The Plight of the Waitress

The irony  at Cracker Barrel is that those who have the most contact with the customers are those who are the most invisible to them.

You otherwise know them as waitresses. Or is the politically correct term these days, "servers?" Anyway, the people who feed you.

Do you ever look these people in the face? Memorize the name on their apron? Ever wonder what their lives are like when they leave work? 

My guess is no.

That's why I'll share the plight of one waitress who I'll call Amy.

Now if you've ever been to Cracker Barrel, you already have conjured an image of your waitress: a perky, friendly, chatty soul with home-spun Southern niceties and maybe even a chirpy voice like Snow White for good measure.

But what I saw during my breaks in the small room behind the kitchen were tired, hardworking women.

Do you know that waitresses get $2.14 per hour?

So the next time you wonder how much you should tip, do a good deed and give the full 20 percent, or more if you're feeling extra generous. Their wages hinge on how many customers are seated at their tables. Can you imagine working an eight-hour shift and only seeing about $20 for it? Yes. That happens. And then they have to pay taxes on those tips, too.

The reason I share this tidbit with you is because I saw first-hand how the tips, or lack of them, affected Amy.

I'd just plopped into a chair in the break room and had torn open a protein bar.

Now, the waitresses don't get breaks. They snatch time on a chair when their customer level slows up. So you could be 8-months pregnant and still bust your tail in the dining room on a busy Friday night, with nothing much to eat until things slowed down a few hours later.

Amy was on one of those "breaks." And she was crying.

"Hey, what happened?" I asked.

She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be crying here. It's my 2-year-old. She's been really sick with vomiting since last night," Amy replied. "My mother just came back from the doctor with her, and he prescribed some medicine to help her stop vomiting. But I don't have the money to pay for it."

She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out four $1 bills, crumpled and wet. I imagined that someone had casually flung them into condensation, formed by a glass of sweet tea.

"I was hoping that by now, I would have had enough tips and that my mother could come by and pick up my tip money and buy the medicine. But so far, this is all that I've earned."

"How much is the prescription?"

"It's $20."

I got up from my chair and went to my locker, opened it and got out my purse. My mother had just given me $20 to spend on something frivolous in the Cracker Barrel gift store. But in that moment, I could only think of one way it should be spent.

"Here's $20. Call your mother and get the baby the medicine," I said, forcing it into her hand.

She looked down and then suddenly grabbed me in a tight hug.

"I can't believe you'd do this. Thank you! Here. Let me give you my $4, and I'll get you the $16 when I have it."

I stared into her eyes. "Don't be silly. I'm a single mom, too. We all need a little help now and then. We're all in this together. Don't give it another thought. Keep the tips. You need them today."

She immediately got on her cell phone and dialed her mother. I got up from my chair and went back out to finish my shift. As I walked into the kitchen, I heard her saying, "You won't believe what just happened. I have the money for the pills."

I felt happy that I'd been there to help. But at the same time, I had this sense of intense sadness.

And I was furious, too.

What kind of world was this, where a 2-year-old girl couldn't stop vomiting, while her mother worked an eight-hour shift to collect enough table tips to pay for the pills to help her?

Amy wasn't to the point where she qualified for Cracker Barrel's health insurance, either.

I wondered if I'd ever reach that goal.

And, I wondered if anyone ever did.

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