Becoming a Grownup Employee

Ron as a cemetery caretaker, circa 1978

July 16, 2026

I got my first job when I was fourteen years old, as many teenagers in my hometown did. I was hired to sweep the parking lot of the Dairy Barn. It was one of a handful of fast food restaurants in Abingdon, VA, a town about ten miles from where I grew up. It only took the manager a day or two to recognize that my exceptional mind and broad-reaching skills were well above those required to push an industrial-sized broom. I never understood the calculations he used to arrive at this decision but I’m sure, in part, it had something to do with my natural problem-solving ability and magnetic charm. Of course, I could be wrong. Nonetheless, I was promoted to the inside job of flipping burgers. While there was some problem solving in that role, my interpersonal magnetism was grossly underutilized.

After a couple of years of fast food experience, I landed the coveted role of cemetery caretaker. Some might say this was a dead-end job but I believe those people have a somewhat grave demeanor. By the way, if you winced at that remark, I refer you to the countless academic studies that recognize the pun as one of the most sophisticated forms of humor. While I do wonder why someone would focus their professional education on where puns fall on the intellectual continuum, I stand by the science.

Anyway, the summer after the Dairy Barn, my buddy Dave and I were responsible for mowing and trimming three cemeteries in our town. While I would like to believe that our work led to many a grateful dead, so to speak, I must admit that I was not the most careful caretaker. Due to my inattentive operation of powerful mowing equipment, I frequently chipped low-lying grave markers. The worst part of my sloppy work was that the markers were on the graves of people I had grown up with. It left me so uneasy, I had a recurring dream in which I would wake up and see all of these dead people standing at the foot of my bed, seeking reparations. In hindsight, it’s clear to me that I had been reading too many Stephen King novels.

After my cemetery landscaping “career,” and before heading off to the University of Virginia, I got a summer job at Emory and Henry College where my parents worked. With the help of another friend, we washed every window on campus. It was one of the most boring jobs I’ve ever had. Those last few Windex-filled weeks seemed to pass by at a snail’s pace but I got through it and had a wonderful first year of college.

The next summer, I was offered a position at the Martha Washington Inn in Abingdon, VA. I was quite drawn to the hospitality world. I loved the hustle and bustle of a hotel lobby, the noise of a full bar, and the aroma of a classy restaurant. At the time, I also enjoyed interacting with the public. Today, as a grumpy old man, I can’t imagine having to regularly deal guests who want more soap or can’t operate their TV remotes. I’m a huge fan of good customer service. It’s just that I don’t particularly like giving it. I have little patience for whiny people. And yes, I understand the irony of whining about whiny people. Welcome to the inner workings of my exceptional, yet neurotic, mind.

At the Inn, I was hired as a bellman. My only job was to carry the guests’ luggage to their rooms. I had done this work before during special events at Emory and Henry College, so I understood the role. I knew that the nicer I was, the bigger the tips would be. And if I acted as if I didn’t expect a tip, I got even bigger ones. I wouldn’t refer to my approach as customer service per se but more accurately, gaming the system.

Once again, however, my boss realized that I was probably capable of more responsibility. A week after I started, he asked if I would be interested in working as one of their night auditors. I was thrilled. It sounded like a grownup’s job. In fact, I fantasized that I was on the fast track to hotel manager and from there, I could eventually own Marriott—even though I had no idea what the night auditor did.

The hours for this job were from 11:00 pm to 8:00 am. I had never worked the “graveyard” shift, although I was confident that my graveyard experience might come in handy. After a few questions, however, I learned that I would be responsible for balancing the daily receipts from the hotel, bar, and restaurant. It seemed pretty straightforward and the best part was that I would earn about twenty-five cents more per hour. I’d be flush with cash.

The hotel manager arranged for me to be trained by the weekend night auditor, one Mr. Mason. He was a stooped but sharply-dressed bookkeeper and had apparently been in the night auditor role since the Lincoln administration. He arrived each night with a briefcase, sharpened pencils, a sandwich wrapped in wax paper, and a pistol. The pistol gave me pause but I assumed he probably carried it everywhere. Either that, or there was some sort of night auditing threat that no one warned me about.

To say Mr. Mason was particular about his auditing process was an understatement. He was obsessive. Once, he stayed several hours past the end of his shift because he couldn’t reconcile five cents on the ledger. Everything had to add up and if it didn’t, he would not leave until it did. During my orientation, if I veered even slightly from the steps he had taught me, a small vein would swell up on his temple, and then, with a great deal of restraint, he would restate the way it was supposed to be done. I always wondered if he carried a gun just in case one of his trainee’s columns didn’t jibe.

Anyway, the night auditor job was a lot easier than washing windows or mowing cemeteries so I loved it. And usually, if my ledger balanced, I would be done by 2:00 am. From then on, I would sit behind the front desk, answering the phone (but who ever calls after 2:00 am anyway?), waiting for an occasional late checkin, or helping a night-owl guest who locked themselves out of their room when they went to get ice.

I quickly realized that the most challenging part of the job was staying awake. By 4:00 am, my eyelids felt like lead and I struggled to keep my mind occupied. I was not much of a reader back then and the television stations went off the air at midnight (remember this was the post-Lincoln but pre-internet era). So, I twiddled my thumbs until the end of my shift.

One night, a fellow employee gave me a pack of cigarettes from the hotel bar. You see, in addition to offering nuts or Chex mix, customers in the lounge were offered a free pack of smokes that had the name of the hotel printed on the outside and four Winston cigarettes inside. In hindsight, I’m shocked that the hotel would actually give away something so lethal. But as a nineteen-year-old with questionable judgement, I used the free cigarettes as one way to stay awake. I’m just glad they weren’t giving away shots of whiskey. I’m pretty certain Mr. Mason believed a clear mind was a godly mind when it came to bookkeeping.

My exceptional skills as a Night Auditor prompted the hotel accountant to let me earn some overtime by reconciling the receipt ledger with the actual cash and credit card payments. I felt like I was one step away from working at one of the Big Eight accounting firms (before the crash of the 2000s turned them into the Big Four). It’s baffling to this day why no one questioned that a nineteen-year-old had access to the the entire hotel’s receipts AND the money. I later found out that the hotel probably should not have let me do both jobs. I could have easily cooked the books. But it would not have been the right thing to do. Plus, it never occurred to me. Dangit.

The lesson I have learned from every position I ever had was to do a good job no matter how boring or trivial the role was. By taking the job seriously, my employers took me seriously. As a result, I was given many opportunities for advancement. I sometimes think how easy it would have been to settle for any one of the menial jobs I had. But, by doing excellent work, new doors were opened and I had the most interesting job experiences throughout my life. And to think that it all started in the unswept parking lot of the Dairy Barn.

I think Mr. Mason would have been proud.