By the end of day two of driving, my back feels as though a million tiny elves are stabbing me with miniature swords. I honestly think I might have to pull over and plant myself in one of the small towns I keep passing through. Find a cheesy motel, drink bad coffee, and eat really greasy diner food for a day or so, until these annoying little people stop torturing me. Despite my daydreams about rest and recovery, I keep pushing through the pain, and finally arrive in Tennessee at my friend’s house, where I plan to stay for the first month or so.
I am starting over completely. This trip feels like a rite of passage into another phase of my life. I hope I’ve made the right choice. I have anxiety about whether this will all work out. I continually remind myself that this is an adventure.
The convenience store is not finished yet, so I am scheduled to train for a couple months at several other convenience stores the owners operate in the area until the new store opens. My very first training location is in Paris, Tennessee. It is not named Paris because it reminded someone of Paris, France. Of this I am certain. This Paris is the furthest thing from that Paris.
On the morning of my first day, I am greeted by the manager who will be training me. She sticks out her hand to me, smiles and says, “Hi y’all!” Apparently, in the south, they say “y’all” even if they’re just talking to one person.
Through her smile, I see that the woman has no front teeth. I shake her hand, hoping the shock I am feeling isn’t registering on my face.
An hour after I begin my training with her, two policemen walk into the convenience store, not to buy donuts, but to handcuff Ms. Toothless and haul her off to jail for writing bad checks. I look around for a camera. I honestly think I might be on Candid Camera. So much for my “professional” training.
The miles between Tennessee and Beverly Hills may as well be light years. This is like a different planet. I miss “my family” back in California, and I am second guessing whether I made the right decision. Is this really where I am supposed to be?
Due to the unexpected departure of the manager, I am promoted immediately to manager of the Paris store, with zero training. I learn on the fly.
While I am “training” in Paris, the new site in Jackson is nearing completion. I am often at the construction site, meeting with the construction manager, ordering supplies, and preparing for the opening.
I realize I need help quickly. I talk my friend, Tanya, (whom I’ve known since childhood) into moving out to Tennessee to be my assistant manager. She does a great job, takes a huge load off of me, and her fun and light-hearted personality keep me sane and laughing in the midst of the craziness.
The construction manager’s name is Russell, and his best friend, Ryan, is one of the construction workers at the site.
One day, Russell says, “Pie-am” (Pam has two syllables in the south), “Ryan likes to go to the casinos.”
He explains that Ryan often went to Tunica, Mississippi, a town about an hour away that is kind of like a mini Las Vegas, smack in the middle of the green heartland of Mississippi. There are restaurants, buffets, live shows, and casinos. I had begun to notice that Ryan was paying a lot of attention to me, so Russell’s comment is an obvious hint that Ryan is indeed interested.
The new store is finally complete, and we open our doors, with me as the manager. The construction of the store cost over a million dollars. We have eight gas pumps in front. Inside the store is a TCBY Yogurt shop and a Broasted Chicken fast food restaurant. We also make fresh submarine sandwiches. At the front of the store is a small dining area with booths, tables and chairs. A section of the store has ready to eat food like hot dogs, corn dogs, nachos, and soft serve ice cream. There are seven or eight aisles, containing grocery, pharmacy, and hardware items. One wall is lined with coolers holding drinks and refrigerated items. Most of these are stocked with beer.
It is crazy, nonstop, heart-pounding insanity from the moment I walk in. A local radio station runs a promotion offering a huge discount on gasoline to the first one hundred customers. Cars are lined up for miles waiting for gas.
I do not sleep a wink for the first forty-eight hours. I am at the store around the clock for two full days. I had no clue going into this endeavor that the store would be so busy, nor that I would be putting out one fire after another. There are problems left and right that require my constant attention.
It is eye opening to me how segregated the area is and the prejudice that still exists. Our store is located on the crosshairs where the black and white areas intersect. I staff my store evenly between blacks and whites to properly serve my customers and keep everyone happy.
Our store is located across the street from many large factories, and all of the factory workers stop by on their way to work, at lunch, on their breaks, and after work. We sell five thousand dollars per day of just beer and cigarettes.
One day, I am in my office, and I notice through the one-way mirror a hand picking up cigarettes and stuffing them in a pocket. I run over to the cigarette aisle and confront the customer.
“Are you going to pay for those cigarettes?” I ask.
“What cigarettes?” he responds, acting innocent.
“The ones you just put in your pocket,” I reply, with a firm voice, as I stare him in the face.
He pulls out the cigarettes and heads to the counter to pay.
The store is open twenty-four hours per day and has three different shifts of employees. The headaches involved with managing my employees are like migraines on steroids. The night shift does not have a manager, so there are many calls in the middle of the night. I like my sleep, so this arrangement is getting old quickly. And I don’t recall reading “phone calls at all hours of the night” in the fine print of my contract.
One of my busiest shifts is from two to ten p.m. on Fridays. The workers from the factories nearby stop by to cash their checks, and then purchase beer and cigarettes for the weekend.
I was in my apartment one Friday night when I get a call around nine p.m. from my employee Gloria. She is hysterical.
“Pam, oh my gosh. The store was just robbed,” she screams through sobs. “It was so horrible. A man came in and he put a gun to my head,” she continues, talking so fast I can hardly understand. “He told me to get on the floor. He took the cash.”
“Calm down, Gloria. It’s okay,” I say. “Just try to stay calm, and I will be right there.”
I call the police, jump in my car, and race to the store.
When I arrive, she is still very upset. I try to calm her down by having her explain everything again. The police arrive and take a statement from her. I tell Gloria she can head home, and the police leave as well.
I open the safe. It is empty. The store policy is that every employee must do a money drop hourly. This involves taking all of the cash out of the register, with the exception of about a hundred dollars in small bills for change, and depositing it in the slot in the safe.
Gloria was on the afternoon shift from two p.m. until the robbery around nine p.m. on one of our busiest days of the week. There should be thousands of dollars in the safe. I realize Gloria is somehow involved with the robbery.
I go into my office and review the security tapes from the day. There is a camera at the front register. I play the tapes from two p.m. on. I notice at the beginning of the shift, Gloria is talking with a large man who is wearing a black shirt with a huge yellow smiley face on the front. He stands near the counter for a long time, talking to her. When the store gets busy with customers, he goes over to sit down at the dining tables and then heads back over to talk to Gloria again.
I fast forward the tape to about eight thirty p.m., right before the robbery takes place. It is store policy to always have two workers on any given shift. The other worker in the store, who is also a female, suddenly disappears into the freezer and is gone for an inordinately long time. Supposedly stocking shelves, perhaps? Suddenly, I hear a loud “boom, boom, boom,” which I can tell is someone banging on the drive through window at the back of the store. A signal? Seconds later, the big guy with the dark t-shirt and yellow smiley face comes into the store. There is no gun and no yelling. He walks up to the counter, and Gloria hands him the money.
My two employees have conspired to rob their own store. I can’t believe it.
I call the police, show them the video, and ask them to arrest Gloria. I am shocked when they tell me that they can’t arrest her. The tape doesn’t prove she’s guilty. And, I couldn’t fire her. I am so angry and frustrated.
Thankfully, I have a policy in place that if an employee doesn’t give adequate notice for their shift, then they are responsible for finding a replacement. If they don’t, they are fired. The day after the robbery, Gloria calls me two hours before her shift and says, “I’m too shaken up, I can’t come in.”
She does not find a replacement, and I fire her the same day.
It is a rude awakening about the reality of my position. What did I get myself into? Frequently, I am running frantically around the store, dealing with ten issues at once and observing the country bumpkin folk traipsing through my store, and the thought pops into my head, I wonder what Kris and Bruce and the kids are doing right now? I recall my life in Hollywood — driving the Land Cruiser, shopping in Beverly Hills, and picking up lunch at Spago’s. That world already seems so far away.
I romanticized my move to Tennessee, imagining beautiful countryside, a nice southern gentleman, and a horse farm. I based my impressions on the state solely on my trip to Nashville with Linda and the boys. Nashville is urban, the people are more sophisticated, there is more to do, and of course our accommodations were first class. Living in a fairly small town in a rural area of Tennessee is a far cry from Nashville. I experience culture shock on a daily basis. I try to have a good sense of humor about it. I take pictures of street signs to send to my mom, such as Peckerwood Point and Lizard Lick. There’s a town nearby called Bucksnort. I don’t think I could live in a place called Bucksnort.
Ryan comes by the store several times to ask me out on a date. He is so much younger than me (I’m twenty-eight and he’s twenty-one), and I have no interest wasting my time with someone who isn’t ready for marriage, so I tell him no.
The boy is persistent. He continues to stop by the store every few days to ask me out. One day, I’ve had enough of it.
I turn to face him directly and say, “Look, Ryan. I’m twenty-eight. You’re twenty-one. I’m ready to get married, settle down, and have kids. Are you?”
He doesn’t respond. He looks at me for a moment, then turns around and walks away. Well, that takes care of that.
Early the next morning, I am in my office with the door wide open. In walks Ryan, with a very serious expression on his face. He closes the door behind him, faces me, and hands me an index card. I look at it and realize he has written out all the words to a Fleetwood Mac song titled “Don’t Stop.” The main lyric of the chorus is “don’t stop thinking about tomorrow.”
He says, simply, “Yep. I’m ready.”
I am flabbergasted. I asked the question. He took his time to think about it and then gave me a serious answer. Since he took me seriously, I think maybe I should take him seriously, so I agree to go on one date with him.
One date becomes two dates, and before I realize what is happening, we are an item. I like him, and it is a great distraction from the store.
Not long after I meet Ryan, I decide to start attending church again. As I walk through the doors of a church not far from my apartment, I feel a rush of emotion. I haven’t been inside a church in so many years. I choose a seat in the very back, because I don’t want anyone to see me cry. It feels like home. Like eating Mom’s warm homemade apple pie at the kitchen table with my family. It is familiar and comfortable. I start attending every Sunday, and tears stream down my cheeks, as I process feelings of guilt and regret.
I don’t connect with the people in the church. I’m not quite ready for that. I come and go silently, always sitting in the back of the church. My life seems so messed up. I’m not at a place where I can share all my “junk” with other people. I do feel the presence of God, which is something new to me. For the first time, I start to feel some kind of a connection with Him. I don’t really know what I am feeling, and I can’t put it into words. I just know that it is different than the judgmental God on a throne in the sky I’d known as a child.
In the fall of 1997, Ryan and I are at my apartment one night, sitting on the couch. We have been dating for over a year.
“So, you really wanna get married?” he asks.
“Yes, I really do,” I reply.
He pulls out a ring that he had hidden under the cushions of the couch and puts it on my finger.
“Will you marry me, Pie-am?” The country boy asks me, in his Southern drawl.
I pause, and in that moment a torrent of thoughts rush through my head. Yes, I really do want to get married, although I’m not quite sure you are the one I want to get married to. But, I can’t imagine saying no when he’s obviously so nervous and has put thought and effort into this proposal. Just say yes for now and we can figure the rest out as we go.
“Yes!” I exclaim, with a bright smile that hides my uncertainty.
Part of me is so happy that my dream of becoming a wife and mother will be coming true. That is really all I ever wanted for myself — a happy little family. Getting married seems like a pretty good solution to fixing my life and doing the right thing. I am about to turn thirty. It is time to start a family, and here is someone who wants me.
We begin planning our wedding, but whenever Ryan presses me to set a date, I can’t commit. I keep putting it off. I am unsure of many things about Ryan.
I have begun to notice that our socializing revolves around partying and drinking. His mom has twelve brothers and sisters that live in the area, and the family gets together often, which usually involves heavy drinking. I begin to blame Ryan’s drinking on his family and friends — his environment — instead of holding him accountable. One night, I am disgusted with how drunk he is and his behavior. The next morning, I confront him.
“Ryan, I’m breaking up with you. I’m moving back to Rapid City.”
The idea has been forming in my head for a while. My mom and dad purchased a second home (a farm) near Aberdeen, South Dakota, in recent years, and my brother lives in South Dakota, as well. I went to college in Rapid City and really liked the city, so it seems like a good choice for my next move. I can be in a city that I already know and where I have some friends, yet also be close to my family.
I am fed up with the continuous headaches of managing the convenience store. I have been working there for almost two years now, and still receive calls from my staff at all hours of the day and night. I am tired of working at the store. I am tired of Ryan’s drinking. I am fed up with everything about Tennessee. It is time to leave.
Ryan is very upset when I tell him about my decision. He begs and pleads and swears to me that he will quit drinking. He says he wants to move back to South Dakota with me and start a new life.
I believe him.
On July 4, 1998, we pack up all of our belongings in a rented trailer and head back to South Dakota.
Two days later, we drive into Rapid City, get out of the car, and stand up. We both pass out on the ground because of the extreme altitude change.
Ryan and I rent a cute little house on a quaint street in suburban Rapid City. The neighborhood is full of families and children. It seems like a perfect place to start our new life together.
He gets a job working at the local ACE hardware store. I interview with an investment company called Waddell and Reed, figuring I’d follow my father’s and brother’s footsteps into the insurance business. Before I can become an insurance and investment rep, I have to pass two extremely difficult tests called the Series 6 and Series 66. I have never been very business minded, didn’t pay too much attention in math, and wasn’t so good at studying either, so this is quite a challenge for me.
I take the first test in early fall 1998 — driving five hours to Sioux Falls to sit for the test — and fail miserably. I have to wait thirty days before I can retake it. We are living off the meager salary Ryan makes at the hardware store, while I wait to retake the test. I fail again the second time by only one point. Another thirty day wait, and another thirty days of studying. Third time’s the charm. I finally pass. I am scheduled to begin working as an insurance rep at Waddell and Reed in January 1999. All the fragments completing my vision of a perfect life seem to be falling into place. Now for one major piece of the puzzle…