The Snarl Behind the Smile

You've seen it in spy movies countless times, I'm sure: There's always a character in the plot who pretends to be the spy's friend. This person supposedly offers good information. By the end of the tale, however, the spy has discovered betrayal and is embattled to achieve the mission in spite of the Judas.

Most people don't realize (most non-Southerner Americans, that is) that Southern women are the world's masters at this type of manipulation and deceit. I speak with a Northern accent, because I was raised in the Northeast. But my mother and her three sisters are dyed-in-the-wool (or should I say, dyed-in-the-crisp-cool-linen) Georgia peaches. 

As such, throughout my childhood, I learned by osmosis the genteel mannerisms that deflect ire, the smooth talk that oozes saccharine sarcasm and the wide-eyed expression of an ingenue that masks a cunning mind.

In short, the snarl behind the smile is imperceptible to those outside of the culture. And to those within, it can be detected, but only with careful observation and precise perception. 

Actually, if the CIA ever decided to recruit agents from among the student female population at Ole Miss, there's no telling what secrets might be obtained.

But I digress.

At Cracker Barrel, my manager was a woman who, unknown to many, was a master at the snarl behind the smile. And just like so many who have gone before her in my life, she had no idea that I was on to her. In cases like these, I allow my Yankee accent and mannerisms to take center stage, while I secretly watch Southerners think they're snowing me and play into it accordingly.

I'd just had my insightful chat with Monica about the UPTSQ1978555 Secret Code, when my manager advised me that it was time for my very first employee evaluation. 

This was what I was waiting for! I was actually very excited about the prospect, and especially to hear that my sales efforts were paying off, not only for the store but also for my future prospects as a regular employee! I arrived at the store expectantly and in great cheer.

The manager directed me to a table in the corner of Cracker Barrel's dining room, tucked near the fireplace, and with a smile, handed me an evaluation form. It was filled with lines of performance measures, with a 1 to 5 rating system. (One, being for poor performance, five, for excellent performance.)

She complimented me on my friendliness and how my eagerness had shortened the learning curve. And then she surprised me.

She gave me a 3 for personal appearance. I was taken aback, as I knew that I washed and ironed my Cracker Barrel uniform daily, making sure that creases were down the center of my pants, apron and even my shirt sleeves. I always had a coif or ponytail to keep my hair from my shoulders. And I knew for a fact that my makeup was properly applied, because throughout my life, people have always complimented my smooth and rosy complexion. I felt like the poster girl for the Cracker Barrel "country fresh" persona, but my manager didn't see it that way, obviously.

Next, she gave me a 3 for my willingness to speak to customers. I definitely took issue with that. To my knowledge, I was one of a very few people who made a concerted effort to stand at the front door to greet people. And if I missed someone, I walked around the store to say hello. No one entered the place without being welcomed, unless I happened to be picking up a sweatshirt from the floor. No one.

And then the biggest shocker of all: she gave me a 3 for my UPTSQ1978555 performance.

"You're doing a really good job," she said, smiling and snarling at the same time. "But keep working hard to bring up your UPTs."

I sat there with my jaw on my chest. What else did I have to do to get a 5, handstands and cartwheels? Juggle? I could always bring in my ventriloquist puppet, but ...

And then I made a decision. This was just a part-time job, after all. My regular job was writing, and I was a college-educated professional. This performance review was no reflection on my personal qualities. Maybe my manager had PMS when she filled out the sheet. At any rate, it didn't matter.

So I did what I do best and returned to her my snarl behind the smile.

"Oh, thank you so much!" I responded, smiling broadly. "I really enjoy working here. I like all of the people here, and I think it's a fun place to be."

She smirked a little at that, and like all Southern women, thought she was covering it up. "I'm so glad you do," she returned with a drippy honeydew voice. 

And then I pulled my punch, reverting to my journalistic tactics that I use when I'm interviewing a difficult source. 

"Just one thing," I said, as she began to rise from the table. She sat down, her face quizzical. 

"I've been averaging about 15 hours a week now, but I understand that I have to average 24 hours a week in order to qualify for health insurance. As this is the reason I took the job, I was wondering when you'll be able to add hours to the work week for me."

She stared at me. It was as if I'd just requested the key to the White House bedroom where the President sleeps. And then, she deftly covered her perplexity with an easy smile.

"Of course," she said. "I'll start doing that for you next week."

"Thank you," I smiled, beginning to stand up.

"Only just remember one thing," she interjected. 

I sat back down, realizing with a sinking feeling that now she was the one who was about to pull a punch.

"Make sure you keep working on your UPT performance. We need people on the floor who will move the items, and your UPT performance is central to how many hours I schedule you."

She smiled and stood.

I suddenly felt like I was playing chess with a sociopath. And I realized in that one brief moment that achieving the Mission Impossible to get affordable health insurance ... might actually be ... impossible.

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