Extreme Managing

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Of course, that's also the same vacuum that most self-serving cult leaders aim to exploit. Not that Hartnett is leading his band of loyalists toward some intergalactic Eden. Still, some of his methods are scarily primitive, the kind that leave you thinking there must be a better way. Yet given the results he's getting, it's hard to make a compelling case for why Hartnett should be shopping for one.

Take, for instance, the crudely effective exercise he's devised to foster bonds among executives. Once each quarter Hartnett holds a "lock-in" meeting, whisking his supervisors off to an undisclosed locale for several days for a management conclave from which there is no escape. For the memorable 1996 Missouri lock-in, Hartnett had his supervisors awakened at their hotel at 3:30 a.m. He spirited all eight of them away in a van, blindfolding them and making them listen to music from Phantom of the Opera. "I would drive them through ditches to mess up their equilibrium," Hartnett says. At 5:30 a.m., he dropped them off in a national park, divided them into teams, and sent them on a three-hour scavenger hunt that ended with a sprint back to camp for extra points. Unbeknownst to Hartnett, one supervisor was afflicted with a heart condition and had to be dragged part of the way back. "I almost killed him," Hartnett says with a laugh.

The group slept in tents, nodding off to Hartnett's admonition that they all "stank" and could look forward to bathing in a nearby creek. Instead, the next morning he dispatched them to a beautiful lodge, where the grateful supervisors spent the next couple of days discussing budgets, future growth, and potential managers. "These things bring all of us together and build camaraderie and teamwork," supervisor Simons says. "If somebody has a problem, we're all willing to step in and help out. I don't think we'd do that if the only time we saw one another was across a boardroom table."

Of course, there are less traumatic ways to forge links. And Hartnett doesn't always go to such extremes--although he's the only one who knows what's in store. Two years ago Hartnett spent nearly $200,000 to take 254 managers, supervisors, and their families to Cancún, Mexico, for a four-day convention. Between volleyball matches, banquets, and lounging at the beach, they attended seminars on time management and marketing. One guest speaker addressed how to be a better spouse. "I got my money's worth and then some," Hartnett says. "People came away feeling totally appreciated and hyped. It was cool."

As if Hartnett didn't already assume enough roles in his employees' lives, he also acts as Minister of Fun. He'll pull such practical jokes as gluing a supervisor's shoes to the floor, an antic carried out at a store opening. "When you're a kid, it's easy to have fun," he reasons. "But when you get older, who's worried about you having fun? No one. But I am." He makes a similar vow about tough times. "I'm gonna be there when you mess up," he promises.

That kind of consistency is hard to find in anyone. It's even harder to dispense. Hartnett's operating style hinges on his ability to serve as the management equivalent of a 24-hour diner, always equipped to serve up just about any form of sustenance. "I know my dad sometimes wishes he could spend less time with work, but he doesn't want to let anybody down," notes Jason, his 20-year-old son.

In fact, Hartnett's impulse to do it all--"It's his deal," admits D.L. Rogers chairman Darrell Rogers--was fortified by his own experience of having to assume grown-up responsibilities at a young age. When his dad, a factory foreman, died at 60, he left his 26-year-old son with a long trail of debts. "I inherited my father's bills," Hartnett says. "I don't want my family to inherit mine." That's hardly a concern; he and Vicki own five cars, and they are building a 6,700-square-foot house on a 42-acre ranch south of Fort Worth. He's certainly banked away enough to take it easy on himself, at least indulging in a few restful days to repair a slipped disk or to heal burning blisters. But he can't do it. "I'm gonna be there for you," he says.

If that means logging two straight 100-hour weeks to get a new Sonic unit opened, as he did last March while training workers in Fayetteville, N.C., he'll make do with a paltry four hours of shut-eye. Or fewer. One night, a group of supervisors gave him a dose of his own medicine, waking him at 3:30 a.m. for a marathon poker session. "Come on, you guys," a bleary-eyed Hartnett pleaded. Though Hartnett didn't appreciate it at the time, their behavior showed just how much they consider him--a poor boy from Mexia, Tex.--to be one of them. But the late-night wakings also emphasize the appeal of a more decentralized brand of management; it's unsettling to see a business that revolves so much around one man's personality. D.L. Rogers would be in deep grease without him.

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