In spy movies, there’s always a lynchpin secret that, if
revealed in its entirety, floods everything with light and brings everything
that was mysterious into complete focus. Usually the spy is sniffing around the
edges of this secret and doesn’t have the full mosaic together until the story
reaches a climax – and then the secret is revealed, and all makes sense, and
suddenly … Game on.
This is how it was with my struggle with the UPT Secret
Code. I had a few key pieces of
information that were adding up. Let’s review, because in returning to this
tale after several months, everyone could use a refresher, anyway:
- The UPT, or “Units Per
Transaction,” measured how many items had sold per customer during a
retail worker’s time on the sales floor. The ultimate goal was to achieve
three items per customer.
- My manager had made it clear
that she would give me plenty of hours to work, as long as I improved upon
my UPT. During my first employee review, she’d scored my efforts at 3 on a
scale of 1 to 5, even though I was at the top average of Cracker Barrel
retail workers in my Ole’ Country Store, sometimes selling 2.8 items per
customer per hour.
- The economy at the time was
down, and sales in our store were down from the previous year. I’d already
been advised by one of my co-workers, Monica, that achieving three UPTs per
hour was a near impossibility and rarely happened.
That said, I was determined to keep my UPT high and push it
even higher, even though I felt the performance review was unfair. The bottom
line was, I needed to work enough hours to qualify for my health insurance
policy, and that’s where I held my focus.
When the last week of October 2011 rolled around, I was
pretty sure that everything was in the bag. That’s because we were entering the
Christmas sale season.
Understand this: If anyone could sell cheap Christmas
trinkets made in China – even on a July scorcher of a day when you can fry eggs
on Macadam – it’s me.
I am all about
Christmas. All you have to do is hum, “Deck the Halls,” and I’m dashing about
like an elf. I have entire boxes of Christmas décor that replace all of my
regular home trappings for the full month of December. I’ve baked every
Christmas cookie known to man to place on the hearth for the Big Guy. I’ve
thrown Narnian-themed Christmas parties featuring Turkish Delight off the plane
from Ankara. I’ve whipped up “reindeer food” with my kid (oatmeal mixed with
glitter, because, you know, it needs to sparkle in the moonlight so Rudolph can
spy it in the clouds). And I’ve even decked my outdoors with suspended
light-filled globes throughout tree branches for that ethereal magical
atmosphere.
You say “Christmas,” and I say, “Can I get a
‘Glory-Hallelujah-in-the-Highest-Peace-to-all-Men Amen?’ Let’s make some egg
nog ice cream!” (Have you tried it? It’s GREAT!)
So when it came to combining “Christmas” with Cracker
Barrel’s Ole’ Country Store offerings, you can bet I was into this thing full
throttle, with bells jingling all the way. And I knew, without one iota of a
doubt, that my UPTs would skyrocket.
SKY ROCKET!
I was absolutely giddy when I showed up for my shift the week
of Halloween. The witches’ hats and trick-or-treat candy bowls had been quietly
shoved to a “clearance sale” corner of the store … and in their place … were
Christmas trees and decorations galore!
Oh, this was going to be FUN! I was going to have the best
time! Ever! Ever! Ever! I practically danced around the clothing wracks as I
oohed and ahhed at the gilded Christmas glee: There was a corner devoted to
angels. Another to music boxes and nutcrackers. Another to snowmen. Another to
retro toys – everything from trains to sock monkeys.
But the most eye-catching spot in the place? The dolls.
I know, it sounds super creepy for someone my age to go ga-ga
over dolls, but I have to hand it to Cracker Barrel: they knew how to win the
hearts of little girls, moms, aunts and grandmas. These dolls, called
“Butterflies,” each had their own costumes and accessories: There were
cheerleaders, princesses, ballet dancers – even an equestrian! And of course,
you can’t have a doll without a dollhouse … or a high chair … or a stroller …
or a tea set. They even had names, like Elizabeth, Madison and Isabella. And
they were cuddly, made of cloth and yarn, epitomizing that “country fresh”
theme that ran throughout every Ole’ Country store. Let me put it this way: a
mom of a boy runs into something like this in a store, and the result is that
she wracks her brain to think of ANY girl in her life, just so that she can
have an excuse to buy one of these things.
No surprise, I watched as each woman who entered the store
went straight to that corner. Immediately. It was like someone had sprinkled
fairy dust at the entrance. They’d wander over there, eyes wide, smiling like
they’d just discovered a stash of chocolate from Switzerland. Except better.
Yeah, meeting this UPT thing was going to be NO PROBLEM. No
problem at all. In fact, I was starting to get cocky as I arranged the dolls
and showed off the little plastic accessories to any woman in the vicinity. It
was almost too easy. These dolls were
selling themselves! I was actually starting to feel guilty that I’d be able to
qualify for the health insurance and keep working at a place where I
legitimately enjoyed my coworkers, the customers and the products.
Here’s the thing: I really did like working at Cracker Barrel. Once I got past the hurdle of
pride, once I had immersed myself in my surroundings, I actually had a good
time. I liked having the break from my solitary lifestyle as a freelance
journalist. I liked going “incognito” into a totally different work space and
functioning in society as someone who was not chasing a story. It was refreshing.
It was different. It was unique. And on days like this one, it was pretty fun.
But as soon as the fun began, it ended, just like fast-moving
thunder-filled clouds on a beach day. I walked into the storage room, where the
employee schedules were posted, to check out my hours for the coming week. My
stomach dropped. I was supposed to be averaging 24 hours per week, and, once
again, my manager had me down for only 15.
The storage room door opened, and in walked Monica.
“You don’t look happy,” she observed.
I sighed. “I’m getting worried. I’m only working here to get
health insurance, but we’re supposed to be averaging 24 hours a week to
qualify. She keeps putting me down for 10 or 15. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you talked to her?”
“Yes, during my employee evaluation last week.”
“And?”
“She said she’d give me the hours. And then she brought up my UPT score. She said
the UPT has to be high in exchange for the hours. But I told her during my job
interview that the only reason I’m doing this is to get the health insurance.
And like you told me earlier when you explained the UPT to me, I do have a high UPT average. I don’t get
it,” I explained.
Monica was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed. As a
reporter, I’m in tune with people’s non-verbal communication regularly, and
while most people might think Monica was just sympathizing, I got the feeling
that more was brewing in her thoughts.
“You’re not telling me something. What is it?”
She paused, looked away, and then looked straight at me.
“Do you know why the managers put such a high priority on
UPTs? I mean, the real reason?”
Now we were getting to it.
“Tell me.”
“OK.”
She paused. I waited. If there’s one thing I’ve learned as a
reporter, it’s that you never get the truth out of people unless you shut your
mouth and get comfortable with their silence. It’s only then that the words
spill.
“There’s a bonus.”
“A bonus?”
“For the managers. They get bonuses.”
She got quiet again.
“OK. And?”
“And if their store is high in sales – if their employees
have high UPT scores – the managers see more in their paychecks.”
I let this sink in. The reality was almost unfathomable.
Someone was withholding work hours from me to get me to work harder and bring
in more sales so that they could get
more in their paycheck? Someone was
holding my health insurance hostage so that they
could see more money? Could anybody really be that greedy?
I took a deep breath. “I guess I can only do one thing.”
“What’s that?” Now Monica was curious.
“I’m going to see our HR girl, Mary Beth, the one who does
the training and explained employee benefits to me. If the manager won’t give
me the hours, I can appeal to someone else and explain that this is the only
reason I’m working here. Maybe she can help. It’s the only thing I think I can
do.”
She nodded.
“You know what? I think you’re right.”
I went back out into the store, which by now was bustling
with Friday night customers. My manager was gone for the day already, so there
was no way I could ask her about the hours. But I knew what I was going to do
as soon as possible: see Mary Beth.
Mary Beth might very well be the key to my health insurance quandary,
I thought. After all, she discussed her child’s MRSA and how the health
insurance was so important during employee orientation. Mary Beth had to be my
ace. It really was the only thing I could think to do.
Tune in for the next
installment: “Battle of the Steel Magnolias.”
