In the summer of 2001, I worked as a front desk clerk—we were called guest service agents—at the Lake Hotel in Yellowstone National Park. The work was hard. We spent long hours on our feet, dealing with a steady stream of demanding guests and a constant barrage of problems. The pay was low, six dollars an hour, from which was deducted a significant charge for bad food and small shabby living quarters. The one saving grace was the camaraderie of the clerks. We’d gossip about coworkers in other departments, talk about our lives, and especially express anger and amazement at the often bad behavior of the guests.
As in all workplaces, there was a hierarchy of command: a front desk manager, his assistant, and the director of the entire hotel. About a week after the hotel opened for the season, the manager said that three new jobs were available, and that any of us could apply. The new position was “senior clerk.” A person who took the new job would be like a factory foreman, the front-line face of management. The senior clerks would have extra duties and would be given certain powers to do things the rest of us could not.