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.