For the Benefit and Enjoyment of the People

By Chase McGuire
http://treehousetelephone.blogspot.com/

Made possible by generous contributions from: Union Pacific Railroads, James Perry, Regal Cinemas, Robert Reamer, and Global Gossip Internet Service Provider. We are born in a Pullman house, fed from the Pullman shops, taught in the Pullman School, catechized in the Pullman church, and when we die we shall go to a Pullman hell. Disgruntled Pullman Employee The Boss he said, Ill fire you, not only you, but the whole damn crew. Yipeetie-ey-ey Yippe-yo Yipee-yea, Cumma-tie-ey-ey, Yipee-yea. Michael Martin Murphy Pray to god wont live to see the death of everything thats wild - WHOO! The Arcade Fire A long corridor in Lake Yellowstone employee housing late at night in Yellowstone National Park. Doors are evenly spaced out along the walls. Sprinklers are mounted along the top of the walls. The corridor is silent. At the opposite end is another door. Sickly fluorescent light common in cheap motels and freshman dormitories sputters and flickers. The door at the end of the hall bursts open, shattering the ominous silence. A young man comes stumbling in. He works for a concessionary company called Xanterra (the x is pronounced as a z, like in Xanadu) that operates

concessions in Yellowstone National Park. In one hand he holds and feather, and in the other hand he holds a lighter. He is smiling. The young man feels hes been overworked and underpaid; subjected to unfair treatment from his managers at Xanterra. He is smiling because he is about to put a deviant plan into action. He is a Xanterrorist about to commit an act of Xanterrorism. He raises one arm and sticks a feather in a sprinkler head. He flicks his lighter and the flame appears. He holds its quivering orange tip to the feather. The feather catches, sizzling out acrid black smoke as the flame grows off the quills and burns up the shaft. The Xanterrorist retreats, stifling his laughter. The burning feather sets the sprinkler off. All the sprinklers along the wall go off. It is raining in the hallway. The emergency floodlights snap on. The fire alarm sounds off its piercing EHRK! EHRK! EHRK! EHRK! Doors fling open, spilling out men and women of all ages and nationalities in various stages of wakefulness and sobriety. Some are scowling. Some are laughing. Some are rubbing their eyes. All skip and dash down the hall to avoid the falling beads of water. They are Yellowstones foot soldiers. They work tirelessly to make your visit to Yellowstone a memorable and pleasant experience. Outside the employees congregate roughly 25 feet away from their housing. Beyond the parking lot, beyond the patches of lodge pole pine, is Lake Yellowstone, a jewel of a body of water high up in the mountains, laid sprawled like a black mirror reflecting the black night sky. The staff awoken by fire alarms and sprinklers have come out to work in the long Yellow hotel on the lakes shore. Some are from Taiwan. Some are from Mongolia. Some are from Ecuador, Bulgaria, Romania, China. Some are right here from the good ol U. S. of A. Why are they working alongside such deviant subversive Xanterrorists? Dont let a few bad apples spoil the whole bunch. The fire trucks arrive. The Rangers enter the dorm. They shut off the sprinklers and alarms. The go-ahead is given to re-enter the building. The charred feather is removed from the sprinkler head to dust for prints. A similar incident had happened a few days prior when a lit cigarette was jammed into a sprinkler head and resulted in a similar outcome that caused similar havoc. The Rangers had recovered the cigarette butt to extract traces of the firebugs DNA from saliva on the filter. Every summer is a rough summer for the drunks and misfits working for the Xanterra laundry facilities in Gardiner Montana. Gardiner: a trashy town of motels, bars, and rafting tours concentrated around the Roosevelt Arch at the North Gate and original entrance to the park. Along with the laundry facilities, purportedly the 3rd largest West of the Mississippi, Gardiner is also the headquarters for many Xanterra operations. The fleet service center is in

Gardiner, Support Service, The Retail Distribution Center, and Fire Systems are all headquartered in Gardiner. But the Laundry really takes the cake. Helmed by reformed meth addicts and drug dealers, micromanaged by whatever college drop-out weasel gets hired that summer and puts on airs of ambition common to pathetic ladder climbing leaders. Cruising through the town, you may not see the complex right away, but its there. A smokestack is its most recognizable structure. In a patch of gravel on a plateau overlooking where the Yellowstone and Gardiner River meet, therere some beat-down warehouses and corrugated steel shacks. Peppered in the dusty gravel lots are abandoned cars, boats, and company vehicles beyond repair. The facilities give the vibe of forced labor camps hidden in plain sight. Gardiner falls under the jurisdiction of the Park County Sheriff, but the back house Xanterra operations, through some fuzzy land division and development is on Federal Land, the cracked and crumbling Xanterra Gardiner Compound is within Yellowstones borders, which makes it real hard to blow off some steam for the fuck-ups working their fingers to the bone in laundry, without bringing down the heat from the Rangers. Those Rangers dont fuck around. Every piece of cloth used in Yellowstone National Park throughout the summer gets sent to the Gardiner laundry. Every bed sheet that gets jizzed on. Every napkin the wipes a dirty mouth. Every pillowcase on a pillow that supports a greasy head. Every table cloth doused with a red wine spill. Every blue rag used to wipe down a baseboard. It all gets sent to the well-meaning but demented staff in Laundry. Sometimes theyre also sent curtain rods and bags of garbage. The staff finds little prizes sometimes in the bed sheets, like used condoms, prosthetic limbs, and dentures. The demoralizing nature of dealing with dirty laundry, the notoriously ineffectual megalomaniac management creates a revolving door for the Yellowstone laundry staff. Some good can come of it though. A boy from Oregon was fired from The Home Depot and got a job in the Gardiner laundry facilities. A girl from the Ukraine went to America because she got a job doing Yellowstones dirty laundry. After a few weeks of a whirlwind lustful courtship, they went to Vegas and got married. Concessioners played an important role in the founding and development of Yellowstone National Park. As a concessioner employee, you are a part of a Tradition of Service that has included employees serving the Park visitor since the establishment of the Park. With this award (a lapel pin of a bear) we celebrate your part in the history of this land and the significant way we shape the Yellowstone Experience for Park Visitors today. Despite getting fired from the Old Faithful Inn gift shop, it cant be denied that Jaylen was crafty. Misinformed guests brought in wooden nickels

redeemable for 10% off gift items in our competitions (Delaware North Company) Yellowstone General Stores. Instead of informing them of their error, Jaylen took the wooden nickel, pocketed it, gave the discount, then treated herself to 10% off any Yellowstone General Store gift item of her choosing. Xanterra maintains a drug free workplace through the summer by routinely drug testing hags that havent smoked pot since 1963. Come August or September, when the threat of shelling out bonus checks looms heavy on the consciouses of miserly corporate accountants, every red-eyed 20-something wearing a Bob Marly shirt listening to Sublime with a case of the munchies (and there are quite a few of those working for Xanterra) is wrangled over to the clinic to swab the inside of their cheek. Rangers went through employee housing with drug sniffing dogs twice in September. Darling Jaylen didnt even make it that far. There were complaints of a smell of dope smoking, and the rangers swooped in. They searched Jaylens room and found a few thousand dollars worth of jewelry from the Old Faithful Inn gift store. To play Devils advocate, Jaylen was making 7.40 an hour, before Xanterras deductions for housing and meal plan and medical. The temptation was just too great. Adorable Jaylen in a last desperate attempt at cunning, said shed just borrowed the jewelry. A loyal employee supporting her company, Jaylen wore the jewelry at work in a sincere attempt to bolster sales. Shed just forgotten to take it off when she clocked out. Your humble Narrator, an Ohio boy, worked at the gift shop inside of the historic Old Faithful Inn. The Old Faithful Inn: the crown jewel of Americas National Park lodgings, a building so intricate and imaginative that it set the bar for what people have come to expect from luxury in the wilderness, a building so original that a new adjective was invented to describe it: Rustic Parkitecture. Its architect, a Mr. Robert Reamer, also an Ohio boy, had stopped by to see how his baby was holding up. I was a cashier. I was a stock boy. It was my job to supply you with the bobbles and knick-knacks and ultimately disposable souvenirs that would come to symbolize your precious memories of a visit to Yellowstone. Much of the merchandise was overpriced and outsourced. T-shirts (screen printed in Bozeman Montana, but the shirts made in China)at cost for seven bucks were marked up to 16.99. Wayne Carvers hideously cartoonish bears, designed in Montana, were also mass produced and distributed by Demdaco Home Accessories . . . in China. Its a global economy. I had no qualms, but some customers sure as hell did, and wanted to take matters up with me. Now please tell me this mug wasnt made in China. The mug was made in China, so I told them it was. We had mugs made in America. They cost anywhere

from 5 to 12 dollars more than their chinese counterparts. I gladly pointed them out to no avail. The most pure bred of patriots couldnt turn down a 5 dollar mug, even if it was made in China. Speaking of China. There were some Chinese coming to stay the night at Old Faithful. Delegates supposedly, ambassadors, diplomats. Some said theyd come to maybe strike up some business with Xanterra, to have Xanterra provide their wonderful services in Chinas National Parks. Others said the Chinese had just come to see Yellowstone, and there was no greater purpose behind their visit. Old Faithful Inn location management was very nervous. Corporate suits came in from Denver. We had these promotional tote bags. They were made in China, illustrated with imitation water color smears of a bear and Old Faithful going off. Down the sides of the bags were statistics of how Xanterras tax-cut imagebolstering Ecologix program was doing such a great job saving the environment. If a customer spent over 50 dollars, they got the bag for free. Oh, thats a nice bag, theyd say. All of Yellowstone National Park came down with a bad case of tote bag mania. If a customer spent over 100 dollars, 200 dollars? One bag wasnt enough. They wanted 2 bags, 4 bags. When informed the promotion didnt work that way? Theyd return their purchases, then immediately divvy the items up into clumps costing over 50 dollars. We had these promotional throw blankets made in Mexico. They were the #1 selling item in the store, and perhaps the most demented con in National Park consumerism. We were only supposed to offer them if someone spent over 50 dollars. Supposedly they were made out of recycled plastic bottles. I preferred the soft sales touch. I fed off of peoples need to feel special. And since you spent over 50 dollars, well offer you this throw blanket. The blanket itself is of a 30 dollar value, but its available for 18 dollars and 72 cents when you spend over 50 dollars, and normally we dont offer it unless you spent over 50 dollars. That was all bullshit. If you walked up to any cashier and said, Gimme a blanket, punk. Theyd ring one up for you no questions asked. The 30 dollar value part that was my own personal embellishment. It worked. Wives waiting in line would send their husbands off to grab another keychain, magnet, shot glass, any Yellowstone trinket that would lift them over the 50 dollar mark, and make them the envy of their tour buses when they waltzed down the aisle with a promotional throw blanket inside their promotional tote bag. Elk 6 and his other elk buddies liked hanging out in Mammoth, and why shouldnt they? Elk had been hanging out there since before it was referred to as Mammoth Hot Springs, before it was referred to as part of the Northern Range. Elk had been hanging out there since before the army built their stupid little fort, since before the railroad companies built their stupid little

hotel then tore it down and built another stupid one. Yeah, thats how Elk 6 liked to think of it. His elk buddies, his elk forefathers had been hanging out there for a while. Elk 6 thought people were a thorn in his side. During Peak season summer, cars would be packed bumper to bumper from the hot spring terraces all the way to the Justice Center. All of Mammoth looked like a demolition derby - and another thing that pissed him off was being dubbed Elk 6. His name was Yustauvis, but his friends called him Yuri. The elk were minding their own business chewing on the grass blades and lounging in the sunbeams while those pesky little people snapped pictures and inched closer, snapped some more pictures then inched a little closer. Some of Yuris elk buddies handled things proactively by charging the scattering tourists. While Yuri found such behaviors admirable, he subscribed to the any means necessary philosophy, and thought a lone charge here and there was too soft and weak. Yuri was endowed with such massive, sharp, and many-pointed antlers. What was he supposed to do with those? Head-but his male rivals to win the affections of some fertile female? Yuri was sick of chasing tail. He wanted to dedicate his life to a higher purpose. God it felt great vibrated down the antlers until it tickled the tip of his skull. The other elk were afraid of cars because they seemed so shiny and impenetrable. Yuri knew better. The sound was great too, like a tinkling of sleigh bells as Yuri tore his antlers loose from and given automobiles windshield. The shards of glass splintered mid-air to tiny cinders of glass that scattered over that asphalt. This, Yuri thought to himself, is what my antlers grew for. They grew from my head to be used as an instrument for social change. The National Park Service didnt agree with Elk 6s progressive actions. Elk 6 was a repeat offender, and insurance companies were sick of handing out money for scores broken windshield claims. The Rangers had Elk 6 trapped and sedated and they sawed off his antlers. The jokes on you, Yuri said holding his antlerless head high with a sense of pride. Theyll grow back again, and just you wait. Yuris antlers did grow back and he went right back to using them as instruments of eco-terrorism. The rangers had much less patience, and Yuri was only able to smash 3 or 4 windshields before he was assaulted with hack saws. The second time was demoralizing to Yuri. When he did grow back a new set of antlers, the rangers could always just saw those ones right off too as soon as she busted another windshield. He went into a deep depression. He lost faith in his cause. As a cruel joke, his elk buddies started calling him Elk 6. Yuri grew into old age. Every now and then, on sweltering July days when the traffic was unrelenting and the pesky little people just wouldnt let Yuri be,

hed charged at a crowd, but his heart wasnt really in it. The elk that remembered Yuri from his younger days knew it was a weak attempt to imitate his former glory I finished my work day. I clocked out and met Mr. Reamer in the Old Faithful Inn lobby. Hello, Mr. Reamer. Its an honor and a privilege, I said shaking his hand vigorously. With a wide gesture across the pine flanked lobby, I said, you put together an impressive pile of popsicle sticks here. Sometimes referred to as an epic example of the arts and crafts movement high on crack. I mean that as a compliment, and I hope youll take it as such. Of course, he said. The front desk was abuzz with both excitement and dread in preparation for the mysterious but undoubtedly important arrival of our Chinese guests. Two men in suits, their grooming and body language screaming money-moneymoney-Money . . . MONEY! stood shuffling their feet and checking their watches. A bellhop rolled in a cooler and filled it with ice and bottled water. How was work? Mr. Reamer asked. I have this theory, Mr. Reamer. In the gift shop today a woman came up and asked me whats it like living and working on top of a volcano? You know what I told her. I told her it turns everybody into raging alcoholics. But thats just part of my theory, Mr. Reamer, thats the abridged account. I have this theory, and it has to do with the magma chamber beneath Yellowstone. My theory is based off of the super volcano the magma chamber once set off. You better believe I have this theory on the magma chamber . . . you can bet on it. My theory on the magma chamber is this: the same effect it has on the surface of the earth, the landscapes of steam and water splurging up from the ground in hot ejaculations, pools of crystalline bright blue and white magnifying cavernous mouths trailing off to secret abysmal tunnels, caldrons in the middle of the forest boiling mud and clay. Vast expanses of scarred out gray steaming and smoking into the air. Our bodies can secretly feel the residual heat coming up from the magma chamber. It makes blood run hotter to the brain and the brain bubbles gray and rubbery as a mud pot. It makes the blood run hotter to the heart and fumarole steam hisses and crackles through our veins. The thermophile whites and blues and reds and greens crust over the irises of our eyes. The hundreds of daily tiny tremors that create these wonders shake through our skeletons and slice splinters in out bones. Xanterras human gears that churn in millions of dollars of tourist money, the men and women tucked into pockets inside of Yellowstone turn into raging alcoholics, savage sex fiends. We piss in hallways and shit in shower stalls. We swallow handfuls of pills and chaseem down with bottles of

liquor. We throw rocks from the roofs of hotels, in short, we turn into wild animals. But heres the most important and most controversial aspect of my theory, Mr. Reamer. Just like the super volcano that once spouted from this caldera, just like the magma chamber beneath that created this super volcano, we absorb that residual energy too, and deep beneath the surface of our souls is a threatening natural force of apocalyptic proportions. I felt very impassioned after my magma chamber theory speech. Mr. Reamer just yawned. Cmon kid, I think you need a drink. He gave me a pat on the back. A word of advice, it wouldnt hurt if you got out more. When was the last time you left Yellowstone? The ex-Army Ranger came out to Yellowstone with his wife and his guns. He liked to take his guns with him when he went driving around in the Park. He liked to take his guns with him when he went hiking along the trails in the Park. His wife worked at the front desk in the Old Faithful Inn. They lived in a camper in a little neighborhood of campers for Yellowstone staff. The guns, you know, wouldnt have been much of a problem cuz he was in Wyoming. They love guns in Wyoming. Former Vice President Dick Cheney shot someone in the face in Wyoming. Where the ex-army ranger living in Yellowstone really ran into some trouble was one night hitting the whiskey and wandering back and forth from his bottle of Xannex. 74, he said. That number seemed preposterous. Yep, I counted. I had 80. Theres 6 left. Hed been wandering around the Bitter Root dorm, following a lead on some Adderall. Im just sleep walking now, the ex-Army Ranger said. Which was exactly the point. After a night of pounding liquor and swallowing pills, an ex-Army Ranger might just want to take it easy. Maybe try to sleep it off. Thats not my style, he said. Im looking for some Adderall. I gotta be out doing things, keep moving. Ill take some Adderall and go out for a hike. He spent the rest of the afternoon canvassing the Bitter Root Dorm Hallways. Xanterra generally dislikes non-employees trying to score drugs in employee housing. Non-employees walking into unlocked rooms and asking for Adderall is also frowned upon by the company. The ex-Army Ranger eventually did find the kid with Adderall, but naturally put-off by the unexpected encroachment, he was unwilling to give the ex-Army Ranger any. Not long after hed been off running errands for Adderall, the Rangers came aknocking on the ex-Army Rangers door. They explained they found his behavior as of late irresponsible and unacceptable, and thus probably illegal. The Park Rangers had a problem with the guns too. Some of them seemed to have been modified in a way that some might describe as overzealous and thus, probably illegal. I took Mr. Reamer to the Old Faithful employee pub. The exterior had always

reminded me of an Applebees. The interior. all boring linoleum and beige, had always reminded me of a high school gymnasium half-heartedly gussied up for some punch and cookie after party. You could order beer there. You could order a stuffed pretzel there. You could order a chicken sandwich there. You could order beer there. You could order pizza there. Off to the side by the windows were some pool tables and a fuze ball table. In the corner was an arcade game where you hunted big game from across the globe. It was called BIG BUCK HUNTER WORLDWIDE. I found its placement in a national park ironic. Mr. Reamer and I took a table. Sometimes I think working for this company is a lot like working in a fucking Pullman Town for that god damn cunt George Pullman, I said. Pullman Town? George Pullman? Ill go get some beers. I got the beers. I brought them back, and sat down at the table with Mr. Reamer and we started drinking them. The old employee pub got torn down, I said. It was built on unstable ground. Too many fumaroles. The employee pub was filling with people. These are my colleagues. Were all stuck out here together. Were all stuck here together in Old Faithful with the tourists and the Park Rangers just like one great big fat happy family. No one entering the pub said hi to me. I dont have any friends. I cant imagine why. I dont come here much, I said. They play bad music on the jukebox. The old one - the jukebox - broke. Someone got mad and punched it. They dont allow company sponsored theme parties any more here either. There was a white trash themed party, and I guess staying true to the theme, someone started a fight and later on the fight spilled over to the parking lot. Oh my. You think thats bad. Some kid had a bison head. It was still rancid and meaty. He was keeping the bison head under his bed in the laurel dorm. Sounds like an interesting summer at Old Faithful. This place is a fucking Pullman Town, Mr. Reamer. Thats why I dont like coming to the employee pub much. Those Pullman sleeper cars sure were popular. Thats the racket when you have you staff living and working for you out in the middle of nowhere. Even if that middle of nowhere is in Yellowstone, its

still a racket. Illinois, right? The Pullman Town was in Illinois. I show up for work, then I get a paycheck. The company takes out money from my paycheck for housing and food. I want to buy some souvenirs. Who am I giving my money to? I want to get some snacks from the vending machine. Who am I giving my money to then? I want to get some coffee from the barista cart at the Old Faithful Inn. Global Gossip Internet Service Provider is 30 bucks a month. I dont mind paying for the internet, but why do I have to pay Xanterras Information Technology Department for it? I come here with you to the employee pub, I buy you a few drinks. Whos getting my money? Whos that money going right back to? Thats right. You guessed it. Im giving my money right back to the people that gave it to me in the first place. The companys already taking my money, and Im giving them more of it. The Pullman town was later incorporated as part of the Hyde Park neighborhood, if Im not mistaken. Its like a god damn Pullman Town, Mr. Reamer. Yellowstone is Xanterras mother fucking Pullman Town. We finished our drinks and I went and got more. Sorry to rant on you like that, I said placing another beer in front of Mr. Reamer. You got your foot in the door early. Were things any different then? Were the employers any nicer to, I dunno, those Harvey Girls? Couldnt say. Primarily in Yellowstone, I designed their lodges. I wasnt much involved on the Service end of things. Who wrote your checks? The railroad companies. Any cowboy billionaires? I asked Im sure there were a few. Any cowboy billionaires with Jack Remmington paintings hanging in the office? The Great American West had the same allure back then as it does now. Back then, same as today, people saw ways to make money off of it. Thats why the chinkees are in town tonight, or anyway, thats what I heard. I heard maybe they wanna make a deal. They want Xanterra to work towards the greater good of the natural splendors Chairman Mao set aside. Theres supposed to be a meeting in the Snow lodge's 2nd floor conferen CHINAMEN, GOD DAMN IT! THE MEETINGS GOING ON RIGHT NOW! Cmon Mr. Reamer. Lets go scope it out.

The girl working at the front desk was from California, and all to quick to point out that the clinics inside Yellowstone National Park were different from those in California, especially when it came to the procurement of contraceptives. Attempting to replenish her birth control she had to sit down and chat 3 different times with 3 different officials who suggested abstinence and celibacy as a more practical alternative to birth control. During one disastrous when the girl from the front desk went to inquire about the morning after pill, an apparently befuddled clinician asked if she was a lesbian. Night had fallen when Mr. Reamer and I left the employee pub. We walked along the cement path leading to the parking lot behind the Old Faithful Inn. Spaced apart along the walk way were streetlamps. In Yellowstone at night there are no red speckled radio towers. There are no buzzing neon signs, no residual light pollution of pink and green and purple hazing in the night sky. In Yellowstone the glittering pockets of civilization and their electric lights are few and far between. Walking along the cement path, under the white lilly pads of streetlamp illumination was like walking through a tunnel. Anything outside the light is a pine-needle-obsidian-cinder-abyss. A bison could charge out and gouge me, then disappear again into the wildernesss protective black pelt. The mood along the Mary Mountain Trail was awfully tense after theyd found a man dead. The cause of death was presumably bear mauling, but no one wanted to jump to any conclusions. Perhaps he died of a heart attack when he saw the bear, and afterwards the bear seized on an opportunity to paw at him and chew him up a bit. Some bear fur had been found at the scene of the mauling. The trail was closed. A dragnet of Rangers canvassed the area and set up bear traps. Using DNA testing, the Rangers could compare fur from and trapped bears to the fur found at the scene, and determine if any of the bears they trapped may have been responsible. It was slow going. Bears are clever animals and the wizened ones are wary of traps. The unfortunate recipient of the bear mauling loved Yellowstone. He loved Yellowstone so much he went out hiking and camping alone through Mary Mountain, a widely publicized bear heavy area. He loved Yellowstone so much that while hiking along Mary Mountain, he came across a bear, and he decided to follow the bear around and take lots of pictures of it. The bear responsible had been trying to keep a low profile. Hed been shunned by his neighbors whod been ensnared in the traps and had bits of their fur removed for testing. Way to bring down the heat, ASSHOLE! they told him. The bear responsible was on the lamb, Well aint that a kick in the pants, He

thought aloud. Here I am in my own neighborhood, one of the last few places a guy like me can live undisturbed. Then some jerk-off shows up poking his nose around, sure Im going to loose my patience. What have things come to when Im a fugitive, hunted day and night in my own home? The bear had been communicating daily with his attorney, and was becoming frustrated with his legal representations cavalier attitude. Ah, theres nothing to worry about, the lawyer said. They dont have a case. Itll wash out clean. Bison shit itll wash out clean. Theres my fur. Supposedly theyre building a whole case out of it. But that hair is purely circumstantial evidence. The DNA testing?! As your attorney, I advise you to relax, take it easy. Just wait for it all to blow over. The worst day in a Park Rangers life is the day he has to euthanize a bear. This whole dragnet thats got you so worried is dragging their feet. Hell, Ill bet theyre even rooting for you. A precedent has already been set this summer. I bet most of those rangers secretly hope youll pull of the great escape. Remember that sow and her 2 cubs. It happened not that far from you. Mr. and Mrs. Anytown U.S.A. while out on a hike came across the Mama bear, and fearing for the life of her children, she wasted no time ripping Mr. Anytown U.S.A. to shreds while wifey ran off screaming. What happened to the sow and there was a witness even. What happened to the big bad mama bear? Nothing. Thats what. She got off scott free. This is Yellowstone. Youre a bear in Yellowstone. Youve got the home field advantage. Were all on your side, man. Were all rooting for you. As for the weekend warriors snapping their pictures to show off at the Mason lodge in Shitburgh Pennsylvania? I say fuckem, fuckem all. I think youve done a great service for both the people that come to visit Yellowstone, and all the wildlife that lives in Yellowstone. The Snow Lodge was laid out in an L shape. Dipped outside was a semicircle of a cement patio. I sat on the patio in a chair partially obscured by a tree. I could see through the window into the Snow Lodge lobby. I could see the stairs leading up to the 2nd floor conference room. Mr. Reamer came hobbling up behind me. He pulled up a chair and sat. Im on a stakeout, Mr. Reamer.

The security van passed, pumped some hesitant brake lights, then drove on towards the Old Faithful Lodge. Another security guard passed with his keys ajingling from his belt. Then through the window I saw movement. Legs in khaki were walking down the stairs. A little gang of unusually short men stood at the door, then pushed it open and walked out. Floating through the air, I heard singsongy chingchang-chong talk of cheery chinese conversation. I stood up. My heart was racing. What to do next? Our special gang of Chinese visitors was crossing the parking lot to the Old Faithful Inn. There arms were down and hands grasped holding something that caught a flash of color under the Snow Lodge floodlights. I squinted my eyes. As they crossed closer in the diagonal across the parking lot, I saw what they were holding dangling from their arms. They each had a bag. I busted out laughing. I fell to the ground and rolled around laughing. These very important Chinese ambassadors or diplomats or delegates or whatever, here on some vague and obscured and secretive purpose, were each given a free promotional tote bag. Given the Old Faithful Inns historical importance, and since the rafters and support beams are pine timbers, the building really is a tinder box. The fire alarm system, justifiably so, is overly sensitive. False alarms occur throughout the summer with irregular frequency. One such alarm went off at 4 in the morning, while a lone Xanterra security guard was on duty. Please evacuate the building, a benign female voice repeated with unwavering intonation over the piercing beeps and split second white flashes of the alarm. Guests in their pajamas and white robes, hundreds ofem, trickle out the doors. Its not a pretty sight. The front desk will have their work cut out for them in the morning, trying to appease the sleep deprived and pissed off guests. 20 or 30 minutes later, just before the sun gets ready to come up, the alarm shuts off, the grumpy tourists waddled back into their rooms. At the end of his shift, the lone security guard reported the event to his superior, Head of Security for the Old Faithful Inn. I want to know who authorized the evacuation. Here the Head of Security paused for authoritative emphasis. WHO. AUTHORIZED. the EVACUATION? He was not intelligent enough to be capable of sarcasm, and even if he was, no pure bred Xanterra company man would speak such glibness. The lone security guard was dumbfounded by the question. To celebrate the humorous discoveries of our stakeout, Mr. Reamer and I

went to hold a few down in Old Faithful Inns Bear Pit bar. Taking our seats at the bar, my eyes bugged out, and I couldnt believe my good fortune when I read the name tag of our bar tender. The name tag said: Dr. James Perry. Dr. Perry. He set a cocktail napkin in front of me. Hi. Dr. James Perry, Having received a doctorate in Sociological and Anthropological studies from Yellowstone University, had spent 25 years living and working amongst Yellowstone seasonal employees. During the years he conducted and exhaustive study of the operations and culture of Xanterra, always keeping an eye on the broader scope of the Yellowstone Teton region, and the people that populate it. His writings were collected into a book entitled Squatters in Paradise. The exhaustive study is an expose on the seamy underbelly of Yellowstones seasonal staff; a casual but informative glance at Yellowstones give-and-take, love/hate relationship with profit, preservation, and tourism. Above all else, it is an indictment of the private interests, the treatment of their employees, an exploration of how their very presence within park borders have corrupted and continue to corrupt Americas best idea. In your ever so humble narrators opinion, Squatters in Paradise is highly recommended (link). Dr. James Perry also holds the distinguished title of Americas Lowest Paid Bilingual Tour Guide. I started tossing some whiskey down with my beers as well. A lull fell in the conversation and Mr. Reamer and I devoted ourselves to people watching. The remarkable thing about the Bear Pit bar, and especially late in the season, a majority of the people in there drinking are Xanterra staff. Chattering around were the dialects and languages from many pockets of the globe. Mr. Reamer made note of it. Theres seems to be a lot of foreigners here. I noticed it all throughout the evening. There seems to be a lot of foreigners on staff. I know it, Mr. Reamer. I know it and dont even get me started on about it. The term they use out here is Internationals. Some of the tourists have I problem with it, shipping in a workforce from overseas when theyre plenty of Americans looking for work, and all that bullshit. That doesnt bother me, cuz hell those internationals shipped in have a work ethic thatll put you to shame. I feel bad forem. Do you know they have to pay the company just to be interviewed? depending on their homeland, tariffs and taxes are involved just so they can come over here to work.

My eyes wandered over the sandblasted etched glass panels behind the bar. It was a cartoon scene depicting a ruckus of bears in a saloon. There was a bear smoking a cigar. There was a bear dressed as a bandito brandishing his 6-shooter. There was a bear spraying a seltzer bottle. There was another bear getting shot in the eye by the seltzer bottle. There was even a pelican stuck in there somewhere too. A girl who came out here from Taiwan to work. She got knocked up by an American guy, a night porter, I said. The girl went back to Taiwan. I looked at the etched glass panels again. Maybe it was because I was drunk, but the absurdity of the scene struck me as very poignant and poetic at the time. Also headquartered in Gardiner is the Human Resources office. One day, quite out of the blue, I was summoned by Xanterra (hence forth known as the company) They sat me down. They closed the door so the pleasant old ladies looking over new applicants wouldnt be distracted by our grave discussion. Lookey here, boy-oh, the company said. You may think youre a fancy pants and have it all figured out, but that angry arrogance will get you nowhere. Youre wasting your time and energy hating us. This is Yellowstone. The company paused to give me an icy stare, then reiterated, This is Yellowstone. Every lonely drunken cog from dreary towns back east longs for an escape into Wonderland. Dont bite the hand that feeds. Put your work in. Well give you 3 square and a roof over your head in the most awe inspiring and magical landscape in the world. Drop the cynicism and resentment of profit in Yellowstone. We can cut you out so fast. Well bring in another starry-eyed fuck up, one so bedazzled by Yellowstone, they wont have time to dwell on the questionable conduct of private interests in the park. Wear a smile on your face. Maybe find a little girl to give you a little Yellowstone summer lovin. Tell all inquiring guests of your magical Yellowstone experience, that wouldnt have been possible without your maternal Yellowstone employer. Theres a bonus check waiting for you when you get home. Itd be a shame to jeopardize that. Youve done such a great job selling our promotional throw blankets. Good help is hard to find, and it seems especially hard for Xanterra in Yellowstone. Throughout the summer of 2011 over 140 people were fired from the Old Faithful area. The Internationals are sent home 2 weeks before shutting down for the season. Every department is understaffed. The hardy few remaining work 10 hour days, 12 hour days. The lucky ones work 6 day weeks, but its not uncommon for others to go 9 days, 12 days, 15 days before getting a single day off. These are the bold young men and women that pour your drinks, serve you your salads, fry your bison burgers. The first 2 weeks of October are a surreal dreamworld at the Old Faithful Inn. The staff is under the spell of a boozy, post-coital, come-down hypnosis. Its

like surviving a car crash, pulling yourself from the mangled wreckage, then standing aside to watch the vehicles billowing flames. Theres an anticipatory giddiness at the thought of escape back to liquor stores and fast food and cable TV and Wal-Mart, but that soon becomes and afterthought, over shadowed by the inconceivable notion of having lasted through a summer of seasonal employment at the mercy of a money driven, privately held, corporate monster looking to cash in off of people enjoying and benefiting from unspoiled landscapes. Then theres the bittersweet realization that the season is over. The works done. The die-hard employees have put in their time, and are now cut loose. As demanding and abusive as the company can be, theres an openly fascist element of their operations. As long as you remain loyal and meek, youll be taken care of. You may even get a promotion. Yellowstone is a bubble, a otherworldly combination, equal parts heavenly wonders and hellish horrors. The spell is broken, the bubble bursts, as soon as the vehicle departs from within park borders. The electric orange of autumn sizzles on the tips of pine needles and obsidian cinders. The Bison, instinctively sensing the winter coming on, begin ambling towards Old Faithful. The earth warmed by geothermal heat will be their saving grace through the long, long winter. The bold staff that has stuck it out to the bitter end are infected with a bipolar mania. Collective mood swings wash over entire departments. The room attendants spitting hateful instructions over their walkie talkie, stealing linens and cleaning supplies from each others carts, will be thick as thieves again after the smoke break, sharing cigarettes and giggles and pats on the back. Servers with knives out for each other in the dining room. bullying their servers assistants, retreating for numerous cigarette breaks to passive-aggressively leave rude diners high and dry, come shifts end, theyll all be together buying each other drinks, eyeing up potential candidates in the Bear Pit for the nights easy lay. What becomes of the seasonal employees once they leave? Some go home. Some stay on to work through the winter in the Park. Others, a sizable amount, take another seasonal job at Ski resorts in Utah, or Montana, or Idaho, or Colorado. They are the demented, yet pure souls. They are keyed into the magic and wisdom of protected lands. They willingly and readily bend over and take it up the ass from devilish billionaires who see dollar signs as the only bounty the land can offer. They are the sacraficial lambs, whose experience spending a summer in Yellowstone allows the corporate suits to sleep well at night. Here comes the New Boss, the same as the Old Boss, and Xanterra hasnt been making many friends. Theyd lost their grasp of other contracts in other National Parks. Theyre diversifying with a cruise line, and with lodges and campgrounds in Ohio. No matter what billionaire swallows up what holding company to cash in on Yellowstone, no matter what tycoon ships in the

innocent and the idealistic and the stupid to work their fingers to the bone for peanuts and housing in Yellowstone, all of that is of little consequence to the landscape. Old Faithful was spouting long before the Inn was built, and Old Faithful would keep spouting even if not a single soul booked a room or bought huckleberry ice cream.