On Fixing Problems
In the early days, Ernie had 14 or 15 stores and little margin for error. So he spent a lot of time in the field. When he visited a store in a Midwestern city that had been on the bottom for way too long, his first act wasn't to talk to the manager or read reports. Ernie already knew what both of those would tell him. Instead, he brought coffee and doughnuts for the crew and told the senior route manager that he'd be riding with him that morning, pretty much standard procedure for Mr. T.

When Ernie and the routeman returned a few hours later, Ernie took the manager across the street for burgers and cokes. He'd brought the guy in a few months earlier to get it back on track. But before the burgers arrived, the manager began giving Ernie his laundry list of everything wrong with the store: The old manager's crew was bad, The old manager didn't take care of service, The old manager let past dues slide. On and on. Ernie patiently chewed his burger, nodding now and then. When the man was finished, Ernie rose and tossed $5 on the counter to cover the meal (remember this was 30 years ago). The manager started to get up, too, but Ernie patted him on the shoulder and said in the way that only Ernie Talley could: "No, you stay here and finish your hamburger, and then just go on home. I think the routeman I rode with this morning has a better handle on things than you do. And it seems like he kinda wants to get 'em fixed a little faster, too."

Six weeks later the store was booming. That routeman, by the way, ended up owning stores of his own, most of his seed money coming from commission checks earned from renting Symphonic stereos and 21-inch Philco color televisions for Ernie Talley.

On People
It was New Orleans in 1970, and I had been working hard to turn around a store neglected almost from opening day. The previous parade of managers had only made things worse. I'd managed to assemble a good staff and we routinely worked long into the night, six and seven days a week, getting it righted.

Because I'd performed well in another store, Ernie knew what I could do and let me do it without interference, merely calling now and then to ask if I needed anything. About the time we hit 1,000 BOR and were topping 30% profit, I went into the hospital. The diagnosis in those pre-CAT scan and pre-HMO days was pneumonia and exhaustion - attributed to running too hard for too long on coffee, burgers, and cigarettes (the Atkins diet for rental dealers). I didn't worry about that, I was more concerned about Ernie's well-known attitude toward sick leave.

Like most Mr. T's managers then, I had high income but even higher overhead. When the doctors ordered 4-6 weeks of bedrest, I saw my future going up in smoke. I asked my assistant manager to hold the fort until I could get the strength to crawl back. He promised to carry on and report by phone every day (another Mr. T's employee who eventually became an owner).

After a week in the hospital, I was at home in my own bed one afternoon when when the doorbell rang. There stood Mr. T. A thousand things raced through my mind and all had something do with my job and my paycheck. But Ernie just sat down on the edge of the bed and chatted for awhile. Mostly, he talked about the value of good help, the numbers we'd been putting up, and how maybe I'd pushed the pedal too hard. I was too surprised to do anything but listen. After a few minutes, Ernie told me to get better and get back to work, and then he was up and headed to the door. As my wife was letting him out, Ernie turned to her and remarked, "Uh, you probably hadn't ought to worry about Bud's pay. I'll just have 'em mail the checks here until he gets back." Sure enough, I never missed a penny of pay, even receiving a full commission check for a month when I hadn't even seen the store. About six weeks later, I was up and around, and well enough to look for a brick wall to run through for Mr. T.