And Then My Two Worlds Collided

One reason I love spy stories is I’m so intrigued by how a spy fools people with his or her double life. Maybe that’s why comic book super hero stories are so much fun, too – because we like the idea that the boring dude in an office cubicle may actually be hiding a real identity of kick-ass-cloak-and-dagger spy guy.

 

And of course, in every great spy story, there’s a moment when the main character’s two worlds collide – when people in the regular life get a hint of, or become fully privy to, their friend’s true persona.

 

Now I’m no CIA agent, of course (and I haven’t killed anyone, either!), but when I was working this part-time job at Cracker Barrel, the one thing that got me through sucking up my pride was the knowledge that this wasn’t who I really was. I very much enjoyed showing up in the white shirt and khakis, donning an apron and scooting around a general store, tying yellow ribbons on rocking chairs and straightening shelves crammed with candles and candy and knickknacks. And the whole time, my coworkers, my customers … and even my managers … had no idea that my professional life was that of a seasoned journalist. It was the first time in my career that I didn’t have to think about a deadline, ferreting out hidden information or crafting copy. I was making money with little to no stress – until, that is, the week that I had to pull extra hours by unloading the contents of a truck into the stock room.

 

I had prepared myself that I’d be working longer hours to qualify for Cracker Barrel’s health insurance policy by my probation date. But I hadn’t prepared myself for the collision of my two worlds.

 

It all started with the morning after my manager had informed me that my schedule would be changing to meet the health insurance hourly goal ….

 

I was lining up interviews for a military publication with 3 million readers. The topic: Perils of the Wounded Warrior in the Workplace. The U.S. House Committee on Veterans Affairs had been holding hearings on a disconnect between businesses, the Department of Veterans Affairs and the veterans themselves.

 

I was frantically calling the press spokesman for the committee chairman, Rep. Jeff Miller, a Republican from Florida, plus the PR guys for other committee members. I also was interviewing proponents for the veterans, proponents for small businesses … and somebody in the White House was checking into whether they wanted to submit a statement on the issue.

 

 I simultaneously was working on two other articles – one for a trade magazine for Realtors in Florida, the other for a business college’s alumni publication.  The challenge was to complete these interviews AROUND the hours I would be unloading that truck into Cracker Barrel’s stock room.

 

You and I both know that this was a recipe for disaster, but at the time, I was so entirely focused on getting that health insurance, I’d convinced myself I could pull all of it off without a hitch. I knew there were certain days that I’d probably be needed at the Ole’ Country Store, so I stacked the interviews on Monday and Friday in the coming week.

 

Monday was also Halloween, so in the midst of interviews with the proponents for the veterans and the business organizations, I had to dress my child in his Sonic the Hedgehog costume and go hawking for candy that night.

 

As for Friday, I have to admit, looking back on that calendar entry today, I’m impressed with how I had it stacked up.

 

It looked this way:

9:15 a.m. – A Realtor interview

10 a.m. – Interview for a university’s alumni publication

12 p.m. – Representative Miller

1:30 p.m.—Representative Stutzman

2:45 p.m. – Representative Braley

 

(Normally with a blog like this, I wouldn’t include these names. But for veracity’s sake, I’ve decided to do that so that you’ll know I can’t possibly make this stuff up.)

 

I reasoned that on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, I could cram the Cracker Barrel hours … and then I would write my military story in the coming week.

 

Are you confused yet? Because I am. But at the time, it seemed completely logical and surmountable.

 

So that’s how everything looked on Sunday night, the night before that fateful week began, when I showed up for a night shift at Cracker Barrel. Normally I didn’t work Sunday evenings, but because of trying to give me the hours I needed for the health insurance, the manager had added it.

 

I clocked myself in, and before my shift began, I went into the stock room, where the employee schedules were posted on the wall, to mark down when I’d be working that coming week.

 

My stomach dropped as I saw my name correlating with the time slots ….

 

You guessed it. I was down for Friday.

 

In that one moment, I actually wrestled with what to do. What was more important? Completing interviews for a highly-visible magazine on a topic of national importance to thousands of military veterans? Or NOT alienating my manager at Cracker Barrel so that I would ensure the hours I needed for affordable health insurance?

 

I took a deep breath and made my decision.

 

I tapped quietly on my manager’s office door.  She looked up from her desk.

 

I smiled. She didn’t.

 

“Hey, I’m sorry to interrupt you and to bother you with this, but I have a scheduling conflict.”

She hesitated before saying, “I thought you said you needed extra hours to get your health insurance.”

 

There it was – the condescending, flippant comment I’d been dreading – but I pushed it aside.

 

“Yes, I know. And I do. The problem is that on Friday, I have scheduled a series of important magazine interviews for a story that’s due soon.”

 

She stared at me.

 

A good friend of mine has always told me, “The last person to speak loses.” And although I knew that concept well, I made a mistake.  When she didn’t answer, I kept talking.

 

“See, these interviews are with the Chairman of the U.S. House Committee on Veterans Affairs, plus two other congressmen.”

 

She still didn’t say anything. And like an idiot, I kept talking.

 

“And the White House is looking at submitting a statement, but I have to keep time open also for them, just in case they have someone available for me to interview, too.”

 

Her right eyebrow went up into her forehead, and she smirked.

 

Could I blame her? I mean, would I believe this story if I were in her shoes? It reminded me of a summer morning where I had an interview for a story on how to get a technology job with the CIA (yes, really, the CIA). The story was for a technology magazine. I’d told my child not to interrupt while I closed myself in a room for a conference call with three people. And of course, right in the middle of the interview, the doorbell rang, the dog started barking, and I could hear my child saying very loudly to the person, “I’M SORRY, I CANNOT INTERRUPT HER. SHE IS ON THE PHONE WITH THE CIA.”

 

Yes, that happened. And that UPS delivery driver who was at the door, from that time forward, always looked at me like I was either the world’s biggest snob or someone who needed to be locked up in a rubber room.

 

But I digress.

 

The manager rolled her eyes and huffed.

 

“Well, I’ll move the schedule around again,” she said. “But don’t forget that you’re the one who requested this. Can you be here for the extra hours on the other days? We’ll have to look at adding more hours to your schedule next week to make up for the ones you’ll be missing on Friday.”

 

I silently groaned but kept my cool.

 

“Yes, thank you. Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

She went back to what she was doing without looking back at me, and I felt like I was a 14-year-old who’d been accused of lying and who had just been dismissed from the principal’s office.

 

I went into the General Store and started straightening clothes and picking up strewn toys that had been cast about by customers.

 

“I just have to get through the next three weeks,” I told myself. “I will have affordable health insurance, and all of this pride sucking will be worth it. It will be worth it.”

 

But I wasn’t prepared for what was awaiting me the next morning – the day that everything started to unravel.

Barbie Doll Feet and the Beginning of My Demise

“She can’t expect you to do that!”

It was my mom, protesting on the phone.                                      

“She can.”

“Why in the world would she think you can do that?”

“She doesn’t know. Why would she know?”

“Well you need to tell her! Doesn’t she realize what you’ve been through?”

“No, Mom. No. She doesn’t.”

I sighed. In a moment of emotional neediness, I’d called my mom to talk about the proposal from the manager at Cracker Barrel. I needed to increase my work hours to 35 hours per week so that I could qualify for the company’s health insurance by my probation date.

When Mary Beth the HR girl told my manager to add hours to my schedule or I’d be moved to another part of the restaurant, the manager had a “solution.”

And it was nothing I ever expected.

Let’s dial back about 24 hours before the phone call to my mom … when my manager called me into her office in the storage room.

“Well,” she said, eyeing a calendar over her desk, “You need to add hours to the schedule. I don’t have enough to give you to work on the retail floor. But you can make them up by doing one thing. You’ll have to come in early, though.”

She looked at me, with one eyebrow raised. I’m sure she was ready for me to balk, but I answered, “Sure. I’ll make arrangements for my mom to take my child to the school bus stop so that I can be here early. I’ll do anything to qualify for the health insurance. What time do you need me here?”

“7 a.m.”

“Done. What do I need to do?”

She looked past her office door and smiled a Mona Lisa smile … one of those smiles where there’s a hint that what the person is about to say isn’t going to match what’s really going on inside their diabolical mind.

“You’ll help unload the morning truck. We will have a lot coming in now that we’re getting more into the Christmas season. I’ll need you to stock the shelves in the storage room.”

I gulped. The storage room, as you remember, was like the “Room of Requirement” in Harry Potter’s Hogwarts castle, crammed with every conceivable gadget, pancake mix, quilt and candle to deck the halls of every country-décor-loving American woman in a 100-mile radius.

But how hard could it be? I would just take the items in from this “truck” and put them on the shelves. And the shelves were already so crammed, it couldn’t be that much more to do.

Could it?

“Sure! Not a problem!” I said, summoning my sweetest Cracker-Barrel-country-fresh smile. “I’ll do it!”

And therein was the root of my mother’s objection.

See, what the manager didn’t know was that before I’d even filled out a job application, I’d endured three horrendous months of physical therapy on my feet and legs.

The basic problem … was that I have … for lack of a better description …. Barbie doll feet.

Any woman who has had a Barbie doll as a child or who has daughters with Barbie dolls will understand this. “Barbie doll feet” are shaped so that the doll literally stands on her tip-toes. They’re perfect for tiny plastic high-heeled shoes. And … pretty much … my feet have a similar shape. No, I don’t walk around on my toes all day, but the arch of my foot is so high that after about seven years as a regular runner, I was told that the bones in my feet would break unless I had physical therapy. I’ve been told more than once that there are women in Japan who wrap their feet in such a way to force their arches into the arches with which I was born.

By the time I started working at Cracker Barrel, I had regained strength in my legs to resume my gym workouts. But I was still wearing a certain type of shoe, along with expensive inserts that my podiatrist had designed with a computer program to give my feet as much support as possible. And I’d begged this doctor to sign off with her blessing for me to take a part-time retail job. She was dubious that I could stand for several hours at a time, but until this point, I’d pulled it off, albeit with a great deal of Ibuprofen at the end of my shifts.

And this was the root of my mother’s objection.

Fast forward back to that phone call ….

“Are you going to tell her about your feet?” she pressed.

“No. I’m not. I need these hours. Besides, I’ve been lifting weights!” I shot back.

“This is very unfair, what she’s doing to you. If she’d given you the hours in the first place, you wouldn’t be having to do this.”

“Well, fair or not, I need this health insurance. I’ll make it work. Besides …” I paused ... “what could possibly go wrong? I’m strong again. I can take a few things and put them on shelves for a few hours. No big deal. No. Big. Deal.”

Right.

That’s what I told myself.

Tune in for the next part of the story, “An 18-Wheeler and the Impossible Odds of Completing the Mission Impossible.”

Battle of the Steel Magnolias

Southern women are, by far, the toughest women on the planet. I’m not talking about Amazon warrior princesses. I’m talking about something far more lethal: the ability to tell someone to go to Hell in such a fashion that they actually look forward to the trip. It’s the skill of deftly disarming any antagonist with smile, grace, charisma and charm so that they gratefully accept a hug and then register shock when you plunge a knife into their spine.

That.

Do you get me?

The film, “Steel Magnolias” only scratches the ice berg tip of the resolve and tenor of these women. Cross a Steel Magnolia over something that is important to her – her child, her man, her safety, her livelihood – and just brace yourself for the fallout, because you’ve woken a sleeping viper.

As I’ve written earlier, I was brought up in the Northeast, but I’m the daughter, granddaughter and niece of a pack of Steel Magnolias. I learned by osmosis the manipulations. If you’ve been brought up by a Steel Magnolia, you’ll understand this: Your reactions to the attacks of others become kneejerk. You don’t even have to think about your response. It is swift and usually always accurate, unless you are dealing with a creature similar to yourself.

This is one reason why I was able during my career as a news reporter to disarm difficult interviewees. Because I spoke with a very “Yankee” accent, many people wrongly assumed that my non-verbal persona – that of a sweet, gullible, flaky woman – was open invitation for snowballing me.

What they didn’t realize, however, was that at the core, I’ve been trained to be a Steel Magnolia. I can’t even count the number of devious interviewees (mostly men, by the way) who handed me information on a silver platter, never expecting to see it in print.

Now the reason I tell you all of this is that the woman manager at the Cracker Barrel where I worked made the same mistake. She was the epitome of the Steel Magnolia, all country bluff and bluster and “Y’all-come-back-now” saccharine dripping with sugar-coated smiles. But because of my nasally-Northeastern-Philly-girl front, she assumed I didn’t see through it. And quite frankly, I was playing her in the same way that she was playing me, except she didn’t know it.

When it came to my attention that the Cracker Barrel store managers received bonuses based on the flow of the retail merchandise … and that she was withholding my work hours as leverage to get me to crank out more sales … I fully dove into a strategy.

If she wasn’t going to give me the hours I needed to qualify for the health insurance, I would simply go around her. Because you see, even though there are Steel Magnolias out there who are deviously self-serving, there are also Steel Magnolias who possess the same strengths but use them for good.

Mary Beth, the HR employee trainer on site, was one such woman. I liked her immensely. Just like one Steel Magnolia recognizes another’s deception inherently, the same goes for recognizing another Steel Magnolia’s genuine spirit. So when Monica suggested that I approach Mary Beth about the problem with my work hours, I felt a surge of hope that I could actually make this Mission Impossible … possible.

Mary Beth agreed to sit down with me in the employee break room about 30 minutes before my shift was to begin.

“So what’s going on? Do you still like working here?” she asked.

“I love being here,” I said. And it was the truth. “Everyone has been very kind, and I have no complaints. I am really excited about all of the Christmas decorations, too.” (Steel Magnolia Trick #1: Never come out of the gate with your concern immediately. Steer the conversation to pleasant things before the difficult.)

“Oh, I know, I know!” she gushed. “Just wait until you see the place fully decorated! The tree decorations all have themes, and you’ll love the old-fashioned toys. And people come here just to shop for the stockings; we have so much candy that they had when they were children. And when the fire is going and you’re smelling all of that home-cooked food, it’s just like Christmas.”

She sighed.

I sighed and beamed back at her. A fellow Buddy the Elf fan! A kindred spirit! I loved this girl!

Loved her!

“I do need to talk about something important. Is that okay?” (Steel Magnolia Trick #2: Ask for permission to discuss the matter at hand. It gives the person the mindset to hear you out.)

“Of course. How can I help?” (Take note if you’re from the Northeastern United States, because I don’t ever remember one person asking if they could ever help me. :-P)

I took a breath and dove straight into the deep end.

“Well, you remember that I took this job so that I could qualify for Cracker Barrel’s health insurance policy. I know that I have to average 24 hours of work per week to qualify. But here’s my question: My probation period is up the third week of November. Do I have to reach that 24-hour-per-week average by that day on the calendar? If I do, I’m afraid that my manager isn’t giving me enough hours to qualify.”

She thought for a moment. “I would like to call HR at headquarters quickly to find out.”

And right then and there, she picked up the phone and called Lebanon, Tennessee, where Cracker Barrel is based and talked to someone while I sat across the table. This girl wasn’t trying to hide anything and really wanted to help, I realized. But the one-sided conversation I overheard wasn’t giving me a good feeling. She hung up and looked at me sadly.

“How many hours total do you have now?”

I’d been keeping a log every week and gave her the number. She whipped out a calculator and punched in a few numbers and raised her head.

“It is correct that you have to average 24 hours a week by the end of your probation date to get the health insurance,” she said. My heart sank, and I groaned. “No, but wait! I have good news!” she said. “Your probation date is here.” She pointed at a calendar on the wall. “I just crunched the numbers. If we can give you 35 hours a week between now and then, you will reach your 24-hour-per-week average by your probation date.”

This was a blow. It was huge. How could I manage 35 hours a week at Cracker Barrel and keep up my main source of income, which was magazine freelance writing?

“What happens if I don’t reach the average by that date? How long would I have to wait until I can qualify?”

“If that occurs, then you would have to average 24 hours per week until the next calendar year, and at that point, you could qualify.”

I chewed my lower lip. I had exactly 3 ½ weeks left to get to this average. I decided that I had no choice. To accomplish the Mission Impossible, I would have to push some paying magazine assignments aside in order to work 35 hours a week at Cracker Barrel. If I could just do it for 3 ½ weeks, then I would have the health insurance locked in, and the sacrifice would be worth it. I would come out ahead in the end, even though in the short-term, it would be a financial setback.

“But here’s another question: Will my manager give me the hours? If she can’t, then I’ll have to quit this job.”

“Let’s make sure that won’t happen,” Mary Beth answered calmly. “I will go and talk to her. If she can’t promise 35 hours per week for the next 3 ½ weeks, we will find some other places where you can work in the store, like the hostess stand. You can do another job temporarily and get the 35 hours per week. Once your probation date comes up on the calendar, you can return to the General Store retail spot and then keep working like normal at 24 hours per week. Do you have objections to waitressing if we can’t get you on the hostess stand?”

“None, none at all. I’ll do whatever I have to do to get this health insurance,” I answered.

“Good. OK, well let me talk to your manager first. If she is willing to give you 35 hours per week for the next 3 ½ weeks, keep working in the General Store until your probation date ends. If she won’t, I will tell her we’ll move you to another part of the restaurant that can give you those 35 hours per week temporarily.”

Oh, this girl was an angel from God. I knew it was the right move to go to her! I felt hopeful and happy – genuine happiness. This Mission Impossible actually could be accomplished, but it would take a great deal of resolve and some more hits to my personal pride to turn down magazine assignments from my editors. But if I had affordable health insurance? It would be the best thing ever.

Ever.

“Thank you, thank you!” I said, and I reached across the table and shook her hand. “I would hug you, but it doesn’t seem appropriate!” I laughed. (Steel Magnolia Trick #3: Offer a hug, even when you can’t hug, to seal the deal.)

She laughed.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your health insurance. I will help.”

I left the break room elated. Despite the maneuverings of my Steel Magnolia manager, the Steel Magnolia HR girl was going to rescue me. I felt like this was a lock, and no matter what happened, I would accomplish the Mission Impossible.

I was sure of it.

Tune in for the next part of the story, “Barbie Doll Feet and the Beginning of My Demise.”

 

I Crack the Secret Code

In spy movies, there’s always a lynchpin secret that, if revealed in its entirety, floods everything with light and brings everything that was mysterious into complete focus. Usually the spy is sniffing around the edges of this secret and doesn’t have the full mosaic together until the story reaches a climax – and then the secret is revealed, and all makes sense, and suddenly … Game on.

This is how it was with my struggle with the UPT Secret Code.  I had a few key pieces of information that were adding up. Let’s review, because in returning to this tale after several months, everyone could use a refresher, anyway:

1. The UPT, or “Units Per Transaction,” measured how many items had sold per customer during a retail worker’s time on the sales floor. The ultimate goal was to achieve three items per customer.
2. My manager had made it clear that she would give me plenty of hours to work, as long as I improved upon my UPT. During my first employee review, she’d scored my efforts at 3 on a scale of 1 to 5, even though I was at the top average of Cracker Barrel retail workers in my Ole’ Country Store, sometimes selling 2.8 items per customer per hour.
3. The economy at the time was down, and sales in our store were down from the previous year. I’d already been advised by one of my co-workers, Monica, that achieving three UPTs per hour was a near impossibility and rarely happened.

That said, I was determined to keep my UPT high and push it even higher, even though I felt the performance review was unfair. The bottom line was, I needed to work enough hours to qualify for my health insurance policy, and that’s where I held my focus.

When the last week of October 2011 rolled around, I was pretty sure that everything was in the bag. That’s because we were entering the Christmas sale season.

Understand this: If anyone could sell cheap Christmas trinkets made in China – even on a July scorcher of a day when you can fry eggs on Macadam – it’s me.

I am all about Christmas. All you have to do is hum, “Deck the Halls,” and I’m dashing about like an elf. I have entire boxes of Christmas décor that replace all of my regular home trappings for the full month of December. I’ve baked every Christmas cookie known to man to place on the hearth for the Big Guy. I’ve thrown Narnian-themed Christmas parties featuring Turkish Delight off the plane from Ankara. I’ve whipped up “reindeer food” with my kid (oatmeal mixed with glitter, because, you know, it needs to sparkle in the moonlight so Rudolph can spy it in the clouds). And I’ve even decked my outdoors with suspended light-filled globes throughout tree branches for that ethereal magical atmosphere.

You say “Christmas,” and I say, “Can I get a ‘Glory-Hallelujah-in-the-Highest-Peace-to-all-Men Amen?’ Let’s make some egg nog ice cream!” (Have you tried it? It’s GREAT!)

So when it came to combining “Christmas” with Cracker Barrel’s Ole’ Country Store offerings, you can bet I was into this thing full throttle, with bells jingling all the way. And I knew, without one iota of a doubt, that my UPTs would skyrocket.

SKY ROCKET!

I was absolutely giddy when I showed up for my shift the week of Halloween. The witches’ hats and trick-or-treat candy bowls had been quietly shoved to a “clearance sale” corner of the store … and in their place … were Christmas trees and decorations galore!

Oh, this was going to be FUN! I was going to have the best time! Ever! Ever! Ever! I practically danced around the clothing wracks as I oohed and ahhed at the gilded Christmas glee: There was a corner devoted to angels. Another to music boxes and nutcrackers. Another to snowmen. Another to retro toys – everything from trains to sock monkeys.

But the most eye-catching spot in the place? The dolls.

I know, it sounds super creepy for someone my age to go ga-ga over dolls, but I have to hand it to Cracker Barrel: they knew how to win the hearts of little girls, moms, aunts and grandmas. These dolls, called “Butterflies,” each had their own costumes and accessories: There were cheerleaders, princesses, ballet dancers – even an equestrian! And of course, you can’t have a doll without a dollhouse … or a high chair … or a stroller … or a tea set. They even had names, like Elizabeth, Madison and Isabella. And they were cuddly, made of cloth and yarn, epitomizing that “country fresh” theme that ran throughout every Ole’ Country store. Let me put it this way: a mom of a boy runs into something like this in a store, and the result is that she wracks her brain to think of ANY girl in her life, just so that she can have an excuse to buy one of these things.

No surprise, I watched as each woman who entered the store went straight to that corner. Immediately. It was like someone had sprinkled fairy dust at the entrance. They’d wander over there, eyes wide, smiling like they’d just discovered a stash of chocolate from Switzerland. Except better.

Yeah, meeting this UPT thing was going to be NO PROBLEM. No problem at all. In fact, I was starting to get cocky as I arranged the dolls and showed off the little plastic accessories to any woman in the vicinity. It was almost too easy. These dolls were selling themselves! I was actually starting to feel guilty that I’d be able to qualify for the health insurance and keep working at a place where I legitimately enjoyed my coworkers, the customers and the products.

Here’s the thing: I really did like working at Cracker Barrel. Once I got past the hurdle of pride, once I had immersed myself in my surroundings, I actually had a good time. I liked having the break from my solitary lifestyle as a freelance journalist. I liked going “incognito” into a totally different work space and functioning in society as someone who was not chasing a story. It was refreshing. It was different. It was unique. And on days like this one, it was pretty fun.

But as soon as the fun began, it ended, just like fast-moving thunder-filled clouds on a beach day. I walked into the storage room, where the employee schedules were posted, to check out my hours for the coming week. My stomach dropped. I was supposed to be averaging 24 hours per week, and, once again, my manager had me down for only 15.

The storage room door opened, and in walked Monica.

“You don’t look happy,” she observed.

I sighed. “I’m getting worried. I’m only working here to get health insurance, but we’re supposed to be averaging 24 hours a week to qualify. She keeps putting me down for 10 or 15. I don’t know what to do.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Yes, during my employee evaluation last week.”

“And?”

“She said she’d give me the hours.  And then she brought up my UPT score. She said the UPT has to be high in exchange for the hours. But I told her during my job interview that the only reason I’m doing this is to get the health insurance. And like you told me earlier when you explained the UPT to me, I do have a high UPT average. I don’t get it,” I explained.

Monica was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed. As a reporter, I’m in tune with people’s non-verbal communication regularly, and while most people might think Monica was just sympathizing, I got the feeling that more was brewing in her thoughts.

“You’re not telling me something. What is it?”

She paused, looked away, and then looked straight at me.

“Do you know why the managers put such a high priority on UPTs? I mean, the real reason?”

Now we were getting to it.

“Tell me.”

“OK.”

She paused. I waited. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a reporter, it’s that you never get the truth out of people unless you shut your mouth and get comfortable with their silence. It’s only then that the words spill.

“There’s a bonus.”

“A bonus?”

“For the managers. They get bonuses.”

She got quiet again.

“OK. And?”

“And if their store is high in sales – if their employees have high UPT scores – the managers see more in their paychecks.”

I let this sink in. The reality was almost unfathomable. Someone was withholding work hours from me to get me to work harder and bring in more sales so that they could get more in their paycheck? Someone was holding my health insurance hostage so that they could see more money? Could anybody really be that greedy?

I took a deep breath. “I guess I can only do one thing.”

“What’s that?” Now Monica was curious.

“I’m going to see our HR girl, Mary Beth, the one who does the training and explained employee benefits to me. If the manager won’t give me the hours, I can appeal to someone else and explain that this is the only reason I’m working here. Maybe she can help. It’s the only thing I think I can do.”

She nodded.

“You know what? I think you’re right.”

I went back out into the store, which by now was bustling with Friday night customers. My manager was gone for the day already, so there was no way I could ask her about the hours. But I knew what I was going to do as soon as possible: see Mary Beth.

Mary Beth might very well be the key to my health insurance quandary, I thought. After all, she discussed her child’s MRSA and how the health insurance was so important during employee orientation. Mary Beth had to be my ace. It really was the only thing I could think to do.

Tune in for the next installment: “Battle of the Steel Magnolias.”

Resuming the Tale

After a (very!) long hiatus, I am back to finish this tale.

You may find it difficult to believe, but I was locked out of my account for several months. A few days ago, I finally remembered my password, and here we are again!

If you are new to this story, I'd suggest that you read it from the beginning, because one part builds on the other, and some things going forward won't make sense unless you do.

And to all of you who have been gracious enough to check this blog for updates (especially my regular mystery reader in Russia!), thank you for your interest and encouragement. I am able to see via a statistical program how many of you are checking and where you are in the world. It's been very rewarding to know that this blog is now read globally.

It has been two full years since the events of this blog occurred, and I will have to do my best to remember it all. But let me just say before we proceed that I have been through hell and back. Although Obamacare has successfully passed and has been implemented, I hope a day never comes where it is taken away. Without it, there would continue to be situations where people like me have to go to places like Cracker Barrel in a quest for affordable health insurance. I realized that by not finishing this story, I contribute to mis-information with my silence. My hope is that by finishing it, I will be one voice that persists to insist that affordable health insurance for all Americans is necessary and moral. I may be one person, but in our country, sometimes that's all it takes to keep a fire alight.

Keep checking back .... I will be writing the next entry today and will try to keep up with the blog daily until we've wrapped up the story.

Thank you again.

The Plight of the Waitress

The irony  at Cracker Barrel is that those who have the most contact with the customers are those who are the most invisible to them.

You otherwise know them as waitresses. Or is the politically correct term these days, "servers?" Anyway, the people who feed you.

Do you ever look these people in the face? Memorize the name on their apron? Ever wonder what their lives are like when they leave work? 

My guess is no.

That's why I'll share the plight of one waitress who I'll call Amy.

Now if you've ever been to Cracker Barrel, you already have conjured an image of your waitress: a perky, friendly, chatty soul with home-spun Southern niceties and maybe even a chirpy voice like Snow White for good measure.

But what I saw during my breaks in the small room behind the kitchen were tired, hardworking women.

Do you know that waitresses get $2.14 per hour?

So the next time you wonder how much you should tip, do a good deed and give the full 20 percent, or more if you're feeling extra generous. Their wages hinge on how many customers are seated at their tables. Can you imagine working an eight-hour shift and only seeing about $20 for it? Yes. That happens. And then they have to pay taxes on those tips, too.

The reason I share this tidbit with you is because I saw first-hand how the tips, or lack of them, affected Amy.

I'd just plopped into a chair in the break room and had torn open a protein bar.

Now, the waitresses don't get breaks. They snatch time on a chair when their customer level slows up. So you could be 8-months pregnant and still bust your tail in the dining room on a busy Friday night, with nothing much to eat until things slowed down a few hours later.

Amy was on one of those "breaks." And she was crying.

"Hey, what happened?" I asked.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be crying here. It's my 2-year-old. She's been really sick with vomiting since last night," Amy replied. "My mother just came back from the doctor with her, and he prescribed some medicine to help her stop vomiting. But I don't have the money to pay for it."

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out four $1 bills, crumpled and wet. I imagined that someone had casually flung them into condensation, formed by a glass of sweet tea.

"I was hoping that by now, I would have had enough tips and that my mother could come by and pick up my tip money and buy the medicine. But so far, this is all that I've earned."

"How much is the prescription?"

"It's $20."

I got up from my chair and went to my locker, opened it and got out my purse. My mother had just given me $20 to spend on something frivolous in the Cracker Barrel gift store. But in that moment, I could only think of one way it should be spent.

"Here's $20. Call your mother and get the baby the medicine," I said, forcing it into her hand.

She looked down and then suddenly grabbed me in a tight hug.

"I can't believe you'd do this. Thank you! Here. Let me give you my $4, and I'll get you the $16 when I have it."

I stared into her eyes. "Don't be silly. I'm a single mom, too. We all need a little help now and then. We're all in this together. Don't give it another thought. Keep the tips. You need them today."

She immediately got on her cell phone and dialed her mother. I got up from my chair and went back out to finish my shift. As I walked into the kitchen, I heard her saying, "You won't believe what just happened. I have the money for the pills."

I felt happy that I'd been there to help. But at the same time, I had this sense of intense sadness.

And I was furious, too.

What kind of world was this, where a 2-year-old girl couldn't stop vomiting, while her mother worked an eight-hour shift to collect enough table tips to pay for the pills to help her?

Amy wasn't to the point where she qualified for Cracker Barrel's health insurance, either.

I wondered if I'd ever reach that goal.

And, I wondered if anyone ever did.

Tune in for the next part of the story ....