Extreme Managing
Jack Hartnett, head of 54 Sonic restaurants, demands that employees follow his orders unquestioningly and assumes responsibility for their personal and professional lives.
Equal parts old-fashioned dictator and New Age father figure, Jack Hartnett breaks nearly every rule of the enlightened manager's code. What's most surprising is how well Hartnett makes it work
The phone rang loudly, rousing Jack Hartnett from a deep sleep. He glanced at the clock; it was 1:30 a.m. As he picked up the receiver, the thought of his daughters started his heart racing. "Who is it?" his wife, Vicki, demanded. A distraught woman's voice came on the line. "Jack," began the caller, "can you help me with my sex life?"
Recognizing the voice, Hartnett calmed himself. The woman said her husband was impotent and she didn't know what to do. By now Hartnett knew what to say to reassure her; it was hardly the first time he'd received such a call. Another woman, Sharon, had called him to complain that she hardly saw Andy, her spouse, anymore. Andy worked 80 hours a week managing a fast-food drive-in restaurant. Sharon told Hartnett that Andy had brushed aside her concerns when she had pleaded with him to work less.
What Hartnett did to help such people was hardly extraordinary. It was nothing more, actually, than what any good friend might do. Except that Hartnett wasn't a good friend or even--by most definitions--a friend at all. He was their boss.
Hartnett, 46, is president of D.L. Rogers Corp., a company based in Bedford, Tex., whose primary business consists of owning 54 franchises of Sonic Corp., the drive-in restaurants that dot the South. At Sonic's eateries--which accounted for $44 million in revenues at D.L. Rogers last year--roller-skating carhops race out to serve customers, taking orders for malts through car windows. Every burger comes piled high with nostalgia.
Hartnett, too, seems like a throwback. At a time when management experts preach the importance of companywide learning and patty-flat hierarchies, Hartnett's personal management guru could be Frank Sinatra, whose signature phrase--"my way"--sums up his approach. Other bosses may boast of their skill at persuading workers to "buy in" to their vision; Hartnett instructs his to "do it the way we tell you to do it." He doesn't need to plaster up slogans or benchmark other businesses' practices to stay focused. "Some management theories are good, but how many people actually implement them the right way?" he says.
Not for him that academic mumbo jumbo. To be honest--and Hartnett promises he'll never be anything but--he's supremely confident that he knows how to elicit the best performance from his crew. Rare is the company builder who doesn't bemoan the looming presence of change and uncertainty; Hartnett indulges in no such bellyaching. He's perfectly comfortable claiming the authority that's rightfully his, using it to make the rules and mete out the punishments. So old-fashioned are his fundamental precepts that they stand out as wildly experimental in an environment in which most companies struggle to accept uncertainty, ambivalence, and ambiguity. In certain circles, he's a role model. "He sets a good example for a lot of franchisees and promotes a lot of straight talk," says Kenneth Keymer, Sonic's chief operating officer. "He's bigger than life in a number of ways."
By virtue of his crystal clarity, Hartnett offers his people a benefit few companies would even try to match: he creates a sensible and predictable world for them, eliminating the stress that confusion breeds. And based on any standard measures--such as per-store revenues, which, at about $837,000, are nearly 18% higher than the chain's average, and profits, which are soaring 25% above the norm--they reward him for it. That's not the only reason they stick around. He also pays them well, as much as 336% above the industry norm. Further, his involvement in their personal lives creates a bond that--no matter how else you characterize it--becomes hard to break. Hartnett plays golf with his managers and supervisors, sends them personally signed birthday cards, and drops by their homes to take them to dinner. If they've got marital problems or credit-card debt, he wants to know. "I get in the middle of your mess," he says. To help the woman who called him about her husband's sexual problem, Hartnett met with the couple in a motel room, where he prodded the fellow to confess to an affair and to beg for forgiveness.
Andy Rhue, the workaholic drive-in manager, didn't get off so easily. Sharon's conversation with Hartnett--whom she describes as "an attentive listener with great judgment"--inspired Hartnett to have a chat with Rhue, manager of a Sonic in Tyler, Tex. "I really chewed his rump out pretty good," Hartnett says. "I told him he needed to get his stuff straight because his wife had married him and not the drive-in." Rhue now puts in 65 hours a week. His relationship with his wife has improved so much, he says, that they are trying to adopt a child. Hartnett is a sponsor. "I don't want you to go to work unhappy, pissed off, upset, or mad about anything, because I don't think you can be totally focused on making money if you're worried about what's happening at home or at school with your kids," he says. "I wanna help you."
Of course, what he regards as helpful may not be what his managers and supervisors need. Kristin Anderson, a Minneapolis-based consultant who has studied similar businesses, fears that those who work for Hartnett may become too dependent on him for their own sense of self-worth, losing their individual identities. "He may be creating a cult of personality where he gains control through the guise of offering personal assistance," she says. But the scary part is how well it's working.
In an industry known for high turnover and rapid burnout, Hartnett's managers stay about 9 years, compared with an industry average of less than 2. The average tenure of a D.L. Rogers supervisor is an incredible 12.4 years, compared with the industry norm of about 3.5 years. As with nearly every aspect of management, Hartnett reduces his approach to the simplest of calculations. "Don't lose nobody if you can," he advises. "Work it out. Talk about it. It's too costly to start all over again with somebody new."
Last March, Hartnett was driving down the highway in his new Ford pickup truck, expounding to a visitor on his many hobbies. "I love hunting, working on my ranch, gambling, and having sex with my wife," roared the burly former high school fullback, who stands six feet tall and weighs 300 pounds. Suddenly, the car phone rang. Hartnett's mood, like his face, soon darkened.
