The "UPTSQ1978555" Secret Code

Names of Cracker Barrel employees have been changed for their privacy and protection.




"Now we're going to learn about UPTs," Janice said matter-of-factly.


It was my second day of training in the Ole' Country Store at Cracker Barrel. I was still reeling a bit from the "crap on the floor" revelation of the day before. But I'd arrived for work with an earnest expectation that things weren't as bad as they'd seemed, and I'd do whatever it took to accomplish my mission of achieving affordable health insurance.


"What's a UPT?" I asked, wondering if that was some secret code for "Units of Peppermint Twists," or some other quaint country store ism.


"It tracks your Units Per Transaction," Janice replied, as if she was surprised I hadn't already cracked that mystery.


(I actually always had trouble remembering what the UPT really meant, and that acronym confused me to the day I walked out of Cracker Barrel for the last time. So in my mind's eye, I just referred to it from that day forward as "The UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code." It seemed  a little more secret-agent-y, anyway.)


Janice walked behind the register counter and retrieved a white notebook that was as heavy as a country ham and dramatically opened it to a page of row upon row of columns and numbers. She quickly punched a code into the register and showed me a mathematical formula.


Wow, I didn't know I was going to get to do math at this job, and as a full-time writer, you might as well have put a SQL code under my nose. But I perked up and tried to remember the sequence of steps through which Janice walked me.


Basically, I had to keep track of four things: 1) I had to know what our store sales had been at that precise hour of time one year ago that day, 2) I had to know what our store sales had been for the current hour of the current day, 3) I had to compare the percentage -- How much up or down were our sales from a year ago? and 4) I had to calculate the UPTSQ1978555.


The UPTSQ1978555, I was told, was the most important number.


It basically revealed how many items, on average, each customer had purchased. Every person who worked the store had to shoot for an average of 3 items per person/ or transaction.


As I looked at the table, I could see that most of the sales people averaged 1.8 items per transaction.


I can honestly tell you that in the entire 3 months that I worked at Cracker Barrel, I only achieved 3 items per transaction less than a handful of times. Usually, I'd hover around 2.8. But getting to the benchmark of 3 was next to impossible, unless you happened to get lucky with some little blue-haired lady who wanted to cover her Christmas tree with plastic gingerbread men made in China.


"Oh my," I bemoaned, looking at the column of last year's sales numbers compared to the daily averages. "Look how high we were last year compared to this year."


"That doesn't matter!" Janice quipped, suddenly transforming from her Mrs. Claus persona into someone who reminded me of a toll booth worker on the New Jersey Turnpike. "The ONLY number that you care about is the UPT ('SQ1978555,' I added silently to myself)."


"Why's that?"


"Because the economy is down. We'll never get to where we were this time last year. No one expects you to do that. The only number they care about is how many transactions you're making per customer," she explained.


It made sense, and it seemed like a fair measurement. We were supposed to haul out the UPTSQ1978555 notebook once an hour, so that we could see how we were faring regularly.


At the time, however, I didn't realize how much the UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code would affect my life at Cracker Barrel -- or how much it would potentially jeopardize my need to attain affordable health insurance.




Tune in for the next part of the Mission Impossible: Health Insurance tale.

Next Up in the Mission: I Meet My Handler

Names of Cracker Barrel employees have been changed for their privacy and protection.


I'd infiltrated the target.


But if you've seen the show "ALIAS" with Jennifer Garner, you know that every secret agent needs ... a handler -- someone to show them the ropes so that they can complete their mission successfully.


And I was about to meet  mine: a pleasant, affably kind soul named Janice.


If Mrs. Claus ever had a rival, Janice was it. She was what I like to call, "a chipmunk person." You know what I'm talking about? These people chatter endlessly, but not so much that you want to clobber them. Dimples punctuated the ends of Janice's half-moon smile, which never seemed to disappear. She was a home-spun charmer with bubbly effervescence.


You may not realize this, but Cracker Barrel employees are organized into a caste system. If you look at their aprons, you'll see they're wearing stars. People whose aprons say, "Rising Star" are in training. As you reach certain calendar benchmarks, you take tests about corporate culture and employee practices. And you earn a star.


Janice had four stars.


Pretty much, that meant in this little world, she reigned supreme. Her realm was the Cracker Barrel "ole country store," and Janice was definitely sovereign.


"The most important thing," she started to say before yelling, "GOOD MORNING! WELCOME TO CRACKER BARREL!" at two guests entering the store (customers were always referred to as "guests") ... "The most important thing is ALWAYS greet our guests. It doesn't matter if you're in the corner of the toy section. Everybody gets a greeting. EVERYBODY."


I nodded.


"Now you try."


"What?"


"Go over there and say hi."


She pointed to two women who were perusing Yankee Candles.


I did as I was told and got the cold shoulder.


"Good for you!" she said as if I had an IQ of 70. "Now anytime you see anyone in the store that you haven't greeted, make sure you go over to them like that."


The next few hours were nothing short of hilarious.


Most of the morning, we were on the front porch, tying golden ribbons on wooden rocking chairs crafted in Tennessee. And every time someone pulled up, we'd pause and wait for them to approach the front door before both of us yelling, "Good morning! Welcome to Cracker Barrel!"


I felt like I was in a Hee Haw episode.


"Do you see these blotches on the windows?" Janice asked, putting glass cleaner and a paper towel in my hands. "That's grease from the biscuits. We always need to keep those clean."


I nodded and sprayed and held the door for the "guests" who were coming and going, coming and going, all the while receiving a very loud greeting or thank-you-y'all-come-back-now farewell.


But the highlight of my morning was what I called "The Room of Requirement." Harry Potter fans will understand this. The Room of Requirement in the Hogwarts castle was a magical space that would provide the user with whatever he or she needed. Harry sometimes used it to stash things he wanted to hide. And when the room would open, it was stacked to the rafters with every imaginable toy, gadget, potion, flying contraption ... you name it.


Cracker Barrel had one, otherwise known as ... the storage room.


This place was packed with candy, stuffed animals, trinkets, talking toys, quilts, pillows, candles, coffee, pancake mix, sodas, nuts, baby clothes, women's clothes, University of Kentucky apparel, clocks, wall hangings and even Christmas ornaments. Stacks and stacks of inventory were so high up into the ceiling that you needed a ladder to reach half of it.


I stared open-mouthed.


"Now I'm going to show you how to stock the candy shelves!" Janice said with a silver-bell giggle. She had me fetch the ladder and then pull down Rubbermaid tubs filled with enough sugar for at least 500 children. I followed her back into the store, my arms filled with candy.


"See?" she pointed to a metal circular "tree," where bags of old fashioned candy hung. "Now you fill this up."


"But it's already filled," I said, truly not understanding where she wanted me to find space for what I was carrying.


"No, it's not." She pushed some of the bags inward so that there was a little space left at the end of each tree arm. "We want the store to be full, plus 20 percent."


"Plus 20 percent?"


"Right. It has to be so full that you can't put anything else out, and then 20 percent more on top of that."


I stared, trying to get my brain around this logic.


"OK."


What else could I do but agree with her? She was clearly serious. And she was a four-star employee. So for the next several minutes, I tried to find every one-quarter-inch open space on that packed candy tree to stuff more into it.


"You're done now!" Janice said, appearing out of vapor and jarring me out of my determination to hang one more bag of Circus Peanuts. "Now we're going to clean the restroom."


Suddenly, she had my full and complete attention.


"We're .... wait. What did you say?"


"We have to clean the restroom. We do this once every 30 minutes." She shoved a small broom in my hands and cleaning solution. We walked into the restroom, where the trash receptacles were overflowing with paper towels, some of which were on the floor. Janice started picking everything up and directed me to wipe down the sinks and squirt the mirrors.


Then came the big surprise.


"Now you need to check all the toilets, to make sure there's nothing in them and that there is plenty of toilet paper." She pulled out a small key and opened each toilet paper holder, showing me how to re-fill it. Then she squirted cleaning solution on each toilet seat.


I cleared my throat.


"Can I ask something?"


Janice looked up from one of the porcelain thrones.


"What happens if you come in here and there's, um, a really big mess? Like ... period blood?"


She didn't miss a beat.


"Flush the toilet."


"Yeah, but, I don't exactly relish the idea of cleaning the toilet seat of blood."


"Use rubber gloves. And sometimes, you will come in here and find they've done some bad things."


They've done some bad things????


I couldn't imagine anything worse, and I didn't want to imagine it, but I charged ahead and asked.


"What could be worse than period blood?"


"Crap on the floor."


"Crap on the floor?" I repeated the words to make sure I'd heard her correctly.


"Crap on the floor. And in that case, I won't clean it up. Just ask for a manager," Janice said frankly.


I can honestly tell you that in that one moment, I almost ran screaming out of Cracker Barrel, health insurance or no health insurance.


But then I weighed the options. If most of the job was tying ribbons on rocking chairs, stocking candy, saying hi to people and straightening toys and clothes, I could do this. And if I hit a bad restroom, I would deal with it then. Until then, I had to do what was best for me and my child. I was going to complete this Mission, even if I had to deal with period blood on the toilet seats.


"Don't worry," Janice said, observing my obvious trepidation. "Most of our guests don't do that."


She breezed by me, and I took a deep breath.


Maybe this wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.




Tune in for the next part of the story ... Mission Impossible: Health Insurance.

Step Two in the Mission: Boots On the Ground

(Names have been changed to protect the employees who work at Cracker Barrel.)


When I lived near Fort Bragg, NC, there was a common saying: Boots on the Ground. What it basically meant was that the 82nd Airborne Division (guys who parachute into enemy territory and who wear these heavy black boots) were on their mission.


So as I pulled into the Cracker Barrel parking lot on Labor Day (ironic, isn't it?), I was a bit giddy. I'd accomplished what I thought was impossible -- getting a part-time job despite all of the hurdles, knowing it would lead to affordable health insurance.


 Boots were on the ground. I was ready for anything.


Or so I thought.


I'd already had to find clothes to fit the mission. Cracker Barrel had a strict dress code. Chino pants could be khaki, navy, brown or black. But if they had belt loops, a belt was required. I found Land's End pants on sale for $11, but the belt cost $40. 


Waitresses wore white button-down shirts, but because I was a retail worker, I had a choice to wear white, pink, yellow or blue. However, if the buttons weren't on the collars, it didn't count. I plunked down $50 for two shirts from L.L. Bean.


My hair had to be off of my shoulders, so I spent a long time in the Dollar Store, figuring out what contraptions would keep my tresses from falling. That was another $15.


And everyone was required to wear skid-proof shoes. That one puzzled me, but I figured I'd find out why soon enough. I had special shoes to support my feet and legs and hoped they would suffice.


As I ironed my new ensemble, I thought about people who were doing this full-time. Before you could even start, you had to pay for clothes. How did anyone do it on a minimum-wage income?


I checked my hair in my rear-view mirror, sucked in my breath and plunged into the Cracker Barrel for my orientation. Five other women stood in a clump. We were all waiting for our trainer, Mary Beth. She breezed into the store with a smile, and I knew immediately I would like her. There was only one word for Mary Beth: winsome. She was one of those people who instantly put you at ease, a typical Southern woman who had an elfin laugh and spoke languidly. The epitome of gentleness. 


"OK!" she chirped. "Let's all walk back to the training room."


Oh, I was already excited, let me tell you. This was going to be a fun job! The anticipation was building!


We followed behind her like chicks, through the store, into the dining room and back into the area that no one in the public ever sees -- the kitchen. 


My shoes slipped on the floor surface as if I was on the Rockefeller Plaza ice rink.  Falling would be disastrous, because surrounding me were waitresses, balancing giant trays stacked with steaming food. A manager stood at the cooks' window and barked. 


"Where's that turkey? And I need a bowl of pinto beans!"


Computer screens lined the top of the window, each filled with electronic tickets of the orders. Cooks stood in a line on the other side, hardly speaking as they robotically conjured one meal after another. 


But I didn't have time to fully absorb this Orwellian scene. We were moving forward, and fast! I had to concentrate to keep my balance. What was on this floor, anyway, butter?


We turned a corner and hit a small back entryway filled with garbage cans, all chocked with mounds of uneaten food. I immediately felt nauseous and averted my eyes to keep from gagging. The floor was covered in water, and a hose was on the wall. I presumed it was there to wash away spills from the food dumps. 


Right next to the garbage was a small room, with a thin counter against the wall. Dirty dishes, some with half-eaten food, and lipstick-rimmed coffee cups filled it. To the right was a stack of small lockers.  Straight ahead, about four pegs on the wall.


Mary Beth opened a door and directed us into her office, where there were two computers for employee training and a small table.


We sat there for the next 4 1/2 hours, going through orientation. At the end, Mary Beth handed out green booklets that described .... health benefits. This is the part for which I was waiting. She looked at me.


"This is what you're here for, right?" she smiled. I nodded. She went through the explanation of how people needed 24 hours per week to get benefits. At the end of the first three months of employment, every employee had to average 24 hours per week. I hungrily took in the information and made copious notes in the margins as she talked. This was going to solve everything!


Mary Beth talked about how the health insurance had helped when her child became ill with the "MRSA" bacteria. Her family was covered because of Cracker Barrel, and the hospitalization costs would have been enormous, otherwise, she said.


I nodded in agreement. Finally, finally, I'd found a place where, if I put in a hard day's work, I would be paid -- not with a hefty check, but something much more important: affordable health insurance. I would work at Cracker Barrel for free to get the insurance, I thought to myself. In fact, at $8 per hour, I pretty much felt that's what I'd be doing, anyway.


But then I got the first hint that things were not what they seemed. Mary Beth announced that we'd go into the dining room, where we'd get to sample different Cracker Barrel dishes. As we exited her office, we all sort of stopped collectively and looked at the dirty dishes on the wall shelf.


"Um," I cleared my throat, "By the way, where is the break room?"


Mary Beth looked over her shoulder as she made her way through the garbage cans.


"I know, it's a mess, isn't it! That's the break room. People just need to learn to clean up after themselves."


I stared at the garbage, both in the cans and on the shelf. I looked at the pegs on the wall. Obviously, those were for coats. I looked at the lockers. Obviously, those were for personal belongings. And then I saw a small dorm-room-sized refrigerator, half of it hanging off of the shelf. "Is that where we put our lunches?" I asked.


Mary Beth followed my gaze.


"Yes, but you can order food here. You get 50 percent off! Isn't that great?"


It sounded great ... but something was amiss.


At the time, I had absolutely no idea what was in store.


Tune in for the next part of the tale about my Mission Impossible.

Step One in the Mission: I Make Initial Contact

Today.


Snuggling with my dog next to the Christmas tree, I'm waiting on results of expensive lab work for inexplicable excruciating abdominal pain. After suffering with it for three weeks, I finally caved yesterday and headed to my doctor. But I was in for a surprise once I hit the pharmacy to pick up pain pills: My insurance company, the one that gets $503 per month to cover me, refused to pay for the prescription. I was left with the choice of paying $120 for the pills ... or grabbing a generic for $28.99 that's a little less potent. You, of course, know I did the latter.


It's a smack in the face, given that I am maintaining my policy, and given my dashed hope that by now, I would have insurance coverage from my former part-time job at Cracker Barrel.


But I'm getting ahead of the tale.


Let's dial back, shall we?




August, one week before Labor Day.


I cleared all of the hurdles. I figured out babysitting options. I cleared my calendar and crafted a schedule to fit in part-time work. I even beat the odds physically, subjecting myself to three months of physical therapy and getting the green light from two physicians that I could stand on my feet. And lastly, I conquered my pride.


So on this hot summer day, one week before Labor Day, I'm in my little VW convertible with no air conditioning, zipping down central Kentucky winding roads, with my eye on my mission:


To get a part-time job at Cracker Barrel.


I'm nervous. I haven't applied for a job like this since I was a college student. But I swallow hard and walk into the general store. Immediately, I feel good about my decision. If I'm going to have to work part-time, at least I've chosen a beautiful place. The store is packed with every conceivable gadget, clothing item, pancake mix ... even nostalgic candy from the 1940s. This is a perfect environment for me and the part of my soul that embraces country-quaint decor.


I take a deep breath and walk over to a 20-something girl with thick black curls who is stocking candy shelves.


"Hi," I smile. She smiles back.


"I want to apply for a job. With whom do I need to speak for that?"


Her expression transforms from bright expectancy to shock. I guess that already, I'm a fish out of water here. "Hang on, I'll get a manager," she says, disappearing into the dining room.


I find myself filling out an application, and I discover quickly this is no easy task psychologically. I list all of the jobs I've had at newspapers and with the AP wire service. My references are fellow writers and editors. What will they say if someone calls them, explaining that I'm actually wanting to work at Cracker Barrel?


But I push that pride aside and keep going. When I hand the finished product to the manager, he stands looking at it slack-jawed. I explain my full-time work and how I'd need to do a schedule around my magazine interviews. "Well, I need hostesses that can work 40 hours a week," he says. "But the retail manager for the store can use a part-timer. Hang on."


A few minutes later, I'm sitting with the retail manager, who I instantly like. She has a Kentucky drawl, an easy smile, a nice laugh. She asks me questions like,"Are you okay with talking to strangers? Do you like to wrap gifts?"


I can't believe how easy this is and how easy the job sounds!


Then we get to the heart of why I'm here.


"How much were you thinking you wanted to make per hour?" she asks.


To which I honestly reply, "I don't care if it's just minimum wage. All I want is to be able to qualify for Cracker Barrel's health insurance plan."


She stares at me.


"OK, let me find out how many hours per week you need in order to do that."


She disappears into the kitchen and comes out a few minutes later, beaming.


"They tell me you just need 24 hours per week."


24 hours. That's more than the 15 that my uncle conveyed to me. But could I swing 24? I did some quick math in my head and decided that yes, I would make it happen.


"That's great," I reply. "As long as I can get the hours to get the health insurance, I'd love to work here."


"Congratulations," she says. "You're hired. Orientation is in one week, so that'll be your start date. And I'll pay you $8 per hour."


I raced home filled with so much glee that I forget one important saying: "If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is."


Life was about to get very interesting.




Tune in for the next part of the tale, "Mission Impossible: Health Insurance."

The Last Hurdle Before Launching the Mission Impossible

This week.

My gym.


I'm on the elliptical, chugging water and fixing my eyes on the mounted-wall television, when I hear them.


Two other women, about 10 years my senior, are having a very intense discussion on the nearby bicycles.


"Where does she work?" one asks the other.


"She's at a department store, and let me tell you, she's getting her lesson on dealing with the public," the other answers.


"Ohhhhhhhh," groans the first. "Well, when you're making your way through college, it's good to have a menial job so that you can appreciate what's ahead after you get your degree."


"Yes," the second agrees. "And it also helps her to understand how she should treat people."


"I had a job like that once, years ago," the first says. "And I remembered it the other day, shopping at Penney's. I saw this customer treat the girl at the register like she was a dog. After she left, I said to her, 'I will not treat you like that.'"


"Well, at least you don't have to work a job like that anymore!" the second woman laughs.


"I know. When you have a job interacting with the public like that, you have to swallow a lot of pride."


I swig another mouthful of water and scowl. If they only knew. If they only knew that a few feet from them, someone was listening who had just given up a job like they were describing, because she couldn't get the promised health insurance from that employer.


If they only knew that I'd had to do exactly what they'd described -- swallow my pride -- as my last hurdle before launching my Mission Impossible.


Pride.


Pride was the only thing standing between me and my mission three months earlier.


I'd done my due diligence. I gathered all the facts about the company where I would apply for my part-time job. I figured out babysitting arrangements. I alerted my editors that I'd be throwing in an extra job duty to try to get health insurance, and that I might have to cut back on some work for them. I'd painstakingly put together my schedule like a complicated jigsaw, stealthily plotting where I would do magazine interviews, where I would write ... where I would fit in enough hours for a part-time job. It wouldn't be easy, but I was determined to do it.


All of these things had been calculated like an elegant algorithm.


But I had one more hurdle to clear.


My pride.


I'd worked in college at jobs like this. In particular, the summer before my senior year, I did my duty in an infant department at the D&L Department store in Manchester, Connecticut. When my 8-hour shift was over there, I'd race home, grab a bite to eat, change my clothes ... and head to the local cineplex, where I shoveled popcorn on a slippery buttered floor. I did that for the next 5 hours, until 11 p.m. On weekends, I was there until 1 a.m.


On my one day "off," I did an internship at the local newspaper, writing obituaries and tagging after reporters to observe them at work on their assignments.


That summer, I worked 7 days a week, with one day off -- the 4th of July. I earned $3,000, a small fortune in 1986. But I never wrestled with the issue of pride. I always knew this was a temporary gig and at the end of the senior year, I'd have a degree. I'd get a professional job, and I'd never have to do any of that again.


Until now, 25 years later.


I was a single mom with a special needs child and had no end in sight to the escalating health care costs. I was barely making ends meet after the premium gouged my checking account every month for the only policy I could get. It would be worth it if I took refuge under the blanket of a corporation that could provide this for me at an affordable price.


But I had to face my pride. Other women my age weren't doing what I was planning to do. Most of my friends were married to successful men and were stay-at-home moms, their only concern, homeschooling.


No. I was in this alone, and it was up to me alone to find a solution to this problem.


I didn't like having to swallow my pride. But I decided that if it was a choice between my pride and affording quality of life ... the pride would have to go.


So two days after I had the discussion with my uncle about Cracker Barrel, I put on one of my best outfits and jewelry, dyed my roots, made up my face like a princess and jumped behind the wheel in my quest for a part-time job.


And I left my pride in the dust.


That's when things started to get really interesting.


Tune in for the next part of Mission Impossible: Health Insurance ...