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My employer, a small regional bank, implemented a "managerial productivity" training program. As supervisor of marketing, I was involuntarily signed up by my manager and thus joined around a dozen other young bottom-rung department heads. "It'll do you some good, and it's always nice to see these on a person's record when evaluating promotions." Six weeks wasn't so bad, though; it was unpaid, something set up between Human Resources and the Chamber of Commerce, but a raise in the future is worth three hours every Thursday for six weeks.

I often had lunch with Jane, one of the new actuaries, so when I saw she had been conscripted into becoming a productive manager I sat down next to her. Jane started working for the bank at the same time as me. We met during employee orientation, and I clicked with the freckled redhead immediately. Besides Jane, I wasn't familiar with most of the behind-the-scenes supervisors, other than a few loan officers who I knew only over the phone. At our first break, after learning about how to listen proactively, Jane struck up a conversation with the well-manicured, heavily made-up blonde next to her. Karen was the manager of the Davenport branch, around forty miles to the north. Being the only one from her branch, and the only non-home-office employee, her complaint was the long drive. Class began at 7:00, giving enough time for us locals to have dinner, and ran until 10:00. With a forty mile drive every Thursday, Karen was forced to eat on the road and had rented a hotel room for the night rather than risking a late-night drive after a long work-day. "You can stay with me next ...

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