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."