By Special Request...

So, I was asked to tell a story quite some time ago.

Then I promptly disappeared for a while.

My apologies go out to Mr. Gary Hill who made the request(and about whom this little diversion is about.).

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I believe that I spoke of Gary Hill earlier. Gary was one of the nineteen year olds helping to run the Kitchen. It fell to him to specialize in taking care of the boat(poor bastard). If Gary had accomplished no other good deeds in his lifetime, he would still be aces in my book for putting up with what he did. Of course I rarely made it any easier.

One of the things that I most liked to razz Gary about was the fact that he would wear some of his nicer T-Sirts to work in the kitchen. Now I know all of the various stains and flotsam that would invariably plaster my wardrobe through the course of a normal day even when wearing an apron. But there Gary would stand, sometimes with only a half apron on that would do nothing to protect his shirt as if to show it off, complaining when a splash of this or that would spring from the cutting board. Most of my ribbing consisted of my proposition that Gary would wear these nicer clothes deliberately in order to try to make an excuse not to get into anything too dirty and avoid some of the nastier detail. Not that we let him, nor did he shirk any duty...but boy would we hear a caterwaul if he were to get a little schmutz on his clothes.

(I have a Secret Theory for his clothing choice, but it will remain just that unless Gary ever wants to come forward and explain. Of course I could be completely off base here, but I'm just saying...or not saying really)

In the midst of one of my tirades about his pristine T-Shirts, I happened to be cutting some fruit for a display. Kiwis in particular. I don't remember what the remark was that prompted me to take action, but somehow I felt compelled to marr and his shirt seemed to be the perfect canvas for my foray into post modern art.

As one peels a round fruit, or most any round item for that matter, one begins by slicing one or both ends from the fruit in order to stand it upright in order to effectively skin the fruit without it deciding to roll off onto the floor. These ends will tend to accumulate on the cutting board until you are done or they begin to get in the way. Then the typical way to proceed is to sweep them into a nearby trash receptacle. Some people, like myself, use their knives to make that sweep as just another action while prepping.

Pretty standard really.

But as I was getting ready to make my clear, an idea struck me. Another way to get my point across. I could affect change by making Gary a target. He happened to be standing at the very opposite end of the prep table and directly in front of a large trash bin so I figured that I could make use of him as a backboard of sorts. The tip of my knife slid easily into one of the removed ends of fruit and with a quick flick of the wrist, I sent the discarded piece of kiwi hurtling towards his shirt(I want to say that it was a black shirt with a sort of Wolf motif, but this was some fourteen years ago so I could just be imagining this detail). Instead of falling into the trash though, the kiwi end had other plans. It decided to land with the cut side against the fabric and there it stuck.

No one expected me to throw anything at Gary, and when I did it was even more unexpetated that it would stick to him. After a beat or two of stunned silence the entire Kitchen burst into laughter. Amidst the cheers and jeers, Gary made the comment that I could not do that again if I tried to. Never one to back down from such a challenge, without hesitation my knife dipped once again to reload and fired just as quickly as the original shot. Amazingly enough, the results were the same as the previous projectile, just located on the opposite side of the shirt. But the true comedy ensued as we took a look at what now graced the front of his shirt. Perfectly proportioned and exactly symmetrical.

"Gary, I just gave you Kiwi Nipples!" I exclaimed.

I don't think we got any work done for the next ten minutes or so as Gary stared down at his newfound sticky appendages. Ever after that we had a new game of throwing things at Gary. Mostly anytime, but particularly when he happened to do or say anything silly. Even after they went off to College, St. John or Stewie would find time to throw something at Gary and they would usually find a way to let me know.

I think that there was at least one time that I was on the phone with Gary when he made some silly remark. A small silent pause then a muffled thump followed.

"Don't worry, I just threw something at myself for you."

Kudos to you, my good man. I will never peel a kiwi without taking a moment of fond remembrance.