Pacemakers and Negotiation

Tony

I first met Tony, our new VP, shortly after he joined the company. He’d already heard a lot of us software team leads complaining to each other constantly. If you've been with any company whose management doesn't understand software development, you know the perennial issues that frustrated us on a daily basis: old hardware; accumulated technical debt; overly aggressive, often arbitrary deadlines with far too little testing... the typical problems that non-technical management tends to be uninterested in addressing. Tony didn't claim to be unusually tech savvy, but he genuinely wanted to make things better. So he called a meeting to learn the details.

The Deluge

Talk about drinking from the proverbial fire hose! Imagine a dozen or so senior developers, exasperated from having shouted into a void for months and years, each venting their own litany of well-founded but perhaps not-so-politely-phrased accusations. Oh, and they're all directed at you, as the self-appointed representative of the leadership that’s been keeping them hamstrung. Tony listened, attentively at first. He asked a few questions. But he became increasingly uneasy, in part because none of us were buying the explanations he thought would justify management's decisions or at least placate us a bit. When enough of my more senior colleagues had voiced their frustrations that we'd exhausted what remained of Tony's patience, he interrupted and said, “You may not like our software, but it's the best product on the market!”

Oops?

Being young, inexperienced, critical of our faults, and a bit too unfiltered, I was a little surprised to hear myself say, just loud enough for the folks near me—including Tony—to hear: “Thank god we don’t make pacemakers.”

The resulting silence, as they say, was deafening, and a dozen or more pairs of eyes were laser-focused on me. Tony, astonished, probably thought he'd misheard. He asked, “I’m sorry, what?” So I thoughtlessly, instinctively, repeated myself: “Thank god we don’t make pacemakers.” I vaguely remember a few more seconds of silence before literally every tech lead in the room joined in agreement, all at the same time.

That could very well have been my last day, but Tony appreciated my candor. From that point on he knew he could always ask my opinion and get an honest answer. And the relationship was mutual: he encouraged me to come to him with whatever questions, ideas, or complaints arose. I learned I could count him for an unvarnished (though sometimes indirect) reply. I'd unwittingly made a staunch ally.

Don't Try This at Home

This was my very first job after grad school, at a company with about 100 employees. It was about a decade before the Internet was ubiquitous, so research often required a non-trivial effort. I stupidly neglected to learn what was considered reasonable compensation, with the result that I had no idea what I was worth with a master's degree in electrical engineering. I asked for (and got!) a ridiculously low salary.

During my first year I'd been promoted to team lead. I'd fixed several processes that were badly broken. I created and taught a “Lunch and Learn” program. And I'd earned a decent reputation across the company. I also rarely asked for anything. The only thing I can think of was a faster workstation, and that was after I tracked my time for a week and showed my manager that a full 30% of my working hours were spent waiting for code to compile.

The job itself was okay, and I liked most of my colleagues, but it really underused my education. It wasn’t terribly challenging, and most of the challenges weren’t technical ones. My low salary—lower than the teammate whose endless mistakes I constantly had to fix—was starting to irk me. I didn’t have a family to support, and I'd saved several months' worth of living expenses (which were minimal). I'd be fine, no matter what happened.

What Comfort Zone?

You'd never guess it today, but I was still terribly shy and introverted back then. So my situation presented an “opportunity for personal growth.” Yuck.

One Monday I met with my manager. I started our conversation by asking how he thought I'd been doing—we may have had an annual performance review, but feedback was minimal and we never had “career” conversations. He seemed to be taken a bit off guard, but he agreed that he was very happy with my work. I mentioned a few of my recent accomplishments and some of the extra responsibilities I'd taken on. He agreed that I often went “above and beyond,” and that I had never let him down. Then I told him that I felt I'd made a pretty bad mistake, which surprised him. I said I'd asked for far too little compensation when I joined, and I thought a $10,000 raise would bring me in line with the going rate.

His jaw made a few Ralph Kramden “homina homina” motions. For the first time I understood what a “deer in the headlights” stare was. I think he asked me, “Why?” I told him I'd learned some of my colleagues were earning even more than that, and that I thought I was more valuable to the company than several of them. I thought $10,000 was fair and reasonable.

“What if we split the difference?” I appreciated that, I said, but I'd already been paying for my mistake for an entire year. I wasn't asking for the raise to be retroactive, and I repeated that I thought it was a fair amount.

“I'm not sure your position is worth that much.” Even though they'd been paying higher salaries to folks who were more junior and objectively less productive.  “Um, okay, but I think I'm worth that much, so let's find a position that is. Unless you disagree, but then we have an entirely different problem.” He was very clear that that wasn't an issue. At least we were partly on the same page.

“Um, well, I’ll need to talk to Tony.” Remember Tony, our vice president? He and I still had a good working relationship. “Sure,” I said, “but I need an answer by Wednesday.” That was fine with him.

Priorities

Shortly before lunch on Wednesday I found my manager in his office again.  “How’d it go with Tony?” I asked. “Huh?”

Wow. Really? “Do you remember our conversation on Monday? You promised an answer today.” “Oh….” I could almost see the gears turning as he thought back two days. “Oh! Sorry, I haven't had time to talk with him yet.” What? I couldn't help but feel seriously insulted. I have no idea how I came up with my response, but I told him, uncomfortably, “Then I'll need to take Friday off.” Again, he'd clearly not expected that. “Um, okay…. Wait—we have a meeting with our client on Friday. We planned it months ago.” “I know; that's why I asked on Monday for an answer today.”

He took that exactly the way I thought he might. “Do you have another job lined up?” He couldn't possibly have anticipated my answer, mostly because I had no idea what it would be until I heard my own voice: “I don't think that's relevant.” “What? Why not?” “I’m not asking for a raise so I won’t leave; I’m asking because I think I'm worth it.” Time stopped for a moment before he asked, “Can I get back to you by the end of the day?” “Sure! That'd be great. Thanks!”

Here I was, a totally business-unsavvy kid, who happened to be one of the most productive engineers in the company, and I'd utterly outmaneuvered my manager while refusing to be anything other than agreeable and cooperative. I'm sure he didn't know what to make of it. Which was fine; it all felt like an accident to me, too.

Tony

Tony stopped by a few hours later and asked if we could chat in his office. “Of course!” He said he'd spoken with my manager, and he really had only one question: if he gave me the raise I'd asked for, would I stay with the company?  And as usual, I was absolutely honest with him. “Tony, I can't promise that I'll stay, no matter what the answer is. But I do know that, if I were planning to leave, I wouldn't be sitting here wasting your time.”

I got the $10,000, which was almost as valuable as the lessons I'd learned about negotiating. And I stayed for about another year. My second-to-last project was writing the coding standards posted on this blog, with permission, of course.

My Final Task

My desk phone rang while I was packing up on my last day. It was HR. I'd heard about employees being escorted out the door, but if that was the plan, they would've done it as soon as I gave notice. Was it last-minute paperwork? Some other problem? Nope. “Hi, Adam. I have a candidate in the lobby and I'd like you to interview him.” That wasn't at all unusual for me, but Do you know today's my last day? “Yes, I do.” “And you want me to interview him anyway? “Yes, if you don't mind.”

It felt wonderful to be leaving on such good terms.