It was not entirely clear at that moment whether Wilson had just made a statement or asked a question.
