When I was first told that I needed to find something to blog about, I couldn’t think of a particular subject that made me feel passionate enough to spend hours writing and then freely share over the internet. I like a lot of things, but usually they’re pretty mundane or there are already a million blogs about the subject. I wanted to blog about something a little bit different; I wanted to show my very own point of view. I couldn’t really put my finger on something that could last me through an entire blog. Until I went to work.
Serving at Cracker Barrel is not a glamorous job. It’s aggravating, exhausting, and at times rage inducing, but something has made me keep coming back to work after two and a half years. I’m going to spend this blog examining this fact and also sharing some of the slightly demented things that happen there on a daily basis. Here’s how I got started at the Barrel:
I first applied at Cracker Barrel because I was curious about what working in a restaurant would be like. The fact that my best friend had worked there over a year and I was pretty broke at the time may have had something to do with it, too. But I was naive and nervous, and I had no idea what to expect when I went in for my interview. I told some ruddy man my credentials (pretty much none at all) and I was asked back for a second interview the next day at around 2. I came back the next day more nervous than ever to a pretty intense lunch rush. The manager couldn’t meet with me right away, so the cashier told me just to hang around the store until he had some time. Waiting only made me more anxious.
As many know, Cracker Barrel is a kind of hybrid “Country Store” and restaurant designed to parade customers through heaps of old-fashioned country paraphernalia on their way to sit down and yet again when they are ready to leave. While waiting for a manager to come tell me whether I had the pleasure of working for this establishment, I found a set-up of toys that was supposed to remind the older patrons of their childhoods. To kind of ease my nerves, I picked up an Etch-A-Sketch and started drawing. I had managed a pretty elaborate F-U-C- and had almost completed my K when I heard a door open behind me, and the district retail manager walked out.
“Whatcha drawing there?!”
I have never shaken an Etch-A-Sketch faster in my life, and I thought for sure they wouldn’t hire some jumpy spaz who writes swear words on children’s toys. I knew my job prospects were gone.
But I was wrong. Sometimes I don’t know if this was for better or for worse.