Every secret agent gathers intelligence before heading into a Mission Impossible.
And I, in my quest for affordable health insurance, was no exception. My doctors had finally given me the green light that my legs and feet could stand for hours. So I scoured the Internet for potential companies that would give me a part-time gig and health coverage.
Around this time, my uncle came to town.
And this is the type of uncle who knows business. He freely dispenses inside-track money-making strategies of millionaires like a drunk KGB Cold War mole downing Stolichnaya 80 proof Vodka while chomping on pickled cucumbers and air-dried fish in the shadowy recesses of a Moscow dive.
Except in this case, the needed information was delivered over Asian plum wine and spicy tuna sushi in a bourgeois Japanese restaurant stuck in the Kentucky Bluegrass, not in guttural Russian-rich tones but in a smooth Southern drawl.
But I digress.
"How's business?" my uncle asked as I stabbed chopsticks into a hunk of raw fish.
"It's down. And my health insurance costs are killing me. But I've been working hard on getting my legs strong enough so that I can take a part-time job at a place that will give me a cheaper option."
He mulled that while taking a sip of fruity-sweet wine.
"I have a friend."
That's the magic phrase for any intelligence-gathering mission, because when people start talking about who they know and what their friends know, you can pretty much bet it's a golden nugget of information. I waited expectantly for him to continue.
"This friend has a wife who recently took a job at Cracker Barrel."
I almost spit my sushi on the grill where the chef was dramatically flipping a shrimp in the air.
"Cracker Barrel," I repeated.
"Cracker Barrel," said he, raising one eyebrow.
"And they gave her health insurance?"
"Oh, yeah. For 15 hours a week."
"What?"
These were pearls, here!
"Yes. 15 hours a week. All she does is wander around that store, saying hi to people, wrapping presents, putting ribbons on rocking chairs, for 15 hours a week. And she gets stock options and health benefits."
The chef lit up one of those obnoxious "volcanoes" made from a stack of onions and nearly singed off my eyebrows, but I wasn't paying attention. This was the information I needed.
"And how does she feel about working there?"
"She loves it! Absolutely loves it! She gets discounts when she shops. She likes the old people who shop. All of her friends come in and shop. She gets out of the house. She socializes. She gets to listen to country music. She gets to eat Cracker Barrel food. It's great."
As if to punctuate how great it was, he forked a piece of filet mignon and nodded knowingly.
Cracker Barrel.
I hadn't even thought of Cracker Barrel. All this time I was looking at serving coffee through a drive-through. But Cracker Barrel really was an option. I liked all of the little home-spun gifts. I liked the "Y'all-come-back-now" atmosphere. I liked the food. I liked the Southern charm. I liked the candles, the rockers, the checkers on the front porch ... and I even liked the corny folksy way they greeted you when you came through the front door.
Plus, there was a Cracker Barrel across the street from the Japanese restaurant, sitting up on a hill under the setting sun. I could hear the angelic, "Laaaaaa!" as I hopped into my VW bug convertible like a chorus out of a Monty Python movie.
Cracker Barrel.
I could accomplish the Mission Impossible there!
But there was one more thing standing in my way before I took the plunge and applied for a job.
Tune in for the next part of the story.
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