[Kris P Lettus]

Dear Andrew Christopher Brees, Quarterback of the New Orleans Saints, Hello again. You probably remember me from the Cracker Barrel in Biloxi, Mississippi. I’m the one who brought you the Tabasco sauce for your soup. Why you wanted Tobasco sauce in your soup I have no idea, but who am I to pass judgment on the cover boy of Sega’s 1999 NCAA College Football 2K2 video game? Anyway, I’m writing because I heard about your whole contract situation with the Saints. My friend Hannah Wilks said that you don’t think they offered you enough money to play for them so you won’t sign the contract and may not play next season. Is this true? I can never really trust Hannah because she’s a notorious liar. Everyone knows that. She told me once that if I say your name out loud three times anywhere in the world that a football will hit me in the chest. I’ve actually never tried it, but I’m pretty sure it’s not true. Anyway that’s all I need: a football-shaped bruise on my sternum. But if you really are having problems agreeing with the Saints about how much money you should be paid to play for them, maybe this story will help you. Back when I was working at the Cracker Barrel, I was what you might call the “star waiter.” You probably noticed this when I put down your soup. I always had the highest sales, the highest tip percentage and the customers loved me. Well except for this girl Wendy Hestman, but she didn’t like anyone really. Anyway, I pretty much carried the place on my back. You should know that the Cracker Barrel is a pooled house. In case you never worked in a restaurant before (which I’m sure you haven’t had time to do since you’ve been busy getting a degree in industrial engineering and also playing football), a pooled house means we all share the tips so that no one waiter makes more than another. Needless to say, I was always the one putting more money into the pool than everyone else. But I didn’t care. We were a team. Plus they had these incentive type things that I always won anyways so I did end up making more, but that’s beside the point. There was this one night that my dad had to borrow my car (probably to go pick up a prostitute … he’s the kind of jerk who would do that) so I asked my boss for a ride home. My boss is a pretty cool guy. He does wear these mouse ears on his head sometimes when it’s not even Halloween, so that’s kind of weird. But his name is Mickey so I guess it’s his idea of a joke. Other than that, he’s okay. So he was driving me home late at night. I just realized that this sounds like the beginning of a rape story, but let me assure you right now that it’s NOT. I mean he did touch my leg once, but I’m pretty sure it was an accident. Anyway, we got to talking about work, and I mentioned that since Mark Tressman left the restaurant I was now the senior server. He replied, “Yeah, I know that. Don’t think I don’t also notice that you’re the best waiter in the place, maybe even in the whole state.” I got all red in the face. I hate that. That’s all I needed: for my boss to see that I was some sentimental softy who couldn’t handle a compliment. So to cover it up I was like, “Yeah, I guess you could call me the MVE, Most Valuable Employee.” He laughed at that. But it wasn’t the good kind of laugh. And I knew it wasn’t funny. It was a lazy joke, as you probably realize. Nonetheless, it was starting to feel pretty friendly between us, so I asked for a raise … right there in his Oldsmobile. It just sort of slipped out. I’m sure that’s probably how it happened with you too, when you asked for your raise. Anyway, he was just about to answer when his car made a sound like my cat does when I grab his front paws and play air guitar with them. We looked at each other as the engine died and his car slowed to a stop. Now I’m no mechanic, but I assume that when black smoke is coming from an engine that one of two things is happening: either the car is on fire or … well I guess that’s the only real possibility. Anyway, the car was on fire. After he cried a little and made a call, we sat on the road, watching his car burn and waited for help to arrive. With nothing else to talk about, I gently brought up money again, “So what were you gonna say about my raise before the car caught on fire?” He went on to say that if it were up to him, he’d give me all the money I wanted since I was so indispensable to the company. I flushed again. I hate that. But, he explained, the company only had so much money (a cap, I think he called it), so if they were to pay me more, either someone I work with would have to make less or they might even have to let someone go. That idea really hit me. Now I don’t like everyone I work with, but the evil you know is better than some new asshole. Plus I’d hate to lose someone like my friend, Hannah. We hate all the same things so talking with her can really make a shift fly by. As Mickey continued to make his point, I tuned him out and thought to myself, “Wait a minute … this is a big corporation with lots of income. They can afford to give little old me an extra few dollars for almost single-handedly making them the highest selling Cracker Barrel in 32 states for 6 years running. I deserve it.” I really didn’t want to sound arrogant and lose my status as a “team player,” but I knew I could get paid more (on reputation alone) if I walked into the Cracker Barrel a few miles down the road. But truth be told, I didn’t want to do that because I was walking distance from work, and my cats really like my apartment. I wouldn’t want to have to uproot them. Also, I’d developed such a rapport with the neighborhood and pretty much couldn’t walk anywhere without getting a high five or at least a fist bump. I really fed off that. Also there was a disaster in the area right before I moved out there that I helped clean up when I arrived. Apparently this girl Karina had ruined the whole neighborhood with graffiti. I got right in there was scrubbing away with the locals. I don’t think they ever forgot that I did that. So not to get too specific, but I only make like $18,000 a year at the Cracker Barrel. To be really honest with you, Drew, I’d probably be more comfortable closer to $23,000. Anyway, I started listening to Mickey again right as he was making the point that the other Cracker Barrels wouldn’t care nearly as much about me as this one did. Then he asked me something I’ll never forget. He said, “Is the history you have here worth throwing away for a few extra bucks?” I knew he was only asking that so that I’d think of all the good times I’d had there and that would maybe make the raise seem insignificant. Damn. It worked. I pretended like I thought it was a rhetorical question so I wouldn’t have to lie. But the truth was that he did have a point. I would never leave the Biloxi Cracker Barrel. If I really thought about it, the people I worked with there were the closest thing to a family I’d ever had (and I have cats!). Even though I couldn’t stand some of them (specifically one of the dishwashers, Manuel, who continually misunderstood me when I told him I didn’t want a back massage while on the clock). Also, I’ve heard some real horror stories about other Cracker Barrels. There’s one in Atlanta you couldn’t pay me to go into. At this point our rescue car had arrived. I just told Mickey we’d talk more later. But I knew I’d never bring it up again. I mean, everyone in the world could use more money, but not everyone in the world is lucky enough to like where they work and have people they actually don’t mind working with (except Manuel). Sure it might be nice to have more money, maybe a microwave in my apartment. But who the needs the radiation anyway, you know. That’s all I need: some third half-nipple growing on my stomach. Anyway, I don’t really know all the details of your situation, but hopefully my story helped you. Oh, and when you write your response letter, please address it the Jackson County Jail in Mississippi (in care of Toby Guestwash). Yes I am in jail at the moment, but it’s not what you think. I’m not a criminal or anything. I just got into this weird situation with Judy Dench a while back, and I’ll be hanging out here until my name is cleared (which should be any day now). Your best friend, Toby Guestwash p.s. I heard that you’re allergic to dairy. Me too! Me and this other inmate, White Power Ted, were horsing around and he was trying to force milk down my throat, and I threw up all over him. It was so classic. But he got the electric chair last week.